PÉRIGUEUX TO TOURS
From Périgueux we followed the Isle for some distance before turning to
wind over the hills. It was a region of chestnut trees, the
_marronniers_ for which the province is so celebrated. For miles the
trees formed a stately hedge along both sides of the highway, and groves
of them were in the near distance, their spreading branches reminding us
of English oaks.
The ascent continued to Thivièrs, a tiny village of the Dordogne. One of
the _vieux citoyens_ pointed out the Hôtel de France as the best place
to lunch. "_On mange très bien lábas_," he said. The lunch was a _chef
d'oeuvre_. We had never tasted such _poulet au casserole_ or such
_cotelettes de mouton grillées_. The _lievre_ had a delicious _suc de
viande_ which went well with the _pommes frités_. There was _vin à
discrétion_, and, besides, different kinds of _fromage_ and the French
melons, golden and juicy and always the best part of the repast.
Nothing is more delightfully characteristic of these small towns like
Thivièrs than the delicacies peculiar to them. These little communities,
so different from each other in local customs and mannerisms, are just
as unique and original in their cooking. It was always interesting, when
we had lunch or dinner in a new place, to scan the ménu for some new
dish that we had never tasted. Whenever the _garcon_ or _maître de
l'hôtel_ pointed to an item on the ménu and said, "_C'est une specialitè
de la maison_," then we knew that something good was coming. One never
tires of these French delicacies. Our regret at leaving them behind was
usually tempered by the consolation that something equally new and
delicious was awaiting us in the next place _en route_. Each one of the
following names recalls experiences that we shall not soon forget. These
are simply samples. The list would be too long if we named them all; the
_truites_ of Chambéry; the mushroom patties of Pierrelatte; the _jambon_
of Bayonne; the _truffes_ of Périgueux; the _rillettes_ and _vins_ of
Tours; the _miel du Gatinais_ of Orléans; the fried sole of Chartres and
Dieppe. In Normandy, sweet cider was often placed on the table instead
of the mild _vin du pays_. The cheese, _patisserie_, and fruits were
good everywhere.
Another item, which we cannot overlook, never appeared on the ménu and
yet always flavored the whole repast. That was the geniality, the
provincial hospitality, which greeted us in every little inn and hotel.
The welcome was just as hearty as the farewell. If there was some one
dish that we especially liked, the _patronne_ was never satisfied till
she was sure that we had been bountifully served. After so many
experiences like these, it is easy to understand why the foreign
motorist feels so much at home in France.
It was a splendid run to Limoges. The long grades were scarcely
noticeable, the easy curves rarely making it necessary to check our
speed. Donkey carts were fashionable, and _sabots_, as usual, in style.
There was always a shining river or green valley in sight. Haute-Vienne,
arrayed in flags and evergreens, awaited the coming of the president.
Here, as all along the route, we saw the same joyful picture of festal
preparations. The bridge over the river Vienne was like a green arbor.
Some of the worthy citizens of these communities were probably more
familiar with town affairs than the current events of the outer world.
We read in a local journal of a shopkeeper who shouted a lusty "_Vive
Faillières_," to greet the president's arrival. The mayor of one village
threw himself in front of the presidential car, and threatened to commit
suicide if the president did not make a speech, as he had done in a
neighboring town. These petty municipal jealousies gave us a picture of
France in miniature. What country is more torn by faction! Internal
dissension is the nation's peril.
The river kept us company until Limoges was in sight. The president had
left the city only a few hours before our arrival. Decorations were
still in their splendor. One _arc de triomphe_ bore the words "_Vive
Poincaré_." Another read, "_Nos fleurs et nos coeurs_." This popular
ovation seems remarkable when we consider the strength of socialism in
France, and the fact that Limoges is a socialistic center. The mayor, a
socialist, refused to receive the president. The City Council was not
present at the festivities of welcome. Municipal buildings like the
Hôtel de Ville were not decorated. All this was in accordance with
instructions received from the leaders of the socialistic party. It was
even considered unsafe for the president to include Limoges in his
itinerary. But the people, the wage earners, the various trade
organizations, acted for themselves. Their spontaneous, enthusiastic
greeting was all the more striking in contrast with the cold
indifference of the city authorities. To be in an important French city
at just this time, on the very day when the president was there, to see
all the preparations for his welcome, to hear the people talk about him
and praise him, made us feel that we had been close indeed to one of the
great personalities of modern Europe. France has found her leader, a man
of vast energy who understands his country's problems and is peculiarly
fitted to solve them. His motor tour through the provinces was like a
triumphal march. Everywhere he preached that gospel of unity which is
the great need of the hour.
Thanks to a letter of introduction, we had the interesting privilege of
visiting a porcelain factory and of seeing the different processes
through which the product passes from the shapeless lump of clay to the
final touch of the artist's brush. The city reflects the artistic spirit
of its inhabitants. One notices many attractive garden plots and window
gardens, and the beauty of the flowers appears in their art. These
artists can reproduce them in porcelain and enamel because first of all
they have painted them in their hearts.
[Illustration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood
_A convenient way to carry bread_]
After Limoges, came Tours as the goal of the day's run through the
pastoral beauties of Limousin to the châteaux of Touraine. The air was
crisp and clear. Two hours of easy running through the bright September
sunshine brought us to the Palais Hôtel in Poitiers before
noon--Poitiers, the city of old Romanesque churches and older
traditions, where are living so many of the _vieille noblesse_ who would
rather eat dry bread than make their sons work. The echoes of Parisian
rush do not penetrate these quiet streets. The people drink _tilleul_
after lunch instead of coffee. The effect is to make them drowsy. In
fact, we have seldom visited a place with such an atmosphere of
slumber. After lunch the _patronne_ offered to show us some of the
hotel rooms. Most of them were connected with a private _salle de bain_.
The price was so reasonable that we at once placed this hotel in a class
by itself. As before stated, bathrooms do not enter largely into the
life of the French home or hotel. Even in cities like Tours, the public
bathtub still makes its round from house to house once a week, or once a
month as the case may be. An Englishman, who so often places cleanliness
above godliness, is unable to understand this French indifference to the
blessings of hot and cold water. In Lyons, the third largest city of
France, there is a popular saying that only millionaires have the _salle
de bain_ in their homes. These facts will help to explain why the Hôtel
Palais, with its many bathrooms, made such an impression on us. We
regret that our snapshot of this hotel did not turn out well. We would
have had it enlarged and framed.
From Poitiers to Tours one is on the famous Route Nationale No. 10, that
remarkable highway which Napoleon built across France into Spain when
his soldiers made the long march only to meet defeat in the Peninsular
campaign. We had followed it from Bayonne to Biarritz and on to San
Sebastian. To see this familiar sign again seemed like the greeting of
an old friend. It looks like an army road, the trees are planted with
such military precision. One could almost feel the measured step to
martial music. This straight-away stretch for so many miles through the
country suggested the great soldier himself. Like his strategy, there
was no unnecessary swerving. It was the shortest practicable line to the
enemy's battle front. These magnificent _routes nationales_ are the best
illustration of the order and system that he gave to French life. We
have often thought too much emphasis has been laid on the destructive
side of Napoleon's career. He shook Europe, but Europe needed to be
shaken. The divine-right-of-kings theory needed to be shattered. France
needed to be centralized. If our motoring in that country had been
limited to Route Nationale No. 10, this would have been enough to give
us a new appreciation of Napoleon as a constructive force.
The afternoon's ride flew all too quickly. It was glorious, as evening
approached, to watch the harvest moon growing brighter and larger on our
right, while the sunset fires slowly changed from burning colors to
dusky gray. Tours was in sight, Tours on the Loire, names that we had
always linked with the châteaux of Touraine. A multitude of lights
gleamed from the plain below. Descending the hill, we crossed the Loire
to the Hôtel Metropole.
Tours was not what we had anticipated. One reads about the kings of
France who resided here, from Louis IX to François I. Plundering
Visigoths, ravaging Normans, Catholics and Huguenots, even the Germans
in 1870, all in their turn assailed the unfortunate city. We looked for
half-ruined palaces and vine-covered, crumbling walls. The reality
spread a different picture. Aside from the streets and houses of
mediæval Tours, little remains of great historic interest. This large,
busy industrial center produces so many articles that the list resembles
a section from the new Tariff Act.
We enjoyed varying our châteaux excursions with rambles in the city.
There are old gabled houses in the Rue du Change, where the overhanging
stories rest on brackets richly carved. One loses all sense of
direction in some of these intricate streets. The cathedral compelled us
to linger longer than we had intended. The ages have given such a warm,
rich gray to the stones that the usual atmosphere of frozen grandeur was
absent. Our interest in Gothic glass and mediæval pillars was diverted
by a wedding that was going on in the cathedral. One of the priests, who
was assisting in the ceremonies, left his duties to offer us his
services as guide; there is always a certain magnetic power to the
American tip. Of course we climbed the Royal Staircase of the North
Tower, even counting the number of steps. The fact that our numbers did
not correspond is all that saves this part of our story from resembling
a quotation from Baedeker. The panorama showed the city spread out in a
plain between the Loire and the Cher. We grew to have an intimate
feeling for these old cathedral towers. When returning along the Loire
from our châteaux trips, it was always a beautiful sight to see them in
the distance, clear-cut and luminous, or looking like majestic shadows
in the haze of twilight.
[Illustration: _The road swept us along the bank of the Loire_ _Page
181_]