treasures for him," said M. La Tour. "In his old age Louis was wont to
say that no peaches were equal to those of Vaux-le-Vicomte in flavor and
quality."
"I am quite sure that he had never tasted those of Anjou!" exclaimed
Walter, and at this most opportune moment Francois produced a basket of
these same Anjou peaches, and some pears also, all surrounded by green
leaves, as only the French know how to set them forth. We feasted on the
fat things of the earth, as we made our way to Villandry, where we saw
the ancient monument of the Druids, which was not much to see after all.
Walter, however, takes a solid satisfaction in visiting the things that
he feels it is his duty to see. The same sort of a rainbow illuminates
his horizon after a duty of this sort is performed, that irradiates our
path when you and I have accomplished a series of perfunctory visits,
and yet he tells Lydia and me that we take our sightseeing quite too
seriously.
M. La Tour has been telling us about the elaborate New Year's ceremonies
once held at Chartres, by the Druids. The mistletoe was cut by the
eubage, with a golden _faucelle_, or sickle, belonging to one of the
Druidesses and then distributed to the people. The eubage was, it
appears, a combination of priest and bard whose pleasing task it was to
cut the throats of the human victims offered upon the Druidical altar of
sacrifice. This distribution of the mistletoe at the beginning of the
year may have led to our later use of the mistletoe in the Christmas
holiday festivals. Walter says that he does not know about this, nor
does M. La Tour; but they intend to look it up and communicate the
result one to the other. From this conversation you will naturally infer
that we are again in the land of the mistletoe.
In the meadows we noticed a delicate little mauve-colored flower,
something like an orchid, which Francois told me was a crocus, blooming
for the second time this season, and in the gardens of the little gray
houses, with their red-tiled roofs, and by the roadside were gorgeous
asters of all shades of purple. In the less cultivated places, heather
blooms luxuriantly and yellow gorse which attracted Miss Cassandra's
trained botanist's eye, and she suddenly quoted the old Scotch saw,
with about the same appropriateness as some of the remarks of "Mr. F's
Aunt" in Bleak House: "'When gorse is out of season, kissing is out of
fashion,'" and looking straight at Archie, she added encouragingly "you
see it is still blooming."
[Illustration: FORGE NEAR STONE STAIRWAY AT LUYNES]
It would be impossible to accuse Miss Cassandra of flirtatious intent,
and yet at her glance and words Archie blushed a beautiful scarlet. I
tried not to look at him, as I knew that he was inwardly swearing at the
thinness of his skin, or whatever it is that makes people blush. I
couldn't see Lydia without turning around and staring at her; but
Walter, who enjoyed the whole scene from his coign of vantage beside
Francois, told me afterwards that "Lydia never turned a hair, and so you
see, Zelphine," he said, laughing gaily, "it all rests between Miss
Cassandra and Archie."
Seeing in the distance the curious, enigmatical Pile de Cinq Mars, we
suddenly realized that we were quite near Luynes, and Walter told
Francois to stop there as he knew that Archie would be charmed with the
beauty of the situation of this chateau which hangs high, like an
eagle's nest, upon a bluff above the lowlands and the river. While we
were walking around and about the chateau, we suddenly came upon Mr. and
Mrs. Otis Skinner standing at the entrance to a little smithy, quite
near the rock-hewn steps that lead up to the chateau. We have seen so
few Americans, and no friends or acquaintances since we left Tours, and
now, as we are again approaching the old town, to meet these good
friends was a great pleasure. Mr. Skinner took us into the smithy, which
is so charmingly situated, and we wondered again, as at Cheverny, why
even a blacksmith's workshop is so much more picturesque here than in
England or America. While Mr. Skinner was standing talking to the
blacksmith, Lydia and Archie and Mrs. Skinner managed to get snapshots
of the forge. If it is satisfactory, I will send you a photograph, as we
intend to exchange pictures and you shall have the very best.
After this encounter, we sped along on our way toward Tours, wondering
whether Mr. Skinner was collecting material, atmosphere, etc., for a
French play. We are glad that our way lay through Tours and that Archie
could have even a fleeting glimpse of the old capital. To motor across
the great bridge and along the wide Rue Nationale, and to have another
look at St. Gatien, with its two beautiful towers, and at those other
towers of Charlemagne and de l'Horloge was a joy, even if there was not
time to stop over at Tours for an hour.
At Blois we gathered up our luggage, left the automobile and took the
train for Orleans. We parted from our Francois with much regret, as we
have come to like his honest, frank face and his pleasant French ways.
Walter and Archie, I am quite sure, gave him a generous remembrance,
Archie especially being quite in sympathy with his dreams of love in a
Touraine cottage. We all wished him happiness, not without some
misgivings on my part, I must admit, lest his Eloisa of the bright eyes
should play him false for the charms of some one of those red-legged
soldiers, who seem to possess an irresistible charm for French women,
who are always ready to sing "J'aime le militaire."
From Blois to Orleans is a railroad journey of a little over an hour,
through a fertile, but a rather monotonous country abounding in fields
of turnips. From the quantities of this vegetable raised here, we
naturally conclude that the peasants of this part of France subsist
chiefly upon turnips, as the Irish do upon potatoes. We passed through
many gray villages, which tone in with the shades of the silver poplars,
and this with certain gray atmospheric effects in the landscape makes us
realize how true to life are the delicate gray-green canvases of many of
the French artists.
The Orleans station, like that of Tours, is a delusion and a snare, as
we were suddenly landed at Les Aubrais, one of the outskirts of the old
city and from thence had to make our way to Orleans as best we could. We
had fortunately been able to send our small luggage directly through to
Paris by putting it in the _consigne_, and paying ten centimes on each
article. This convenient and economical device, which with all our
travel we had never discovered, was revealed to us by the two charming
Connecticut ladies whom we met at Amboise. Walter calls down blessings
upon the pretty heads of these two wise New England women whenever we
make a stop over between trains; and Miss Cassandra ejaculates: "It
takes a Yankee, my dears, to find out the best way to do everything on
the top of the earth!"
Having only ourselves to dispose of, we soon found an omnibus which
conveyed us to the Place du Martroi, the soul and centre of the ancient
city of Orleans, where is fitly placed an equestrian statue of Jeanne
d'Arc, by Foyatier. This statue does not, however, happily suggest the
Maid, as the peasant girl of Domremy is here represented with a fine
Greek profile, and, as Archie noticed, with his keen horseman's eye, the
charger upon which she is mounted is a race-horse and not a war-horse.
It is, however, a noble and dignified memorial, on the whole, in which
it differs from the grotesque affair at Chinon, and Dubray's low reliefs
on the sides of the pedestal, representing important scenes in the life
of the Maid, are beautiful and impressive.
Here in Orleans, the scene of Joan's first and most remarkable success,
we live more completely in the life and spirit of that wonderful period
than at Chinon. The marvel of it all impressed us more forcibly than
ever before. That this peasant girl, young and ignorant of the art of
war, by the power of her sublime faith in her heaven-sent mission and
in herself as the divinely appointed one, should have wrested this city
from the English, seems nothing short of the miracle that she and her
soldiers believed it to be. Even that hard-headed and cold-hearted
sovereign, Louis XI, was so overawed by the story of Joan's victories
that he marked with tablets the little room at Domremy where she was
born, and also the convent of Sainte Catherine de Fierbois, where she
was received and where she found her sword with the five crosses.
We knew that the Place du Martroi was not the scene of Joan's martyrdom,
and yet this wide, noble square, with her monument in the centre, from
which diverge so many streets associated with her history, stood for
infinitely more to us than anything we had seen at Rouen, the actual
place of her martyrdom.
From the square, M. La Tour conducted us to the cathedral, which has
been criticized by Victor Hugo and many others, and which we, perhaps
from pure perversity, found much more harmonious than we had expected.
The facade, which the local guidebook pronounces majestic, even if
_batarde_ in style, is rich in decoration, and the little columns on
the towers I thought graceful and beautiful, however _batarde_ they may
be. Two cathedrals have stood upon the site of the present Sainte Croix,
the last having been destroyed by the Huguenots, to whom are attributed
the same sort of destruction that marked the course of Oliver Cromwell's
army in England. It is said that the great Protestant leader, Theodore
de Beze, himself blew up the four noble pillars that once supported the
belfry. However this may be, and Miss Cassandra says that we are all
free to believe such tales or not, as we choose, very little is left of
the old edifice except the eleven chapels and the side walls. Even if
Theodore de Beze destroyed the old cathedral, the building as it now
stands was the work of his former chief, for it was Henry of Navarre who
laid the corner stone of the new edifice, in 1601, to fulfill a vow made
to Pope Clement VIII who had absolved him from the ban of
excommunication.
In the side windows, in richly colored glass, is the story of the Maid
of Orleans, from the day when she heard the voices and a vision appeared
to her while she kept her father's sheep in the fields near Domremy,
to the hour when she and her troops gave thanks for the victory of
Orleans in this cathedral. On through the eventful months of her life to
the sad and shameful scenes at Rouen, where the innocent and devoted
Maid was burned at the stake, while France which she had delivered, and
Charles whom she had crowned, made no sign, the story is told in a
series of pictures. Even if of modern glass and workmanship, these
windows seemed to us most beautiful, especially those on the right-hand
side through which the light streamed red, yellow and blue from the
jewelled panes. The window representing the crowning of Charles VII at
Rheims is especially rich in color. Joan, with a rapt ecstatic
expression on her face, is here to see her King crowned and with her is
the banner that she loved even more than her mystic sword. Below are
inscribed her own simple words, "It has been with him in the suffering,
it is right that it should be with him in the glory." Ever
self-effacing, it was of her beloved banner that Joan was thinking,
never of herself.
The whole wonderful story is written upon these windows so plainly that
any child may read it. We have been thinking of Christine and Lisa, and
wishing that they were here to read it with us. They will learn of Joan
of Arc in their histories, but it will never be so real to them as it is
here where her great work was done, and where she is so honored. Some
day we promise ourselves the pleasure of bringing the children here and
going with them through all the Joan of Arc country. M. La Tour, who has
made the journey, says that, as the Joan of Arc cult is increasing all
the time, every spot associated with her is marked and everything most
carefully preserved.
"Most interesting of all," he says, "is the little church where Jeanne
worshipped. Although badly restored by Louis XVIII, the nave remains
intact, and the pavement is just as it was when the bare feet of Jeanne
trod its stones, in ecstatic humility, during the long trance of
devotion when she felt that supernatural beings were about her and
unmistakable voices were bidding her to do what maid had never dreamed
of doing before. In a little chapel, beside the main edifice, is the
stone fount where the infant Jeanne was baptized. Fastened to the wall
there hangs a remnant of the iron balustrade, that Jeanne's hands must
have rested on during the hours that she passed in rhapsody, seeing what
never was seen on land or sea. A few steps from the church stands the
cot where the maid was born, almost as humbly as the Christ Child.
Entering through the small doorway, you see the room in which Jeanne
first opened her eyes to the light. On one side stands the 'dresser,' or
wardrobe, built half way into the wall, where the housewife stored the
family belongings. Beside this is the iron arm which held the lamp, used
during midnight watches. Beyond this general room is the alcove that
served Jeanne as a sleeping-room. In this narrow chamber, more like a
cell than a sleeping-room, Jeanne heard 'voices,' and dreamed her
dreams."
M. La Tour's description is so interesting that we all long to follow in
his footsteps and in those of the Maid, from the clump of oak trees--of
which one still stands--and the "Fountain of the Voices" to the ruins of
the Chateau of Vaucouleurs, where the chivalrous Robert de Baudricourt,
impressed by the girl's serene confidence, gave her a letter for the
King, who was at Chinon, as we know.
[Illustration: HOTEL CABU HOUSE OF JOAN OF ARC
ORLEANS]
The Porte de France is still standing, M. La Tour tells us, through
which the shepherd maid, with her four men-at-arms and her brother Jean,
embarked on her perilous journey of eleven days across a country filled
with roaming bands of British and Burgundian soldiers. The places are
all marked, Saint-Urbain, Auxerre, Gien, Sainte Catherine de Fierbois,
where Jeanne was received in the "aumonerie" of the convent, now
transformed into a Mayor's office. When we come to Orleans with the
children, we must try to be here on the 8th of May, when the whole city
is _en fete_ celebrating the glorious victory of the Maid. Still talking
over the projected Joan of Arc pilgrimage, M. La Tour led us by the Rue
Jeanne d'Arc which faces the cathedral and to the Maison de l'Annonciade
where Jacques Boucher, treasurer of the Duke of Orleans, received the
Maid. In the court of this building, now used as a Dominican convent, is
a small statue of Joan, above the well. This house is also called the
Maison de Jeanne d'Arc, and in a charming Renaissance building, near by,
is a collection of relics of the Maid. For some unknown reason this
house is sometimes spoken of as the house of Agnes Sorel; and with
about the same authority another house at the corner of the streets,
Charles-Sanglier and Des Albanais, is called the _Maison de Diane de
Poitiers_. This latter mansion, with its small towers and richly
ornamented facade, is now an historical museum and is better known as
the Hotel Cabu.
By the Rue Royale, which suddenly changes its name and becomes the Rue
de la Republique after it crosses the Place du Martroi, we made our way
to the Hotel du Ville, a handsome sixteenth century building of brick
and stone. On a tablet upon the facade is a long inscription telling how
many kings, queens and notable personages have stopped here; but what
interested us much more is a statuette in bronze of Joan, the work of
the Princess Marie d'Orleans, daughter of Louis Philippe. The modest,
devout little maid, represented by this statue, is more like the real
Joan, to our thinking, than most of the more pretentious monuments.
[Illustration: Neurdein Freres, Photo.
SALLE DES MARRIAGES, ORLEANS]
In the Salle des Marriages of the Hotel du Ville, we came suddenly upon
souvenirs of a much later period than that of Joan, for here, in this
room, Francis II died. He and Mary came here from Chenonceaux, and
becoming violently ill from a malady in his ear which had tortured him
for some time, the poor young king took to his bed never to rise again.
His mother followed him here, and at Mary's instance the great surgeon
Ambrose Pare was summoned. He wished to operate; the young Queen had
full confidence in his judgment and skill, but Catherine resolutely
opposed the use of the surgeon's knife, and poor Francis lingered a few
days in great pain, and finally died in the arms of his wife. There is a
painting in the Salle des Marriages of this sad scene; Mary is kneeling
by the bedside of her husband and Catherine is seated nearby, her face
cold and expressionless. It has been intimated that Catherine opposed
Ambrose Pare because she wished to have poor Francis removed to make way
for a son whom she could control and bend to her will; but with all her
wickedness, it is impossible to believe in such a motive. One may,
however, understand her ignorant horror of the use of the knife, and the
superstitious terror that haunted her in view of the recent revelations
of Ruggieri at Chaumont.
"I think it is quite evident what was amiss with King Francis!"
exclaimed Miss Cassandra. "He was suffering from mastoiditis, of
course, and Ambrose Pare was clever enough to find it out, and might
have saved his life if he had been allowed to have his way. I have no
patience with Catherine, and she knew what she was about when she set up
her opinion against that of a great surgeon."
Archie says that to diagnose a case at a distance of several hundred
miles requires considerable skill; but still greater is the insight into
obscure maladies of our Quaker lady, who bridges over the centuries and
tells us just what disease afflicted Francis II in the year of grace
1560; and he added quite seriously:
"You may be quite correct in your surmise, Miss West. Your niece and I
will hunt up Ambrose Pare's diary when we get to Paris, and see what he
says about the case. If you are right, I'll take you into my office as a
partner."
After a somewhat strenuous morning of sightseeing and a sumptuous regale
at the Hotel St. Aignan, whose name pleased us on account of its Dumas
flavor, we climbed up to a lovely terrace garden from which we could
overlook the town and the cathedral, to which distance certainly lends
enchantment. In this pleasant resting place I am writing to you, dear
Margaret, while we wait for a late train to Paris. M. La Tour expects
his auto to meet us and convey us to the station and then to take him to
his home. We shall miss him, as his kind attentions and vast fund of
information have added much to the pleasure of our sojourn in Chateau
Land. To-day he has managed our time so judiciously that we have seen
everything of importance in Orleans without being hurried, and we now
have this quiet hour on the hillside garden before setting forth upon
our journey. He evidently has no idea of what is happening in our midst,
and is as attentive as ever to Lydia, talking to her and walking with
her, whenever Archie gives him a chance; and who can blame him? I have
never seen Lydia more charming than she is to-day; but the soft light
that shines in her eyes is not for the young Frenchman, I am sure.
Walter says:
"If La Tour had his wits about him he would see what is going on under
his nose; it takes a sledge hammer to drive in some other things beside
a joke."
Here comes the auto, and in five minutes we shall be _en route_ for
Paris.
XVI
A CHATEAU FETE
PARIS, September 16th.
WE found Angela eagerly awaiting us when we reached our destination, and
I must admit still more eagerly awaiting another arrival, as Mr. McIvor
was expected by a train due here later than ours. Since she had been
with his Scotch and English relatives, Angela insists upon having her
fiance called Mr. McIvor, as that is the custom in his own country. She,
however, much prefers our calling him by his own delightful Scotch name,
Ian, and we like him well enough to fall in with her desires. Ian
arrived in due time, and our party is now complete.
"How fortunate it is that the hour was in our favor instead of the
Doctor's," exclaimed Walter; for according to French etiquette to have
left Angela here unchaperoned with her lover in the same city, even if
not in the same hotel, would have shocked all ideas of propriety. "I
fancy that M. La Tour, good fellow as he is, couldn't understand our
leaving Angela here by herself even for a single night."
"No," I said, "and I didn't think it necessary to tell him."
"Queer notions these people have! As if Angela didn't know how to take
care of herself!"
No one knows better, and I told Walter how Angela managed in London. She
reached there in the afternoon, instead of in the morning as she had
expected. Something about the automobile had given out and they had
finally to take a train from York. When she reached the hotel where she
was to meet the Dudleys, she found a note telling her to follow them to
Southampton as they were obliged to take the night boat. Angela
immediately looked up trains and finding that the next train would be
one hour too late for the boat, what do you think she did? She
telegraphed to the Captain to wait for her! Did you ever hear of
anything so delicious? Walter calls it a piece of American effrontery,
but I call it quickwitted, don't you? Of course the Captain could not
keep his boat waiting for any person of less distinction than the
Queen; but by good luck (Angela is always lucky) the vessel was late in
sailing that evening. The Dudleys, who were anxiously waiting for her on
deck, saw her coming, just as the sailors were about to take up the
gang-plank, and begged the Captain for a moment's delay. Of course
Angela looked charmingly pretty as she tripped up the incline; and she
never realized that her little telegram could be taken otherwise than
seriously until she heard the Captain say to the first officer, as she
stepped on deck: "She was worth waiting for, after all." At this the
child was so overcome with confusion that she did not know which way to
look, and evidently did not recover her self-possession during the
crossing. Walter insists that she is still blushing over her own daring.
If she is, it is vastly becoming to her, as I have never seen Angela
look more brilliantly beautiful.
We are living in an atmosphere so charged with romance, that it would be
positively dangerous for two unmated beings to join our party at this
time. Miss Cassandra pays Archie and myself the compliment of appearing
to be radiantly happy over Lydia's engagement, although I know that she
drops a tear in secret over M. La Tour and his chateau. I tell her that
this is not an entirely safe environment for her, especially as one of
her old time suitors is in Paris; he met us at Morgan's this morning and
has been dancing attendance on Miss Cassandra this evening, which last,
Walter says, is a very disrespectful way to speak of the decorous call
of a dignified Quaker gentleman.
However that may be, Miss Cassandra laughed gaily at my serious warning,
and with a flash of her bright blue eyes dismissed her quondam suitor
and my solicitude in one brief sentence:
"Thee is very flattering, my dear, and I admit that Jonah is an
excellent person; but he is quite too slow for me!"
"That may be; very few people are quick enough for you, dear Miss
Cassandra; but you must acknowledge that Mr. Passmore was not at all
slow about calling upon you to-night."
It is really too bad to tease our Quaker lady; but she takes it all so
literally and is so charmingly good-humored withal that it is a
temptation not easy to resist.
We are making the most of our few days in Paris, as we leave here early
next week. Lydia announced at breakfast that she felt it _her_ duty, and
she hoped that we should feel it to be ours to make a pilgrimage to St.
Denis this afternoon.
"After enjoying ourselves in the chateaux of the Kings and Queens of
France, it is," she says, "the very least that we can do to go to St.
Denis and see them decently and honorably buried."
Miss Cassandra quite agreed with Lydia, and Archie, although he says
that it is a ghoulish sort of expedition, would go anywhere with her, of
course.