change it to plain Philip, which would seem quite too simple and
unadorned a name for so elegant and decorative a being as M. Philippe
Edouard La Tour, who shines forth radiantly in the rather sombre
surroundings of the Pension B---- like the gilded youth that he is. What
havoc he would make among the hearts of the _pensionnaires_ if this were
indeed the young ladies' seminary that Walter calls it! M. La Tour is
particularly resplendent in evening costume, and when he appears
equipped for dining Madame B----calls him "_beau garcon_." He possesses,
as Miss Cassandra says, that most illusive and indescribable quality
which we call distinction for lack of a better word. While admiring him
immensely, she solemnly warns Lydia against the wiles of foreigners. And
I think myself that Archie had better turn his steps this way if he
expects to find Lydia heart whole, as M. La Tour loses no opportunity of
paying her charming little attentions in the way of choice offerings,
from the flower market on the Boulevard Beranger near by. This evening
he produced some delicious bonbons which he must have imported from
Paris for her delectation, although I must admit that they were properly
and decorously presented to Madame Leonard, your old, and, to-night,
your very sleepy friend,
ZELPHINE.
FOOTNOTE:
[A] Mrs. Leonard added a postscript to her letter in which she gave Mrs.
Ramsey two other translations, asking her which she thought M. La Tour
had written:
Despite these dragging hours wherein I prove
The painful weight of destiny's decree,
Yet fare I well, for none can take from me
The gifts of gentle hope and tender love.
Despite the dreariness of durance long and sore,
Where fate's relentless hand still holds me fast,
My dungeon I have made my treasure-house; its store
Is love, and hope for freedom at the last.
X
COMPENSATIONS
TOURS, THURSDAY, September 8th.
WE HAVE been having what they call "golden weather" here; but to-day the
skies are overcast, which does not please us, although this cloudy
weather may still be golden to the wise Tourangeau, who, as George Sand
said, "knows the exact value of sun or rain at the right moment."
This most unpromising day is our one opportunity to see Chinon, and as
luck will have it Miss Cassandra is laid up in lavender, with a crick in
her back, the result, she says, of her imprisonment at Loches yesterday,
and what would have become of her, she adds, if she had sojourned there
eight or nine long years like poor Ludovico? The threatening skies and
Miss Cassandra's indisposition would be quite enough to keep us at home,
or to tempt us to make some short excursion in the neighborhood of
Tours, were we not lured on by that _ignis fatuus_ of the traveler, the
unexplored worlds which lie beyond. There will be so much to be seen in
and near Blois, and in order to have time for the chateau, and to make
the excursions to Chambord and the other castles, we must be at Blois
to-morrow evening. So this is the only day for Chinon, which Walter
wishes so much to see while M. La Tour is with us.
Although, like Mr. Henry James, I may be obliged to write you that I
have not seen Chinon at all, I decided to stay at home to-day with Miss
Cassandra and sent the men off to Chinon, Lydia with them. Miss
Cassandra expostulated and so did Walter and Lydia; but I held my
position with great firmness, and I observed that the trio set forth
without me in gay good spirits. Of course my good man will miss me,
especially when he comes across the interesting Joan of Arc landmarks;
but he is in excellent company with M. La Tour, and I have gained a day
of repose which one needs when the associations are as interesting and
thrilling as they are here in Touraine. Miss Cassandra slept so sweetly
all morning that I had another long ramble in and out of the quaint
streets of the ancient Chateauneuf, which is what you and I love best
to do in old cities whose very stones, like those of Venice, are written
over with legend and story. The sun came out at noon, and I was
fortunate in getting enough light on the house of Tristan l'Hermite to
take a photograph from the court, which will give you some idea of this
interesting old building. So you see my day at home has had its
compensations, a crowning one being a letter from Archie, who is in
Paris, saying that he would join us at Blois to-morrow. This news proved
so stimulating to Miss Cassandra that she was able to get up and come
downstairs in time to greet the travelers on their return from Chinon.
They were most enthusiastic over their morning among the ruins, and full
of the lore of the old stronghold where the Maid of Orleans first met
the King, Lydia quoting:
"Petite ville grand renom
Assise sur pierre ancienne
Au haut le bois, au pied la Vienne,"
until I stopped their rhapsodies over the ancient by giving them my bit
of up-to-date information that Archie was _en route_ for Blois. Walter
uttered such a shout of joy as this old hostel has not heard since the
victories of the first Napoleon were celebrated here. I tried to see
Lydia's face, but she turned away at the critical moment to speak to
Miss Cassandra, and so I lost my chance of seeing whether she was
surprised and excited over my news. When she turned to me later and
said, "How glad I am for you, Zelphine, and what a pleasant addition Dr.
Vernon will make to the party," her face wore its wonted expression of
sweet composure.
Walter says, "You really must see Chinon, Zelphine; we can make a
separate trip there with Archie. It is much farther from Blois than from
Tours, but by taking a motor car we can go to Angers at the same time."
Mr. La Tour (you notice that I take Walter's privilege in writing of
him) says that we really should pay our respects to Angers, the cradle
of our Angevin kings. He quite resents Mr. Henry James having written
down this old town in his notebook as a "sell," and says that although
Angers has become a flourishing, modern city, there is much of the old
town left and the chateau is well worth seeing.
Like John Evelyn, we have found the sojournment so agreeable here that
we could stay on and on for weeks, spending our days in visiting one
interesting chateau after another. We want so much to see Villandry and
Usse, and we would love to have a day at Mme. de Sevigne's, Les Rochers,
or better still at Chantilly, where poor Vatel, the cook, through the
letters of _la belle Marquise_ and the failure of the fish supply, took
his place one summer day among the immortals. Lydia reminds me that the
Chateau of Chantilly is too far north to be easily reached from here,
but La Chatre is not far away, and a day and night among the haunts of
George Sand would be a rare pleasure, especially if we could drive to
Nohant along the road once travelled by such guests of the novelist as
Theophile Gautier, Dumas, Alfred de Musset, and Balzac. The latter found
her living, as he says, after his own plan "turned topsy-turvy; that is
to say, she goes to bed at six in the morning and rises at midday,
whilst I retire at six in the evening and rise at midnight."
Miss Cassandra, who in whatever portion of the globe she may be
travelling is sure to meet people with whom she has a link of
acquaintance or association, has discovered in the course of a long talk
with M. La Tour, this evening, that she knows some of his American
relatives. Indeed his Browns (how much more distinguished Le Brun would
sound!) are connected in some way with her family, and she and M. La
Tour are delighted to claim cousinship through these New York Browns. I
am sure that to establish the exact degree of relationship would defy
the skill of the most expert genealogist; but they are quite satisfied
with even a remote degree of kinship, especially as this discovery
brings Lydia, in a way, into the La Tour connection.
M. La Tour, who talks of visiting his American relatives next winter, is
evidently preparing himself in more ways than one for his projected
trip. Although his English is faultless, he seems to think it important
to be familiar with a certain amount of American slang. Yesterday he
turned to me, with a quite helpless expression upon his handsome face,
exclaiming, "This word 'crazy' that the Americans use so much--I am
crazy about this and crazy about that,--now what does that mean,
Madame?--_fou de ceci, fou de cela? Vraiment il me semble qu'ils sont
tous un peu fou!_"
It is needless to say that I quite agreed with M. La Tour, and after I
had given him the best explanation in my power, he laughed and said: "It
appears that what you call Quakers do not use this extreme language so
much. Miss Mott, for example, never uses such expressions." Yesterday,
when a party of our compatriots were drinking tea at a table near us, he
was again much puzzled. "These young people all say that they are
'passing away' on account of the heat of the sun, from fatigue, for
various reasons. Now what is it to pass away, is it not to die, to
vanish from the earth?"
The seriousness of his manner, as he gave us this literal and somewhat
poetical translation of the popular slang of the day, so amused Walter
that I had to send him off to make some inquiries about the route in
order to prevent an outburst of laughter which our French friend, who is
endowed with little sense of humor, could never have understood. Dear
Miss Cassandra, who enjoyed the humor of the situation quite as much as
any of us, but possesses the rare gift of laughing inwardly (the Friends
do so many things inwardly while presenting a serene face to the world),
exclaimed: "One of the foolish exaggerations of our modern speech! You
will probably notice that the young people who are always passing away
are usually uncommonly healthy and strong and blessed with vigorous
appetites. For my part, I consider it tempting Providence to be always
talking about passing away; but of course," her pride coming to the
fore, "the best people among us do not use such expressions."
HOTEL DE FRANCE, BLOIS, September 9th.
As Blois is only about an hour from Tours, we reached here some time
before Archie appeared, and thus had time to feel quite at home in this
pleasant little hotel, and to kill the fatted calf in honor of his
arrival. This latter ceremony was exceedingly simple, consisting, as it
did, in supplementing the fairly good _table d'hote_ luncheon with a
basket of the most beautiful and delicious fruit. Such blushing velvet
skinned peaches as these of the Blesois we have not seen, even in Tours,
and the green plums of Queen Claude are equally delectable if not as
decorative as the peaches. These, with great clusters of grapes, and a
bottle of the white wine of Voudray, which Walter added to the menu,
made a feast for the gods to which Archie did ample justice. He looks
handsomer than ever, and as brown as a Spaniard after the sea voyage. I
am glad that we are by ourselves, agreeable as M. La Tour is, for as you
know, Archie does not care much for strangers and our little family
party is so pleasant. Archie's idea of enjoying a holiday is to motor
from morning until night. We humored his fancy this afternoon and had a
long motor tour, going through Montbazon and Couzieres, which we had not
yet seen, although we were quite near both places at Loches. Our
chauffeur, knowing by instinct that Lydia and I were of inquiring minds,
told us that Queen Marie de Medicis came from Montbazon to Couzieres
after her escape from Blois, and that here she and her son Louis were
reconciled in the presence of a number of courtiers. This royal
peacemaking we have always thought one of the most amusing of Rubens's
great canvases at the Louvre, as he very cleverly gives the impression
that neither the Queen nor her son is taking the matter seriously.
You will scarcely believe me, I fear, when I tell you that we only
stopped at one chateau this afternoon. This was Archie's afternoon, you
know, but the Chateau of Beauregard is so near that we simply could not
pass it by, and the drive through the forest of Russy in which it stands
was delightful. The chateau was closed to visitors, for which Archie
said he was thankful, which rather shocked Lydia, who is as
conscientious in her sightseeing as about everything else that she does.
It was a disappointment to her and to me, as there is a wonderful
collection of pictures there, an unbroken series, they tell us,
including the great folk of fifteen reigns. Suddenly realizing our
disappointment, Archie became quite contrite and did everything in his
power to gain a sight of the treasures for us, but to no purpose, as the
concierge was absolutely firm, even with the lure of silver before his
eyes, and when he told us that the family was in residence we knew that
it was quite hopeless to expect to enter. The Duchesse de Dino, whose
interesting memoirs have been published lately, was the chatelaine of
Beauregard in the early years of the last century.
We had a delightful afternoon, despite our disappointment about the
chateau, and in the course of this ride Archie, who can understand
almost no French, extracted more information from the chauffeur with
regard to the soil, products, crops, and characteristics of Touraine
than the rest of the party have learned in the ten days that we have
spent here. These investigations were, of course, conducted by the aid
of such willing interpreters as Lydia and myself.
"M. La Tour could tell you all about these things," said Lydia.
"And pray who is this M. La Tour that you are all quoting? Some Johnny
Crapaud whom Zelphine has picked up, I suppose. She always had a fancy
for foreigners."
"He is a very delightful person, and if you wait long enough you will
see him," said Miss Cassandra, "as he has taken a great fancy to
Walter."
"To Walter!" exclaimed Archie, and seeing the amused twinkle in Miss
Cassandra's eyes he suddenly became quite silent and took no further
interest in the scenery or in the products of Touraine, until Lydia
directed his attention to the curious caves in the low hills that look
like chalk cliffs. This white, chalky soil, M. La Tour had explained to
us, is hard, much like the tufa used so much for building in Italy. We
thought that these caves were only used for storing wine, but our
chauffeur told us that most of those which are provided with a door and
a window are used as dwelling houses, and they were, he assured us,
quite comfortable. These underground dwellings, burrowed out like
rabbits' warrens, with earth floors, no ventilation except a chimney cut
in the tufa roof to let the smoke out, and only the one window and door
in the front to admit light and air, seem utterly cheerless and
uncomfortable, despite our chauffeur's assurances that they have many
advantages. From the eloquence with which he expatiated upon the even
temperature of these caves, which he told us were warm in winter and
cool in summer, we conclude that he has lived in one of them, and are
thankful that he could not understand our invidious remarks about them,
for as Archie remarks, even a troglodyte may have some pride about his
home.
[Illustration: Neurdein Freres, Photo.
ENTRANCE TO CHATEAU OF BLOIS WITH STATUE OF LOUIS XII]
HOTEL DE FRANCE, September 10th.
It is so delightful to be lodged so near the beautiful Chateau of Blois
that we can see the facade of Francis I by sunlight, twilight, and
moonlight. Built upon massive supporting walls, it dominates a natural
terrace, which rises above the valley of the Loire and the ravine of the
Arroux. No more fitting site could be found for the chateau than the
quadrilateral formed by these two streams. The wing of Francis I, with
its noble columns, Italian loggie, balustrades, attics, picturesque
chimneys, grotesque gargoyles and other rich and varied decorations,
displays all the architectural luxury of the Renaissance of which it was
in a sense the final expression. It was while gazing upon this marvelous
facade that Mr. Henry James longed for such brilliant pictures as the
figures of Francis I, Diane de Poitiers, or even of Henry III, to fill
the empty frames made by the deep recesses of the beautifully
proportioned windows. We would cheerfully omit the weak and effeminate
Henry from the novelist's group, but we would be tempted to add thereto
such interesting contemporary figures as the King of Navarre and his
heroic mother, Jeanne d'Albret, or his beautiful, faithless wife, La
Reine Margot, the Pasithee of Ronsard's verse, who, with her brilliant
eyes and flashing wit, is said to have surpassed in charm all the
members of her mother's famous "_escadron volant_." And, as Miss
Cassandra suggests, it would be amusing to see the portly widow of Henry
IV descending from one of the windows, as she is said to have done, by a
rope ladder and all the paraphernalia of a romantic elopement, although,
as it happened, she was only escaping from a prison that her son had
thought quite secure. The poor Queen had great difficulty in getting
through the window, but finally succeeded and reached the ditch of the
castle; friends were waiting near by to receive her with a coach which
bore her away to freedom at Loches or Amboise, I forget which. This
window from which Marie de Medicis is said to have escaped is in one of
the apartments of Catherine. The guide, a very talkative little woman,
told us that there is good reason to believe that the stout Queen never
performed this feat of high and lofty tumbling; but that she made her
escape from a window in the south side, and with comparative ease, as in
her day there were no high parapets such as those that now surround the
chateau on three sides. Our cicerone seemed, however, to have no doubts
about the unpleasing associations with Catherine de Medicis, and took
great pleasure in showing us her _cabinet de travail_, with the small
secret closets in the carved panels of the wall in which she is said to
have kept her poisons. These rooms are richly decorated, the gilt
insignia upon a ground of brown and green being a part of the original
frescoes. The oratory, of which Catherine certainly stood in need, is
especially handsome and elaborate.
Even more thrilling than the poison closets are the secret staircase and
the _oubliette_ near by, into which last were thrown, as our guide
naively explained, "_tous ceux qui la genait_." Cardinal Lorraine is
said to have gone by this grewsome, subterranean passage. Not having had
enough of horrors in the rooms of the dreadful Catherine, we were
ushered, by our voluble guide, into those of her son, Henry III. In
order to make the terrible story of the murder of the Duke of Guise
quite realistic, we were first taken to the great council chamber,
before one of whose beautiful chimney places Le Balfre stood warming
himself, for the night was cold, eating plums and jesting with his
courtiers, when he was summoned to attend the King. Henry, with his
cut-throats at hand, was awaiting his cousin in his _cabinet de
travail_, at the end of his apartments. As the Duke entered the King's
chamber he was struck down by one and then by another of the concealed
assassins. Henry, miserable creature that he was, came out into his
bedroom where the Duke lay, and spurning with his foot the dead or dying
man, exclaimed over his great size, as if he had been some huge animal
lying prone before him.
"It seems as if the victims of Amboise were in a measure avenged; the
Dukes of Guise, father and son, met with the same sad fate, and at the
time of the assassination of Le Balfre Queen Catherine lay dying in the
room below." This from Lydia, in a voice so impressive and tragic that
Archie turned suddenly, and looking first at her and then at me, said:
"Well, you women are quite beyond me! You are both overflowing with the
milk of human kindness, you would walk a mile any day of the year to
help some poor creature out of a hole, and yet you stand here and gloat
over a murder as horrible as that of the Duke of Guise."
"We are not gloating over it," said Lydia, "and if you had been at
Amboise and had seen, as we did, the place where the Duke of Guise and
the Cardinal, his brother, had hundreds of Huguenots deliberately
murdered, you would have small pity for any of his name, except for the
Duchess of Guise, who protested against the slaughter of the Huguenots
and said that misfortune would surely follow those who had planned it,
which prediction you see was fulfilled by the assassination of her
husband and her son."
"That may be all quite true, as you say, dear Miss Mott; but I didn't
come here to be feasted on horrors. I can get quite enough of them in
the newspapers at home, and it isn't good for you and Zelphine either.
You both look quite pale; let us leave these rooms that reek with blood
and crime and find something more cheerful to occupy us."
The first more cheerful object which we were called upon to admire was
the handsome _salle d'honneur_, with its rich wall decorations copied
after old tapestries; but just a trifle too bright in color to harmonize
with the rest of the old castle. In this room is an elaborately
decorated mantel, called _la cheminee aux anges_, which bears the
initials L and A on each side of the _porc-epic_, bristling emblem of
the twelfth Louis, who was himself less bristling and more humane than
most of his royal brothers. Above the mantel shelf two lovely angels
bear aloft the crown of France, which surmounts the shield emblazoned
with the _fleur-de-lis_ of Louis and the ermine tails of Anne, the whole
mantel commemorative of that most important alliance between France and
Bretagne, of which we have heard so much. The guide repeated the story
of the marriage, Lydia translating her rapid French for Archie's
benefit.
Observing our apparent interest in Queen Anne, our guide led us out into
the grounds and showed us her pavilion and the little terrace called _La
Perche aux Bretons_, where the Queen's Breton guards stood while she was
at mass. She is said to have always noticed them on her return from the
chapel, when she was wont to say, "See my Bretons, there on the terrace,
who are waiting for me." Always more Breton at heart than French, Anne
loved everything connected with her native land. This trait the guide,
being a French woman, evidently resented and said she had little love
for Anne. When we translated her remarks to Miss Cassandra she stoutly
defended the Queen, saying that it was natural to love your own country
best, adding that for her part she was "glad that Anne had a will of her
own, so few women had in those days; and notwithstanding the meek
expression of her little dough face in her portraits, she seemed to have
been a match for lovers and husbands, and this at a time when lovers
were quite as difficult to deal with as husbands."
Walter, who says that he has heard more than enough of Anne and her
virtues, insists that she set a very bad example to French wives of that
time, as she gave no end of trouble to her husband, the good King Louis.
"Good King Louis, indeed!" exclaimed Miss Cassandra. "He may have
remitted the taxes, as Mr. La Tour says; but he did a very wicked thing
when he imprisoned the Duke of Milan at Loches. He and Anne were both
spending Christmas there at the time, and we are not even told that the
King sent his royal prisoner a plum pudding for his Christmas dinner."
"It would probably have killed him if he had," said Archie; "plum
pudding without exercise is a rather dangerous experiment. Don't you
think so yourself, Miss Cassandra?"
"He might have liked the attention, anyhow," persisted the valiant lady,
"but Louis seems to have had an inveterate dislike for the Duke of
Milan, and Mr. La Tour says that one of his small revenges was to call
the unfortunate Duke 'Monsieur Ludovico,' which was certainly not a
handsome way to treat a royal prisoner."
"No, certainly not," Walter admitted, adding, "but from what we have
seen of the prisons of France, handsome treatment does not seem to have
been a marked feature of prison life at that time; and Anne herself was
not particularly gentle in her dealings with her captives."