then through the forest of Chambord, which includes 11,000 acres of
woodland. By the time we reached the chateau, we were, as Miss Cassandra
expresses it in classic phrase, "faint yet pursuing" for lack of the
refreshment to which we were not made welcome at Cheverny. Our
chauffeur, being accustomed to famished pilgrims, conducted us at once
to a garden cafe quite near the chateau, from whence we could study its
long facade while enjoying our tea and _patisserie_. And what a huge
monument is this chateau of Chambord to the effete monarchy of France,
built up from the life-blood and toil of thousands! It impressed us as
more brutally rich and splendid than any of the palaces that we had
seen, rising as it does in its great bulk so unexpectedly from the dead
level of the sandy plain, with no especial reason for its existence
except the will of a powerful sovereign. It is not strange that the
salamander of Francis I appears upon so many of the chateaux of France,
for to this art-loving, luxurious, and _debonnaire_ King she owes
Chambord, Fontainebleau, St. Germain and the smaller chateaux of
Azay-le-Rideau, Anet and Villers-Cotterets. Although Francis I brought
from Italy, to beautify his palaces, Leonardo Da Vinci, Primaticcio,
Benvenuto Cellini, Florentin Rosso and other foreign artists, it has
been decided by those who know more about the matter than we do, that
Chambord owes more to its first architect, Maitre Pierre le Nepvue, dit
Trinqueau, than to anyone else. It seemed to us that this master hand
was happier in the construction of Chenonceaux, Blois and some of the
other chateaux of France, than here at Chambord, but this is a matter of
individual taste. Vast, palatial, magnificent Chambord certainly is, and
much more attractive on the north facade, where the chateau is reflected
in the waters of the Cosson, than from the cafe where we were seated.
The long line of buildings in the south front is somewhat monotonous,
even broken as it is by the several towers, and the great central
lantern, which appears to the best advantage from this side. Rich as is
all the ornamentation of Chambord, it is skyward that it breaks forth
into the greatest exuberance of Renaissance decoration. We reached the
central lantern, with the single fleur-de-lis atop, by one of the
remarkable staircases for which the palaces of Francis I are so famous.
This staircase, which is formed by two spirals starting from different
points, and winding about the same hollow shaft in the centre, is so
constructed that persons can go up and down without meeting. Mr. Henry
James considered this double staircase "a truly majestic joke," but in
days when courts lived and moved and had their being in intrigues,
schemes and plots, it doubtless had its uses.
[Illustration: Neurdein Freres, Photo.
CHATEAU OF CHAMBORD]
Mademoiselle de Montpensier gives in her diary an amusing account of her
first acquaintance with this double stairway. She came, when a child, to
Chambord to visit her father, Gaston, Duke of Orleans, who stood at the
top of the stairs to receive her, and called to her to come to him. As
she flew up one flight her agile parent ran down the other; upon which
the little girl gave chase, only to find that when she had gained the
bottom he was at the top. "Monsieur," she said, "laughed heartily to see
me run so fast in the hope of catching him, and I was glad to see
Monsieur so well amused."
Having reached the central lantern we found ourselves upon a flat roof,
surrounded by a perfectly bewildering maze of peaks, pinnacles,
lanterns, chimneys and spires, which constitute what our guide is
pleased to call the _ensemble de la toiture_. This vast terrace, which
covers the main building of the palace, is one of the architectural
marvels of France. Here it seems as if the architect had allowed himself
unlimited freedom in decoration, in which he was aided by such artists
as Jean Goujon and Cousin, who zealously worked upon the ornamentation
of these bell turrets, balconies and towers, as if to prove the
sincerity and beauty of French art. This luxuriant flowing forth, in
stone carving, of foliage, flower, boss and emblem, has resulted in an
ensemble of indescribable charm, the dazzling light stone of Bourre, of
which the chateau is built, lending itself harmoniously to the elaborate
Renaissance decoration.
It was of Jean Goujon, whose exquisite work we see now and again in
these chateaux, that some writer has said, that the muse of Ronsard
whispered in the ear of the French sculptor, and thus Goujon's
masterpieces were poems of Ronsard translated in marble. It is a rather
pretty fancy, but Lydia and I cannot remember its author. Walter says
that he can understand why the Counts of Blois built their castle here,
as this place seems to have formed part of a system of fortresses which
guarded the Loire, making it possible, in the time of Charles VII, for
Joan of Arc to move her army up the river to Orleans; but why Francis
should have transformed this old castle into a palace is not so easy to
understand. When so many more attractive sites were to be found, it
seems strange that he should have chosen this sandy flat upon the border
of what was then the sad and barren Solange. One reason given is that
the country about Chambord was rich in game, and we know that Francis
was an inveterate hunter; another theory is that a charming woman, the
Comtesse de Thoury, one of the early loves of the King, had a manor in
the neighborhood.
"Both excellent reasons!" exclaimed Archie, "Dame Quickly is evidently
an apt student of human nature."
These various surmises and bits of information were poured into our ears
by the guide, a plump and merry soul, whom Archie at once dubbed Dame
Quickly. As she conducted us from room to room, she turned to me and,
with a flash of her black eyes, exclaimed, "If these walls could speak,
what tales they could tell!" adding that, for her part, she believed
that the King came here for the hunting, the Comtesse de Thoury having
been a love of his youth, and, with a knowing shake of her head, "You
know, Mesdames, how short is the memory of man for an early love,
especially a king's memory, when another is always to be found to take
the vacant place." When we explained this philosophic reflection upon
their sex to the men of the party, they declared that an unfair
advantage was being taken by this facetious dame, simply because they
were not able to answer back and vindicate the eternal fidelity of man.
Then, as if divining what was being said, through her quick woman's
instinct, she drew us toward a window in the study of Francis I and
showed us these lines scratched upon one of the panes:
Souvent femme varie;
Mal habile qui s'y fie.
Some discredit is thrown upon the authenticity of these lines, and if
Francis wrote them in his old age, his point of view must have greatly
changed since his earlier days, when he so gaily and gallantly said
that a court without ladies was a year without spring and a spring
without roses. Francis spent much of his time in his later years at
Chambord, his chief solace being the companionship of his lovely sister,
Marguerite, Queen of Navarre, the author of the Heptameron, whose beauty
and intellect were the inspiration of many French poets.
One of the pleasing sides of the character of the King was his devoted
affection for this sister, with whom he had spent a happy youth at
Amboise, and she, loving him beyond any other being, wrote verses to
express her grief when they were separated. A varied, many-sided,
personality was Francis I, and with all his faults possessed of a charm
of his own, and a taste in the fine arts that added much to the beauty
of his kingdom. Something of this we said to Dame Quickly, who replied,
with another wise shake of her head, "The history of Francis is a
wonderful history, Mesdames, made up of many things. There is always
state policy, and religion, _et un peu les femmes_," the knowing look
and shrug with which this bit of wisdom was communicated is simply
untranslatable.
Only a few of the 365 rooms of Chambord are furnished; we were shown the
bedroom of the late Comte de Chambord, a ghostly apartment, it seemed to
us in the fading daylight, the bed hung with elaborate tapestries, the
work of the loyal hands of the ladies of Poitou. Miss Cassandra asked
the guide if she would not be afraid to sleep in this dismal chamber.
"No," she answered, "there are no _revenants_ here, the great people who
lived here do not walk, they had such an active life with their hunting
and fetes that they are content to rest quietly in their beds."
We passed through the council chamber of the chateau, where there are
more tapestries, these presented by the loyal inhabitants of Blois and
the Limousin districts, and here also is a quite useless throne donated
by some devoted legitimists. In the chapel, we were shown some tapestry
worked by Madame Royale, during her imprisonment in the Temple, that
daughter of Marie Antoinette who alone survived her unfortunate family
and as Duchesse d'Angouleme lived to quite an advanced age.
The fast-fading daylight made it impossible to see many of the
portraits in the great reception room; among them we noticed two
portraits of Anne of Austria, and a Van Loo of the beautiful unloved
Queen of Louis XV, Marie Leczinska. In this picture she appears so
graceful and charming that one wonders how the King could have been
insensible to her attractions; but one need never be surprised at the
vagaries of royalty, and it is not to be expected that diplomatic
alliances should be happy.
What interested the men of the party especially, was the little light
wagon in which, we were told, the owner of Chambord, the Duc de Parme,
went a hunting with that good legitimist, the Master of Cheverny.
"I am glad," said Walter, "that the noble Duke has a neighbor of the
same stripe to go a hunting with him, the grandeur of this great palace
without a friendly neighbor to come in and take a hand at cards or crack
a joke with him, would be simply appalling."
"The idea of jokes in this vast mausoleum of departed grandeur!"
exclaimed Miss Cassandra. "It would be like dancing in a cemetery. Do
ask that lively black-eyed dame how many there are in family when the
owners are at home."
"Monsieur le Duc has twenty-two children," was the reply. "He lives in
Italy, but comes here sometimes for the hunting."[B]
"And does he bring his family with him?"
"_Pas tout le monde_ at the same time, Madame, although we have enough
rooms for them all."
Laughing over this ready rejoinder, we parted from our merry cicerone
with exchanges of compliments and a clink of silver. I am quite sure
that Walter and Archie gave her the fee twice over because of her _beaux
yeux_ and her merry wit.
It is late, and I am tired after the _grande tournee_, as they call our
afternoon trip here, and Walter reminds me
"That the best of all ways
To lengthen our days
Is _not_ to steal a few hours from the night, my dear."
FOOTNOTE:
[B] Since Mrs. Leonard wrote of this conversation at Chambord, the
chateau has passed into the possession of Prince Sixtus de Bourbon, son
and heir of the late Duke of Parma. The present owner of Chambord in
making good his title to the chateau testified that not a penny of its
revenue has ever been applied to any other purposes than the restoration
and upkeep of the domain.
XIII
CHINON AND FONTEVRAULT
LE CHEVAL BLANC, ANGERS, September 12th.
FATE certainly seemed to be against my seeing Chinon to-day, as we awoke
this morning to hear the rain pattering against our windows. A rather
disconsolate party, we gathered around the table for the breakfast,
which we had ordered an hour earlier, in order to make the day as long
as possible. Miss Cassandra, who was the only really cheerful member of
the party, reminded us of the many days of sunshine that we have had in
Touraine, adding with her usual practical optimism, "And thee must
remember, my dear, that constant sunshine makes the desert," this to
Lydia, but we all took the wise saying to heart and were quite cheerful
by the time we had finished our breakfast, perhaps also for the more
material reason that Walter, through various gratuities and persuasions,
had succeeded in making it of better cheer than the ordinary light
_dejeuner_. Another pleasing circumstance was the assurance of the
chauffeur, who arrived while we were still in the breakfast room, that
the clouds were breaking away and that we should have sunshine by noon.
By the time we had reached Villandry the sun was struggling through the
clouds, and as we approached Chinon, its long line of ancient ruins and
the little town clustered beneath were bathed in sunshine.
[Illustration: Neurdein Freres, Photo.
RUINS OF CHATEAU OF COUDRAY AT CHINON]
Although from several points the old chateau on the crest of the hill,
dominated by the lofty Tour de l'Horloge, is beautiful and impressive,
the best general view of it is from the middle of the lower bridge, from
which we could see the three distinct foundations, the Chateau of St.
George at the upper or right side, the bridge which connects it with the
Tour de l'Horloge, the Chateau du Milieu, and finally the Chateau de
Coudray at the extreme lower or left end of the plateau. The whole is
far more ruinous than the other famous castles of Touraine and requires
as much imagination to make it whole and habitable as some of the ruins
along the Rhine. Of the Chateau of St. George, built by the Plantagenet
Kings to protect the one vulnerable point in a position almost
impregnable in its day, nothing is left but parts of the lower wall.
So ruinous, indeed, is this chateau, that one is almost ready to accept
Pantagruel's derivation of the name of Chinon, or Caino, from Cain, the
son of Adam its founder.
We climbed up the hill and rang the bell at the Tour de l'Horloge, which
is the only part of the buildings still boasting a roof, and here the
concierge and his family tuck themselves away somewhere within its high,
narrow walls. The bell that we rang is on the outer side of the tower,
and in the course of time a girl, about as big as the old key she
carried, unlocked a door in the archway through which we entered. The
level spaces inside between the different buildings have been laid out
as a sort of promenade which is open to the public on Sundays and
holidays. The view up and down the slow, shallow river with its yellow
sand-flats, little green islands, and the softly wooded country beyond
seemed to us one of the most charming in Touraine. The concierge, who
was attempting to act as guide to two separate parties at once, hurried
us around in such a bewildering fashion that it would be almost
impossible for me to give the exact locations of the different
buildings. What we all remember distinctly is the bare, roofless hall,
of which only a western gable and a vast chimney-piece remain, in which
Joan had her audience with the King. This hall was the throne room, in
1429, when the fearless Maid appeared at Chinon, having journeyed one
hundred and fifty leagues through a country occupied, in many places, by
English and Burgundian troops, in order to deliver her message to the
King. Although the meeting between Charles VII and Joan was by
candlelight, even in the garish light of day it seemed strangely real
here in this great ruinous hall. Nearly three hundred knights were
present, and the King is said to have stood a little apart amidst a
group of warriors and courtiers, many of them more richly dressed than
himself, with the idea, perhaps, of testing Joan.
There are various accounts of this audience, but the one that we like
best because it seems the most probable is that Joan knew the King at
once, although she had never seen him, and going straight to him,
accosted him humbly and reverently like the poor, little shepherdess
that she was.
"Gentle Dauphin," she said to the King (for she did not think it right
to call him King so long as he was not crowned), "My name is Joan the
maid; the King of Heaven sendeth you word by me that you shall be
anointed and crowned in the city of Rheims, and shall be lieutenant of
the King of Heaven who is King of France. It is God's pleasure that our
enemies, the English, should depart to their own country; if they depart
not evil will come to them, and the kingdom is sure to continue yours."
Even after these earnest words from Joan, the King, although impressed,
was not convinced, and with some reluctance allowed her to remain at
Chinon. We were afterwards shown the lodgings, which this inhospitable
royal host gave to the persistent visitor, in a very thick-walled little
tower, and according to our guide, Joan could get in or out of her room,
on an upper floor, only when her guards put a ladder up to her small
window, permanent stairways being considered unsafe for such guests.
The King saw Joan again several times. She did not delude herself as to
the doubts he still entertained. "Gentle Dauphin," she said to him one
day, "Why do you not believe me? I say unto you that God hath compassion
on you, on your kingdom and your people; St. Louis and Charlemagne are
kneeling before Him, making prayer for you, and I will say unto you, so
please you, a thing which will give you to understand that you ought to
believe me." Charles gave her audience on this occasion, in the
presence, according to some accounts, of four witnesses, the most
trusted of his intimates, who swore to reveal nothing, and, according to
others, completely alone. "What she said to him there is none who
knows," wrote Alan Chartier a short time after [in July, 1429], "but it
is quite certain that he was all radiant with joy thereat, as at a
revelation from the Holy Spirit."
Archie, who read the most recent life of Joan of Arc, on the steamer, as
a preparation for Chinon, reminds us that after much sifting of history
and tradition, it has been decided by learned authorities that the
revelation of the Maid, which filled the King with joy, was a positive
assurance that he was the rightful heir to the throne of France and the
true son of his father, Charles VI.
It is not strange that Charles VII should have doubted his own paternity
with a mother as unnatural and depraved as Isabel of Bavaria, and that
with a kingdom chiefly in the hands of the English he should have
seriously questioned his right and title to the throne, being himself of
a weak and doubting nature. It is said, that in an hour of great
despondency, Charles prayed to God from the depths of his heart that if
he were the true heir of the house of France, and the kingdom justly
his, God would be pleased to help him and defend it for him. This
prayer, which he thought known to God alone, the Maid recalled to the
mind of the King, thus giving the sign and seal of her mission, and by
this revelation she not only caused the King to believe in her, but
strengthened his confidence in himself and in his right and title. True
to herself and "the voices," for she never spoke as of her own motion,
it was always a superior power speaking through her, as the mouthpiece.
She said: "I tell thee on behalf of my Lord that thou art the true heir
of France and son of the King."
After some weeks of discussion and delay, Joan's plan for the relief of
Orleans was adopted, troops were gathered together, of which she was
given the command, or as she naively expressed it, she was made the
"war-chief." Yolande, Queen of Sicily, the young Queen's mother and the
Duc d'Alencon, were her zealous advocates. Yolande gave of her treasures
for the relief of Orleans, and soon at the head of her army, her banner
flying, upon which was inscribed the name of the Prince of Peace,
surrounded by the lilies of France and with her troops singing _Veni
Creator_, the dauntless Maid passed through these gates and Chinon knew
her no more.
We know that Joan accomplished in less than a year all that she had
promised. The city of Orleans was relieved, she had led Charles to
Rheims to be crowned and had done much toward delivering France from the
English. Then came the sad part of the story, which you know so well.
While we were following the fortunes of the Maid, and here where she had
so courageously taken up what she deemed her heaven-appointed task,
feeling more than ever before the cruelty and rank injustice of her
treatment, Lydia exclaimed: "Nothing could prove more forcibly the old
saying about the ingratitude of princes than the King's treatment of
Joan!"
A voice behind us echoed, "Nothing," and we turned to see M. La Tour,
who had followed us and entered the hall so quietly that we had not
known that he was anywhere within miles of us. "No," he said, when the
first greetings were over, "I am not here to defend my country for her
treatment of the noble and fearless Maid. She did much to regain the
territory of France from the English and to establish the King upon his
throne; she came to him in the darkest hour and inspired him with hope
and courage, and yet in the time of her trial he basely deserted her.
No, there is no excuse except that at the King's side there were many
men jealous of the success and military glory of Jeanne, to whisper
tales in his ear. He was a weak and vacillating creature, at the best,
ready to follow the last person who talked to him, and he probably
believed some of the stories told him about the good Maid."
"And then," as Archie reminded him, "Joan was given papers to sign which
she was not able to read and thus set her mark to her own death
warrant."
"A sad and shameful tale!" exclaimed the young Frenchman, as we passed
by the donjon where Joan had been lodged and by the scanty ruins of the
little chapel where she stopped to pray, and wept because the angels
left her.
Just then, as we were passing on to find some traces of the several
Angevin kings, who lived and died at Chinon, something happened which I
cannot quite explain. In some way Lydia was separated from us, as we
were passing from one ruinous castle to another. She has not told me,
and indeed there has been little time to have a word with her, but I
shall always think that she was so impressed by the wonderful story,
which seems so real here, where Joan saw the angels and revealed her
mission, that Lydia was in a way overwhelmed by the mysterious,
spiritual power of it all, and lingered behind us for the peace and rest
of being alone, and away from all the talk and from that small child,
with the big key, who recited her monotonous tale like a parrot. Then
later, in trying to find us, Lydia must have gone off quite a distance
in the wrong direction, and so became confused and lost her way among
the ruins. This is only my explanation. Lydia is writing to you and may
give you another. All that I know is that we heard a sharp, sudden cry
and turning we saw the poor dear perched up quite high on the ruins of a
wall, with a steep, precipitous descent between her and ourselves. Miss
Cassandra was scared out of her wits, M. La Tour begged Lydia to be
calm, in French and English, with the most dramatic gestures, while
Archie, without a word, sprang up the steep ascent, agile and surefooted
like the good mountain climber that he is, and without more ado picked
Lydia up in his strong arms and bore her down the precipice as if she
had been a baby, and she is no light weight, as you know. All that Lydia
said, when she found herself in Miss Cassandra's embrace, was "I am so
ashamed of myself for losing my head. I think I was just a little dizzy,
and I was so afraid of falling from that wall."
"Don't think about it, dear," said Miss Cassandra, "now that you are
safe and sound, thanks to Dr. Vernon."
The good lady was so overjoyed at having her treasure beside her again
that she would have been quite ready to include her deliverer in the
warm embrace with which she welcomed Lydia, nor do I think that Archie
would have objected. The situation was somewhat strained, for the
moment, as he had been living at rather high pressure with the Joan of
Arc associations when Lydia's escapade came to cap the climax. Miss
Cassandra's eyes were brimming over with tears, and I was more ready to
weep than to laugh, when Walter, as usual, came to the rescue with his
sound common sense, saying to Lydia, whose modesty and reserve were
distinctly shocked by the idea of having made a scene.
"You would never have lost your head up there, Miss Mott, if you had had
your luncheon before you ascended to the heights above," this in
Walter's most comforting manner. "We have gone through a lot of history
and emotion on a breakfast that is a good many hours away. Let us go
down to the town and see what they can do for us in the way of luncheon
or afternoon tea."
M. La Tour, who had been rather left in the background during the last
excitement, now came forward and offered to conduct us to a nice little
hotel for luncheon,--insisting, however, that we should first go with
him to see the part of the castle in which Henry II of England died, in
the midst of the dissensions of his rebellious sons.
"The most pitiful, disgraceful death-bed scene in all history!"
exclaimed Miss Cassandra. "I don't see why we need trouble ourselves
about it. Henry was lying half dead, here or somewhere else near Chinon,
when his son Richard, who had joined the French King against him,
approached his father to receive from him the kiss of peace, and such a
kiss of peace as it was!--the dying King muttering under his breath as
he gave it, 'May God keep me alive till I have given you the punishment
you deserve!'"