the Quaker lady's picture, gruesome as it was. "Henry was too ill to
return to Chinon, and so passed the night at Azay-le-Rideau, or at the
Commanderie of the Templars at Ballan. It was there or at Chinon that
his clerk, at his request, read to him the list of the rebellious
barons. 'Sire,' said the man, 'may Jesus Christ help me! The first name
that is written here is the name of Count John, your son.' Then Henry
turned his face to the wall, caring no more for himself or the world,
and lay there muttering, 'Shame upon a conquered King!'"
It really seemed to us as if M. La Tour took a certain ghastly
satisfaction in telling us of the unseemly behavior of these English
kings and princes who had appropriated, justly or unjustly, so much of
his country's territory. The only human incident in the last hours of
the great King was the devotion of his son Geoffrey, who sat through the
hours of the long summer day fanning away the insects from his father's
face, the dying man's head resting upon his shoulder while a knight
supported his feet. The King opening his eyes, recognized his son,
blessed him, and said that he of all his children was the only one that
showed any affection for him, and that if his life was spared he would
make him the most powerful prince of them all. This, like many another
death-bed resolution, was not carried out, as Henry died the next day,
before the high altar of the church of St. Melaine, which was within the
chateau, at Chinon.
We did not feel at all sure that we had seen the spot where the King
breathed his last; but it really does not much matter, as Miss Cassandra
says, and it is not easy to locate the scene of remote events among
these ruinous buildings.
The trial of the Grand Master of the Knights Templars was held here in
one of the halls of Chinon in 1309, and swift retribution was meted out
to the members of the order, more for the love of gold than for the love
of justice, as the Templars had become the bankers of Christendom and
were possessed of vast treasures, which were seized upon forthwith.
A carving in the donjon of Coudray of three kneeling knights, each one
bearing a sword and a shield, is thought to have been carved by the
Templars on their prison wall.
As we made our way down the hillside to the town, M. La Tour reminded us
of a more cheerful association connected with Chinon than those upon
which we had been dwelling, for here it was that the historian Philippe
de Commines was betrothed. He had been created Prince of Talmont by
Louis XI, who arranged a marriage for him with Helene de Chambes,
daughter of the Lord and Lady of Montsoreau. This betrothal was attended
by the whole court, and Louis heaped honors and rewards upon his
favorite who was made Governor of Chinon. A few years later, after the
death of the King, Commines entered into the involved politics of
France, and incurred the displeasure of Anne de Beaujeu who imprisoned
him at Loches; or, as he expressed it in Scripture phrase, "I ventured
on the great ocean, and the waves devoured me." He, however, escaped
from this sea of troubles and gave to the world his valuable history,
composed, it is said, in the hours of his enforced retirement.
"Which is," as Walter says, "a delicate and extremely polite manner of
referring to his imprisonment in one of those infernal iron cages at
Loches." (Pray notice that the language is Walter's, not mine.)
On our way to the cafe we passed by the statue of Rabelais, and although
this was not a market day, to M. La Tour's infinite regret, there were
some booths in the busy little square and a number of traffickers. The
face of the humorist who loved his kind, even if he often made game of
them, looked down upon the gay, chattering, bargain-making crowd in the
square beneath him, with an expression half satirical, half laughing and
wholly benevolent.
There is some uncertainty as to the date of the birth of Maitre Francois
at Chinon, and he may or may not have lived in either of the old houses
pointed out as his, but he certainly belonged to this part of the
country, and we are grateful to his fellow-townsmen for honoring him so
fittingly.
In the centre of the little square a fountain, surrounded by acacia
trees, was playing, and beyond was the welcome Hotel de France opening
its doors to us. After we had ordered our luncheon, Walter suddenly
remembered the chauffeur, and started to hunt him up and tell him where
to meet us with the automobile, and I joined him for the pleasure of
another stroll through the town. M. La Tour, who accompanied us, again
regretted that this was not a market day, when the peasants come in from
the surrounding country, and we could then see just such a noisy merry
crowd as Rabelais described when Couillatris goes to Chinon, which he
calls "that noble, antique city, the first in the world," to buy oxen,
cows and sheep, pigs, geese and capons, dead and alive, and all manner
of country produce. An antique city Chinon appeared to us, above all
that we had seen; and to add to this impression we met a number of
peasant women and black-eyed girls with the picturesque lace caps of
this province, veiling but not concealing their fine dark hair.
After a luncheon that more than answered our expectations, we strolled
about the old town, through its narrow winding streets and by the Place
Jeanne d'Arc, with its remarkable statue which represents the Maid
riding roughshod over the prostrate bodies of her foes; her horse has
all four feet off the ground, his means of support, a bronze rod as a
sort of fifth or middle leg, being more practical than artistic. "The
rider's position in the saddle," as Archie says, "would turn any circus
performer green with envy." An altogether atrocious piece of sculpture
is this, with an element of grotesqueness in its conception quite
unworthy of one of the most serious characters in all history, the Maid
to whom, as Carlyle says, "all maidens upon earth should bend."
Finally, and I must say with some reluctance, we turned our backs upon
Chinon and our faces toward Fontevrault, journeying by much the same
route that Henry II was carried on his last journey, over the bridge
that he had built and by the river and the village of Montsoreau.
By the way, M. La Tour showed an amiable desire to accompany us to
Angers, and as our touring car is of hospitable proportions we were glad
to have his good company. At Fontevrault, which has been turned from an
abbey into a reformatory for criminals, we were fortunate to have some
one with us to speak to the sentinel, as this seemed to be a day when
visitors were not welcomed here. After some parleying with the
officials, M. La Tour gained permission to have us enter and see all
that is left of the fine old church, whose buttresses and roofs we had
admired from a distance. In the little chapel we saw the four
Plantagenet statues that still remain, after the vandals of the French
Revolution had broken open the tombs and destroyed all that they could
lay their hands upon. These four statues have been restored and the
faces repainted. Here lies Henry II, robed and sceptred as he was when
borne forth from Chinon for burial at Fontevrault, and Richard Coeur
de Lion, both in the middle of the group. To the left is Eleanor of
Guienne, the wife of Henry II. Three of these recumbent figures are of
colossal size, hewn out of the tufa rock and painted. The other statue
of smaller size, carved in wood and colored, represents the English
queen, Isabel of Angouleme, one of the most beautiful as well as the
most depraved queens of history; only excelled in wickedness by her
French sister of a later time, Isabel of Bavaria. This earlier Isabel,
daughter of Aymar, Count of Angouleme, upon the day of her betrothal to
Hugues de Lusignan, was carried off by John of England, who put away his
wife, Avice, to marry this beautiful, wicked enchantress. After the
death of John, Isabel came back to France to marry her old lover.
As we left Fontevrault and motored down the hill towards the Loire, M.
La Tour recalled to us the ancient glory of this abbey, whose walls now
echo to the clank of arms instead of to the _Ave Marias_ of the gentle
sisters. Fontevrault was founded in the eleventh century by Robert
d'Abrissel, a monk, as a place of refuge for a vast and ill-assorted
company of men and women who gathered around him when he was preaching a
crusade to Palestine. From this strange beginning the abbey became one
of the most famous in Christendom, as it was richly endowed by kings and
princes, especially by the early English kings who loved this beautiful
valley of the Loire. Many noble and royal ladies presided over
Fontevrault, among them, Renee de Bourbon, sister of Francis I who,
while she was Abbess, rebuilt the beautiful cloister which we saw
to-day. Another and later Lady Abbess was Marie Madelaine Gabrielle de
Rochechouart, who found time in the midst of her religious duties to
make translations of some of Plato's works. New ideas, you see, were
finding their way into the convent, it being the fashion about that time
for women to be learned, Mary Stuart having led the way by delivering a
Latin oration at the Louvre to the edification of all who heard her. And
here came Mary Stuart herself, while Louise de Bourbon was Lady Abbess,
brought hither by her aunt, the Duchess of Guise, to charm and delight
the nuns by her beauty and ready wit. As a religious establishment for
men and women, ruled over solely by a woman, the Abbey of Fontevrault
was unique in Christendom.
[Illustration: FRENCH CAVE DWELLINGS NEAR SAUMUR]
As we motored along the river bank beyond its low-lying sand marshes and
line of small hills, we noticed tiny black wind-mills spreading out
their arms to the breeze, and wreaths of smoke curling up from the
cliffs. Here and there the lowering sun would light up a window pane in
the cliff, as if to remind us that these hillsides are burrowed out by
the workers in the vineyards who make their homes here as in Touraine
and in the valley of Vendomois.
"It seems that we are again in the land of the troglodytes," said
Walter. "Alfred de Vigny says these peasants 'in their love for so fair
a home have not been willing to lose the least scrap of its soil, or the
least grain of its sand.' I think myself that it is for more practical
and economic reasons that they live underground."
These cliff dwellings continue for nearly eight miles around Saumur, and
M. La Tour tells us that many of them go back to the days of the Roman
occupation when they served the conquered tribes as a last retreat from
the invader. Some one has said that every step to the southward takes
us further back in the history of France. Chinon and Fontevrault are not
far south of Tours and Blois, and yet we are far back in history to-day,
living with the Angevin kings and with the cave-dwellers of Gaul.
Even the _coiffes_ of the women are different here from those worn in
other places on the Loire, and in a very distinct way we realize that we
have left Touraine and are in Anjou.
In the fields the peasants were gathering in their stores for the
winter; the women pass along the road constantly with their odd panniers
upon their backs, full of treasures. Sometimes they are filled with
fruit and vegetables and again it is only grass for the cattle or
faggots for the fire. As we drew near Saumur, grapes filled the _hottes_
to overflowing, for this is the land of the vine, one of the great
grape-growing regions of France.
We are spinning along all too rapidly over these perfect roads, as we
long to stop at so many places, especially at that tiny Venice on the
Loire, a republic of fishermen and laborers established by King Rene
when he was still in power. From its sole palace, the Chateau de l'Ile
d'Or, Rene's daughter went forth to be the unhappy Margaret of Anjou,
the Red Rose of the House of Lancaster, during the war of the succession
which raged in England for so many years.
M. La Tour tells us there is much to see at Saumur, a very old Hotel de
Ville, a twelfth century church, and other ancient buildings. This city,
once a favorite residence of Angevin princes and English kings, was in
the reign of Henry IV, the headquarters of Protestantism, with
DuPlessis-Mornay, the Pope of the Huguenots, as its governor. All that
we had time to see, this afternoon, was the fortress chateau, which
stands high up on the Quay de Limoges, overlooking the junction of the
Loire and the Thouet. We were warned that if we stopped again we should
not reach Angers until after dark, and so we sped along past many an
historic landmark of interest.
XIV
ANGERS
LE CHEVAL BLANC, ANGERS, September 13th.
WE were glad to have our first view of Angers by daylight, as the dark
slate roofs and the great black chateau in the old part of the town,
made us understand what Shakespeare meant when he wrote of "black
Angiers." The towns, old and new, had their full share of sunshine
to-day and of a warmth that would have been oppressive had it not been
tempered by a fresh breeze from the River Maine that flows by the
chateau, for here we quitted our Loire, for a while, a river with a
distinct individuality which we have come to love like the face of a
friend. A little below Angers, the Loire and the Maine unite, and in the
land lying between these rivers is the richest agricultural region in
all France, its nurseries and kitchen gardens having made a fortune for
this little corner of the world.
The town of Angers, which is a place of some consequence, being the
capital of the Departement de Maine et Loire, is situated upon a height
crowned by the slim spires of the Cathedral of St. Maurice. On a first
view, we must admit that Angers is disappointingly modern, with its
straight, wide boulevards and regular rows of trees; but to-day we have
spent most of our time in the old town which has not been despoiled of
its ancient charm. And here in this inn, the Cheval Blanc, which has
opened its hospitable doors since 1514, we live in an atmosphere of
antiquity surrounded by modern comforts. The Rue St. Aubin, upon which
our hostel is situated, is so narrow that Lydia says she is tempted to
shake hands with the little dressmaker who is sewing away busily at a
window across the street, and she doubtless hears everything that we
say, and looks politely interested in our remarks although she probably
cannot understand a word of English. As we see her there, looking up
from her sewing, from time to time, neat and dainty, her black hair
dressed to perfection, a pathetic expression in the dark eyes with which
she regards us from time to time, we think of Marie Claire, and wonder
if this little seamstress has not a story of her own to tell, and one
which like the story of that other sewing girl, would touch the heart
because of its perfect simplicity.
This hotel is so unpretentious, in its style and furnishings, that we
are more than surprised at its comfort. Miss Cassandra says that she has
never in her life seen floors scrubbed to such immaculate whiteness, and
we know that Quakers know all about cleanliness. The service which the
men chambermaids give us is exceptionally good and quite discouraging to
Miss Cassandra and myself who have always persistently upheld the
superiority of our sex. It is like my uncle's bachelor housekeeping, a
little too good to be gratifying to our woman's pride. Everything runs
so smoothly here, like magic, under these ministering angels of the male
sex, in their white shirts, red waistcoats and green aprons. We really
don't know what to call them, although the one who attends to my room
informed me quite frankly that he was the _femme de chambre_. This was,
I think, in order to avoid confusion with regard to fees; the double
service of waiter and _valet de chambre_ entitling him to a particularly
generous douceur.
One expects good meals in all of these French inns, and at the Cheval
Blanc they are as good as the best and served in a cool, quiet
dining-room, between the front courtyard with its palms and pleasant
lounging places and the rear court, around which are the kitchens, the
garage and the offices generally. Good as we find the cuisine, what most
delights us is the fruit. We have been in great fruit-growing countries
before, as at Canterbury, where we had no evidence of the excellence and
profusion of the fruit on the table d'hote; but here each meal is
crowned with a great dish of plums, peaches, grapes and pears. Beautiful
and delicious as they all are, the pears are supreme, as the Italians
say, in size and flavor. We are feasting upon fat things in this land of
plenty, as we have seen nothing to compare with the fruit of Angiers in
Touraine or elsewhere. M. La Tour made no mistake when he conducted us
to the _Cheval Blanc_, where he himself was received with warm
friendliness as well as with great respect by the proprietor. Shining in
his reflected light, we are treated as if we belonged to the royal
family, or to the President's family, which is the popular thing in the
France of to-day. In view of our French friend's many kind attentions
and charming good nature, Archie has overcome his racial prejudices
sufficiently to say:
"Zelphine, that French friend of yours is really no end of a good
fellow."
"Why _my_ friend?" I ask. "M. La Tour is the friend of us all. Walter is
devoted to him, and he is Lydia's 'Handy Book of Reference,' as you
know." This last was distinctly cruel; but Archie, instead of
retaliating, answered quite amiably:
"Yes, he is a good fellow, with no superior foreign airs about him."
Walter says that it is only fair that Archie should admit this much of
his rival, after carrying Lydia off under his very eyes at Chinon,
which, he says, is prophetic of coming events. I must confess that I do
not feel as sure of the outcome as Walter. Lydia is the most
self-contained young person that I have ever encountered.
By the way, we decided, after our arrival yesterday, that we could not
possibly do justice to Angers in the short half day that we had allowed
ourselves. We telegraphed to Angela that we really could not meet her
in Paris until Wednesday night. Even if the Dudleys leave to-day, she
will have only one night by herself, and with her usual good luck she
will probably meet some friends in the hotel.
Again we echo the sentiments of Maitre Francois, and saying "There is
nothing so dear and precious as time," rejoice in this one long, golden
day in Angers. I am writing after our second _dejeuner_. We have all
spent the morning in the most strenuous sightseeing, going to the
cathedral first, which is quite near, its apse blocking the street on
which the Cheval Blanc stands. From the west front of the cathedral,
which is very narrow in proportion to its height, the ground suddenly
descends to the river, a long, broad flight of steps taking the place of
a street. There are, on the facade, some fine carvings of armed
warriors; but the side walls are flat and plain, solid masonry replacing
the flying buttresses which lighten most of the French churches. This
last feature we find to be characteristic of Angevin churches, as are
two other characteristics which impressed us as we entered the
cathedral. One of these is the absence of aisles in the nave, and a
consequent sense of light and spaciousness; the other, the small
dome-like roof into which the vaulting of each section of the nave
rises. There are some curious old tapestries hung on the walls of the
nave, a handsome carved pulpit and some fine glass of the twelfth and
thirteenth centuries. In the chapel to the left is a Calvary by David
d'Angers, a sculptor not without honor in his native town. The chief
object of interest in the cathedral is the tomb of King Rene and his
wife, which was discovered beneath the choir only about fifteen years
ago.
On our way to the chateau, on a broad open space at the intersection of
two boulevards and in the midst of a treeless expanse, stands a statue
of the mild, poetic sovereign of Anjou by David d'Angers. This bronze
statue is on a high, light-colored stone foundation, and shows him no
more kingly and rather less amiable than history, which has always
surrounded Rene d'Anjou with the sympathetic charm that belongs to a
king in exile. Around the base of the monument are smaller statues
representing such founders and leaders of his house as Dumnacus,
defender of the Angevins, Foulques Nera, Robert the Strong and Henry
Plantagenet. Here also are statues of Rene's two wives, Isabelle de
Lorraine and Jeanne de Laval, and of his daughter Margaret, Queen of
England. This monument naturally carried our thoughts back to the days
when the valor of Anjou's counts, and their connection with the thrones
of England and Sicily, gave this land an importance far beyond its
natural value.
King Rene himself, with his three titles, Count of Anjou, King of Sicily
and Duke of Provence, seems to have been born to misfortune as the
sparks fly upward. Had he been endowed with the spirit and courage of
his daughter Margaret, Rene might have been able to cope with his
enemies; but being of a gentle and reflective nature, he yielded to what
he deemed his fate. One possession after another was wrested from him,
and he finally retired to Aix in Provence, where he devoted himself to
literature and the fine arts, or, as Miss Cassandra expresses it, "He
amused himself by writing verses and pottering about his garden. And a
very much more respectable way of spending his time, it was, than
quarreling with his neighbors, which was the chief occupation of Louis
XI and most of the other kings of that period!"
We afterwards saw the noble statue of Margaret of Anjou, a regal figure,
wearing the crown and bearing the sceptre of which she was so soon
deprived by Edward IV. When she went to England, as the bride of Henry
VI, she was received with rejoicings and the London streets were
decorated with the Marguerite flower in her honor. No man, it was said,
surpassed Margaret in courage, and no woman in beauty, and it might well
be added that none of the princesses who had left France to share the
British throne had to endure such misfortunes. Her son was captured and
slaughtered under her eyes; then and then only, the strong purpose and
high courage, that had supported her during years of adversity, deserted
her. She lost heart. After being dragged from prison to prison, Margaret
was restored to her country and her family, upon which King Rene, being
more of a poet than a king, wrote a madrigal to celebrate his daughter's
sad homecoming.
The castle, which is across the way from Rene's statue, dates back to
the twelfth century, when English and French were disputing over the
ownership of Anjou. Standing on a hillside above the Maine, this
chateau, with its massive stone walls and heavy drawbridge, suggests
brute force more completely than any of the other castles that we have
seen. As we passed through the dungeons at Loches, we shuddered at the
cruelty which they represent; as we looked at the bare black walls of
this castle, we were even more appalled by the dread relentless strength
against which enemy after enemy battered himself in vain.