THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 Three Vveeks in France
 
 The Three Weeks Abroad Series 
 
 By 
 
 John U. Higinbotham 
 Four Titles: 
 Three Weeks in Europe 
 Three Weeks in Holland and Belgium 
 Three Weeks in the British Isles 
 Three Weeks in France 
 
 Most Delightful Travel Books 
 
 The Three Weeks Abroad Series are not "guides" but 
 invaluable to those about to make a first trip to Europe. 
 Full of just the necessary information and pertinent 
 suggestions — all presented in the form of a charming 
 and readable narrative. Those who cannot go abroad 
 will find these books the best sort of a substitute; as 
 entertaining as fiction. 
 
 Fifty or more beautiful half-tone illustrations, pic- 
 tures chosen with rare good taste and judgment. 
 Handsomely bound in cloth with cover design in three 
 colors. Large 12mo.
 
 IN THE PYRENEES
 
 THREE WEEKS 
 
 IN 
 
 FRANCE 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN U. HIGINBOTHAM 
 
 THE REILLY & BRITTON CO. 
 CHICAGO
 
 Copyright, 191 S, 
 
 by 
 The Reilly & Britton Co. 
 
 Three Weeks in France
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Chapter Page 
 
 I Crossing to Havre 9 
 
 II Rouen 25 
 
 III Chartres 47 
 
 IV Mont St. Michel 57 
 
 V Vitre 82 
 
 VI Le Mans and Tours 90 
 
 VII Chambord and Blois 104 
 
 VIII Pau 119 
 
 IX Lourdes 144 
 
 X Gavarnie and Luz 150 
 
 XI Toulouse 168 
 
 XII Carcassonne 177 
 
 XIII The Gorge of the Tarn 183 
 
 XIV Beziers, Cette and Nimes 202 
 
 XV Marseilles 226 
 
 XVI Monte Carlo 234 
 
 XVII The Goulets 247 
 
 XVIII Chambery 257 
 
 XIX Annecy 264 
 
 XX ClIAMONIX 271 
 
 XXI Lyons 285 
 
 XXII The Forest of Fountainebleau 291 
 
 XXIII The Palace of Fountainebleau 305 
 
 
 ?9
 
 PREFACE 
 
 Emerson speaks of the gad-fly of curiosity 
 which animates the traveler. Sewell Ford, equally 
 entomological in his etymology, would probably 
 call it a "bug." Whatever the cause, the effect 
 is as widespread as humanity and the manifesta- 
 tions are as varied as the human beings which it 
 animates. 
 
 Some, endowed with health, energy and 
 imagination, seek the north pole and return 
 damaged in health but with energy unimpaired 
 and imagination working overtime. Others seek 
 glory at the lion's mouth or shin up mountain 
 sides in the proud hope that some day a tomb- 
 stone will be erected over a few shreds of cloth 
 and three or four buttons that once encased 
 their manly forms. At their obsequies, weeping 
 friends are permitted to view remnants instead 
 of remains. 
 
 Yet others seek the gay life of the Continental 
 bathing beaches where the seashore is becoming 
 more and more the see-shore. 
 
 Whatever form their activity takes, the under- 
 lying motive is afterwards to find an audience 
 and tell of their adventures. Few men would 
 accept free transportation to the moon with a
 
 Preface 
 
 guarantee of safe and comfortable passage were 
 it coupled with a ban of silence upon their return. 
 
 Julius Caesar, the first man to work five I's into 
 a three word telegram, was also the writer of 
 the first successful travel book on France. His 
 "Three Years in Gaul," less favorably known as 
 his "Commentaries," has been indifferently trans- 
 lated into more different languages than any other 
 travel book ever written. He laid the foundation 
 of the unpopularity of the travel book. 
 
 He had two great advantages over most writ- 
 ers. He was a pioneer and an emperor. None 
 of his contemporaries had been over the ground 
 covered by him and if they had, they would not 
 have dared to question his statements. The man 
 who writes of his travels to-day addresses an 
 audience which by means of moving pictures, 
 travel lectures and books has visited most of 
 the world and stands pencil in hand ready to cor- 
 rect any errors. 
 
 I am growing prolegomenous. I made up my 
 mind that I would, in order that I might use that 
 word. 
 
 France is the most visited and least seen of 
 any country on the globe. Notwithstanding the 
 many excellent books on the subject and the 
 armies of pleasure seekers who land at French 
 seaports every summer, the American who does 
 not take the Paris Express finds himself alone
 
 Preface 
 
 at the landing dock and treads his delighted way- 
 through the departments of France seeing very- 
 few compatriots. 
 
 So long as this sin of omission prevails, pun- 
 ishment in the form of travel books is richly- 
 merited. 
 
 John U. Higinbotham. 
 
 Chicago, January, 19 13.
 
 Three Weeks in France 
 
 II 
 
 I 
 
 Crossing to Havre 
 
 N order to be as French as possible and to 
 be French as soon as possible, we chose 
 the French Line for our crossing. 
 But a kindly Providence had arranged 
 that our foretaste of France should antedate even 
 a whiff of the ocean, for the manager of our din- 
 ing car was a Frenchman of Rouen whose friend- 
 ship was immediately gained when he found that 
 we planned to visit his native city. He told us 
 much that interested us, not only regarding 
 Rouen, but of other parts of France. Herein 
 does the Frenchman differ from, let us say, the 
 Irishman. The Frenchman loves his home-town, 
 but has a greater affection for his country. This 
 enables him to see the beauties of other parts of 
 France. 
 
 Nor was our experience on the railway limited 
 to the dining car man. B. with an ear attuned 
 to catch the faintest hint of Gallic accent picked 
 out a neatly dressed gentleman whose intonation 
 betrayed his origin, and insisted that I scrape an 
 
 9
 
 io Three Weeks in France 
 
 acquaintance with him and bring him to our lair 
 in the sleeping car for conversational purposes. 
 The first part of the assignment was easily 
 accomplished. Yes, he was a Frenchman, a phy- 
 sician. He was returning to France this week. 
 He did not know on what boat, but on one that 
 sailed as soon as possible. Could he not change 
 to our boat? He was uncertain. He gladly 
 accepted my invitation to call on us in our state- 
 room on the train. After waiting for half an 
 hour after breakfast, unable longer to curb B's 
 impatience, I went into the car and reminded the 
 doctor of his engagement. He was in conversa- 
 tion with a Canadian, a sort of official looking 
 chap, but said he would be in very shortly. I 
 went back and presently the Canadian put his 
 head inside the door and said, "Pardon me, but 
 the doctor is rather sensitive on the subject, and 
 I thought I had better explain that he is being 
 deported to France, and you probably would not 
 care to prolong the acquaintance, in view of that 
 fact." 
 
 We did not inquire of what crime or disease 
 the doctor was suspected, but excused him from 
 his engagement. That ended our efforts to antic- 
 ipate our actual embarkment for French con- 
 versational purposes. 
 
 We rested briefly at New Rochelle before tak- 
 ing the boat and recalled that this old New York
 
 Crossinsf to Havre n 
 
 *& 
 
 town was born of the travail following the Revo- 
 cation of the Edict of Nantes in 1685. Later we 
 were reminded of our great debt to France as 
 our taxi whizzed past Union Square in New 
 York City, and we touched our hats to the statue 
 of "Lafayette Arriving in America," presented 
 by the French to the municipality in grateful 
 recognition of her sympathy during the Franco- 
 Prussian war, a loving thought most gracefully 
 expressed. While Louis XVI was actuated by 
 hatred of England and spent $240,000,000 in 
 assisting us to gain our independence, Lafay- 
 ette was moved by the love of liberty, and not 
 only fitted out a vessel at his own expense but 
 spent seven years in our wildernesses fighting 
 for us at an age when there must have been 
 much to draw him back to the gay life of the 
 court. Lafayette was a man in the early twen- 
 ties when he came to us, but in spite of his 
 youth, his counsel was highly prized by that wise 
 leader, Washington. 
 
 Gilbert Motier, Marquis de Lafayette, was a 
 consistent friend of liberty. After his return 
 to France he advocated civil rights for Jews and 
 Protestants. As the French Revolution pro- 
 gressed the madmen of the Convention saw in his 
 sanity only disloyalty, and his popularity de- 
 clined. Following the unsuccessful flight to 
 Varennes of Louis XVI and family, Lafayette
 
 12 Three Weeks in France 
 
 attempted to escape into Holland. He was ar- 
 rested on the Luxembourg frontier and was sent 
 a prisoner to Prussia. He was confined in a 
 dungeon at Magdeburg for a year and sent 
 thence to Olmutz in Moravia. In 1795, assisted 
 by Dr. Erick Ballman and Francis Key Huger, 
 he attempted to escape but failed. During all of 
 this time nothing was done for him, and little at- 
 tempted by the United States. Later it would 
 load him with honors and Florida land, but dur- 
 ing his captivity, Congress sat with folded hands. 
 
 Finally Napoleon exchanged Marie Therese 
 for Lafayette and his wife. After Waterloo, it 
 was his fate to be one of those who called on 
 Napoleon to abdicate but he was opposed to sur- 
 rendering the Emperor to the Allies. After the 
 Restoration Lafayette lived at La Grange. He 
 visited the United States in 1824 and received a 
 continuous ovation. Many hands were blistered 
 in rapturous applause that had not been raised 
 to assist him at Olmutz. In 1825 he came to 
 Boston to attend the fiftieth anniversary of the 
 Battle of Bunker Hill. It was then that Con- 
 gress voted him two hundred thousand dollars 
 and two hundred thousand acres of land which 
 he selected in Florida. 
 
 In 1830 he refused the crown of Belgium. 
 One pauses to wonder what the effect would have 
 been on Belgium in general, and Ostend in par-
 
 Crossing to Havre 13 
 
 ticular, had the Belgian dynasty been founded by 
 Lafayette instead of Leopold of Saxe-Coburg. 
 
 Lafayette died in 1834 at the ripe age of 
 seventy-seven years, having lived long enough 
 to see most of his ideas ripen into full fruitage 
 on the new soil of America, but not long enough 
 to see some of them rot and drop off the bough. 
 Happy man! 
 
 The key to the Bastille in Paris which was 
 given to Lafayette was in turn presented by 
 him to George Washington and is now one of 
 the prized exhibits at Mount Vernon. 
 
 That is a very long soliloquy to be started by 
 a statue and in a taxicab with the meter revolving 
 as only a New York taximeter can revolve. 
 
 Finally we arrived at the dock and settled with 
 the chauffeur at a rate which, according to 
 Augustus Thomas, accounts for the morality of 
 the American compared with the Frenchman. 
 We have no money with which to support a 
 double life after paying our cab bills. 
 
 There were all the usual features of parting, 
 plus a few that are peculiar to French leave- 
 takings. There was a little of added volubility 
 and a fusillade of those strictly sanitary double- 
 cheeked osculations with which the French are 
 so liberal. The last package was swung aboard, 
 the last female was pushed ashore, the band 
 played and we were off ! Then came the struggle
 
 14 Three Weeks in France 
 
 for places on deck and at table. The American 
 man was heard explaining to his wife that "boite 
 fermee" meant mail-box and she trustingly put 
 her letters therein long after the pilot had de- 
 parted. 
 
 Slowly that other tie that binds us to France, 
 Bartholdi's Statue of Liberty, dwindled into a 
 very diminutive Liberty waving a tiny torch at 
 the end of a short arm; an arm so short that it 
 was hard to realize that it was forty-two feet 
 long, and that if her majesty's four and a half 
 foot nose set to itching she would scratch it with 
 a hand sixteen feet in length ; or that forty people 
 can stand in the cavity where her brain should 
 be ; or that she weighs two hundred and twenty- 
 five tons and that it is three hundred and one 
 feet from the water line to the top of the monu- 
 ment. The light in her torch — and a whole 
 petit jury could stand in that torch (without 
 seeing a ray of light) — is maintained by the 
 lighthouse service of the United States. She 
 waves her welcoming beacon at an elevation 
 almost two hundred feet higher than the Colus- 
 sus of Rhodes or the famous statue of Nero. 
 
 Frederic Auguste Bartholdi was born in Al- 
 sace in 1834, when Alsace was French and before 
 mourning wreaths were piled about the figure of 
 Strasbourg in the Place de la Concorde in Paris. 
 During the days of the Commune he visited the
 
 Crossing to Havre 15 
 
 United States and conceived the idea of placing 
 Liberty far enough off-shore in New York har- 
 bor to be safe from attack. It required five 
 years to complete the work and Bartholdi im- 
 poverished himself in doing it. Not only did he 
 conceive and externalize his grand idea but he 
 attended to raising the popular subscription 
 which paid the cost thereof amounting to 
 $600,000. 
 
 We shall never see Bartholdi's Statue of Lib- 
 erty without recalling an anecdote given us in a 
 steamer letter. An American whose business had 
 kept him six months in Europe was approaching 
 Bedloe's Island. His experience had been uni- 
 formly unfortunate. He had exchanged bad 
 language for bad money and had grown weary 
 of the process. He hailed the statue in these 
 words : "You look mighty good to me, old girl, 
 but if ever you see me again, you will have to 
 turn around." 
 
 Our trip across was a disappointment in one 
 large respect ! We had chosen this line for gay- 
 ety and practice in French conversation. We 
 had neither. The French people who made up 
 half the passenger list either did not mix with 
 the Americans or else insisted on talking Eng- 
 lish. Except for the matter of wine at meals 
 there was nothing hilarious on the boat. Quite 
 the contrary. Our boat, because of the sea-
 
 1 6 Three Weeks in France 
 
 man's strike, was inefficiently manned by ma- 
 rines and we were a full day late at Havre. 
 
 In our enthusiasm at seeing land, we hailed 
 a New York theatrical man and tried to drag 
 him to the starboard side to look at a lighthouse. 
 "Not on your life," he growled, "I've seen noth- 
 ing but light houses all season!" 
 
 Our French conversation was limited to mak- 
 ing our wants known to the stewards and even 
 in this we were the victims of an uneven ex- 
 change, for we had to give two English substan- 
 tives in exchange for every French word that 
 we received. The room steward was struggling 
 to acquire English in order to increase his value 
 to his employers and his zeal was proportioned 
 to the incentive. If the same zeal had animated 
 the gentlemen who put into English the menus 
 and the news in our daily paper, The Journal 
 de l'Atlantique, the result would have been more 
 correct, but far less amusing. In their zeal to 
 make noun and adjective agree in number, as 
 they must in French, we had "straws berries" 
 and "news potatoes" in the dining room and re- 
 ports of the "stocks markets" on deck by wire- 
 less. 
 
 Our trip was slow and eventless. Warned by 
 the fate of the Titanic we pointed due east 
 from New York for five or six days in order to 
 be well out of the range of icebergs. Gossip
 
 .SAILORS' (JAMES
 
 Crossing to Havre 17 
 
 was well nigh exhausted. The warm weather 
 due to our southern course robbed the deck 
 sports of their usual zest. Only the bridge 
 fiends were oblivious to the high temperature. 
 
 At last we pointed north and after having the 
 Glorious Fourth celebrated for us with fireworks 
 and sailors' games we commenced to sniff land. 
 We were in the mouth of the English channel, 
 uncommonly placid. The Scilly Islands called 
 forth the usual comments. Almost every solu- 
 tion of the reason for their names was suggested 
 except the most obvious one, viz : that they give 
 rise to innumerable silly puns on the part of 
 passing travelers. 
 
 Finally we turned into the most beautiful har- 
 bor of France, the bay of Havre. We had been 
 picked up by our pilot the day before, two hun- 
 dred and fifty-nine miles from land. The busi- 
 ness is still competitive in France, and under 
 the rules the first licensed pilot who sees a boat 
 brings it into port. 
 
 The bay was rippling in the bright morning 
 sun. Dozens of steamers were lying at anchor, 
 but this alas ! was no pleasant sight, for they bore 
 witness to the bitterness of the seamen's strike. 
 From June 9th until July 27th not a big liner 
 left the port of Havre. Over twenty ships of 
 various sizes flying the colors of our line were 
 lying like helpless giants all about us.
 
 1 8 Three Weeks in France 
 
 A tender steamed alongside us and filled us 
 with an awful presentiment. Were we to be 
 landed by tender ? "No," growled the New York 
 man, "They will have to dock us for being a 
 day late." 
 
 We steamed slowly past countless small sail- 
 boats and watched the shore line roll by like an 
 impossibly brilliant panorama! A large casino, 
 a lighthouse, a wireless station, strips of yellow 
 beach with borders of emerald grass fringed by 
 the greenest trees imaginable; then pink and 
 white villas, surely never made to be mussed up 
 by housekeeping. Every one must certainly live 
 in the big Hotel Frascati and simply look at his 
 villa and flick off a speck of dust here and there 
 with a bit of chamois skin. 
 
 Just how a New Yorker can point with pride 
 to a sky line that looks like a broken-toothed 
 comb after seeing the emerald and pearl neck- 
 lace that encircles the fair throat of Havre, is 
 unaccountable. 
 
 What will our reception be ? The dock is filled 
 with blue-coated porters and red-legged gen- 
 darmes. A whole company of soldiers was 
 drawn up in single file. 
 
 We descended to the steerage deck and rested 
 our arms on a rail carved with the names of Jan 
 Gembes 19 12 and C. Petrell, and with quaintly 
 designed Arabic and Hebrew characters all now
 
 Crossing to Havre 19 
 
 in the big boiling pot of America being worked 
 up into merchants, writers, politicians and graft- 
 ers, seeking his own and as a rule rinding that 
 for which he looks. 
 
 About twenty women and sixty men formed 
 our totally inadequate reception committee. 
 These with the heartlessness of friendship soon 
 detected and waved welcomes to the ones whom 
 they had come to seek, leaving the rest of us 
 no better occupation than to watch the life on 
 the dock. 
 
 The three-story landing platform was wheeled 
 along its track. As usual a stump-tailed dog 
 was the busiest animal in sight. He ran from 
 hawser to hawser to inspect the tying and be- 
 cause of his caudal affliction wagged the last one- 
 third of his entire body in approval. He rested 
 for a moment and tried to open a battered tin 
 can with his teeth. He seemed fond of it. What 
 a difference it makes when the dog is attached 
 to the can. Perhaps his brevity before referred 
 to may account for the careless glee with which 
 he tossed it about. 
 
 At last we filed out like Indians, into a big 
 room with a counter on three sides of it, past a 
 middle-aged female who put a cabalistic 8 on 
 our suit cases — our first introduction to the uni- 
 versal business woman of France. 
 
 The taxicabs were all gone, so we secured a
 
 20 Three Weeks in France 
 
 more prosaic horse-drawn vehicle and drove to 
 the railroad station. Passengers booked to Paris 
 clambered aboard the special express awaiting 
 them at the docks. 
 
 Our drive took us past hundreds of pathetic 
 appeals "aux dockers" to assist in the strike then 
 in progress. Having an hour or so at our 
 disposal we dismissed the cab, put our suit cases 
 in the "Consigne" room at an expense of one 
 cent each and trammed it up town. 
 
 Havre deserves better than it receives at the 
 hands of tourists. It is a big clean city, of 
 135,000 people. Its name means "harbor" and 
 travelers are willing to view it solely in that 
 light. It was founded by fishermen, or rather 
 it was deposited on the shore like so much sedi- 
 ment by the widening Seine. 
 
 Prior to Francis I there were two small har- 
 bors, Honfleur and Harfleur. In 15 17 Admiral 
 Chillon laid the first stone of the present harbor 
 and city and named the latter Franciscopolis. 
 But there are some things that cannot be changed 
 by royal decree and the name of Havre or Havre 
 de Grace was one of them. The "de Grace" 
 referred to the little chapel of Our Lady of 
 Grace that once stood there. 
 
 Being the port of Paris, Havre is an important 
 strategic point and it has been besieged many 
 times by English, Italians and others.
 
 Crossing to Havre 21 
 
 In 1629 Havre was one of three arsenals 
 selected by Richelieu, the other two being Brest 
 and Brouage. In the latter part of the seven- 
 teenth century dock yards were established here 
 as well as at Dunkirk and Rochefort. Still later 
 Vauban had plans for further improving Havre 
 and Cherbourg but these were never carried out. 
 
 Our tram deposited us at the Church of Notre 
 Dame near the very fine Museum. We avoided 
 the latter as requiring too much time, but loafed 
 about the streets awhile and photographed the 
 statue of Jacques Augustin Normand of whom 
 we know no more than was told us on the pedes- 
 tal thereof, viz: that he trod this vale of tears 
 from 1837 until 1906. 
 
 Then we visited the dark interior of Notre 
 Dame. It is a sixteenth century building. The 
 windows were new and the stone floor was old. 
 Had these conditions been reversed we would 
 have enjoyed it more. The organ is old and 
 interesting. The candles about the altar were 
 guttered into grotesque shapes. Six or eight 
 old ladies were kneeling in prayer as we tiptoed 
 out past two massive brass-bound shells filled 
 with holy water. A small boy entering, not being 
 sure which shell to use, solved his doubts with 
 the extravagance of youth by helping himself 
 with a liberal dip into each. 
 
 We walked back to Place Gambetta where
 
 22 Three Weeks in France 
 
 two statues show very bad taste by turning their 
 backs on a beautiful river view to face a dismal 
 row of hotels and buildings, including a Grand 
 Theatre which is anything but grand. One of 
 the statues is to the memory of Bernardin de St. 
 Pierre, who was born in Havre in 1737, and 
 died in 18 14, having in the interim opened the 
 tear valves of thousands by writing "Paul and 
 Virginia." The other was a tribute to a drama- 
 tist, Casimir de Lavigne, born at Havre 1793, 
 died 1843, of whose works we in common with 
 most Americans are ignorant. 
 
 At the Hotel Tortoni we sat at a sidewalk 
 table and discussed a good luncheon washed 
 down with Evian water. We had some difficulty 
 in trying to describe a non-sparkling water by 
 sign language. Finally we met on common 
 ground with the phrase "sans gaz" and thereafter 
 those two words became the favorite children 
 in our adopted vocabulary. 
 
 We drove down the rue Victor Hugo and 
 there discovered a really wise practice, that of 
 putting the date of the birth and death of the 
 man after the name of the street thus: rue 
 Victor Hugo (1802- 1885). All blank walls in 
 France are labeled "Defense d'Afficher," which 
 is French for "Post no Bills" and which is, 
 strangely enough, respected throughout France. 
 
 We reached the train four minutes ahead of
 
 Crossing to Havre 23 
 
 time and rode in the only first-class coach we 
 entered on our trip. Our excuse for this ex- 
 travagance was that we would save two hours 
 by taking the 12 43 train to Rouen and that 
 train carried only first-class carriages. The 
 tickets were $1.90 each. Second-class would 
 have been $1.35 each and this forty per cent 
 difference we saved thereafter, with no discom- 
 fort to ourselves except an occasional crowding 
 of our luggage. 
 
 Our compartment was shared by a traveling 
 salesman. We were at a loss to understand his 
 extravagance until he opened up a conversation 
 with us and then later his sample case. Such an 
 array of beautiful watches, necklaces and gold 
 bags! He was carrying fifty thousand dollars 
 worth of jewelry and traveled first-class for 
 safety. Of course, he used a mileage book, 
 thereby effecting a considerable saving. 
 
 The railways in France do not depend on mere 
 signatures to identify the user of a mileage book. 
 Each purchaser must be photographed and his 
 picture is pasted on a card bearing other data 
 and exhibited whenever called for by an official 
 either on the train or at the depot turnstile. 
 
 Our first station was Harflenr — older than 
 Havre — through which we ran without stopping, 
 showing that disrespect for old age so character- 
 istic of the period. Then we pulled out into the
 
 24 Three Weeks in France 
 
 open country of Normandy, past miles of the 
 most carefully cultivated landscape on the globe. 
 We passed scores of wheat fields whose rich gold 
 was flecked with the flaming red of thousands of 
 poppies; past small patches of grain already cut 
 and lying on the ground or standing in tiny 
 shocks, fifty shocks sometimes being the entire 
 crop of a single field; past little churches and 
 clean villages and into the environs of Rouen 
 almost before we knew it.
 
 Rouen 25 
 
 II 
 
 Rouen 
 
 rWWl E whirled into the city, past streets trod- 
 a A J ^ en ^ William the Conqueror as a boy, 
 HA« | streets which saw the degradation of 
 France when Joan of Arc was burned. 
 A transporter bridge was swinging back 
 and forth over the Seine taking on and empty- 
 ing its freight of men and horses like some huge 
 cash-railway. On the right are the gray towers 
 of St. Ouen. We were thirty minutes late of the 
 two hours which we tried to save, but no matter, 
 we were in the land of "no hurry" and were 
 learning if not to go slow, at least not to worry. 
 At the hotel, we found our beds provided with 
 those huge mattress-like, downy, near-coverlets 
 so common in France. Posters announced the 
 opening of a race meet on Sunday, July 7th in 
 charge of the Minister of Agriculture, with 
 purses offered by the government, and once more 
 it was impressed upon us that we were abroad. 
 Fancy Secretary Wilson opening the spring meet
 
 26 Three Weeks in France 
 
 at Sheepshead or part of a congressional appro- 
 priation hung up as prizes for a trotting meet! 
 
 Rouen is a museum of antiquities rather than 
 an ancient city. Its relics in the way of squares 
 and buildings have a modern setting, like Roman 
 coins in a glass show case. 
 
 Its old belfry is its Birmingham mark of inde- 
 pendence. Only in cities where the burghers 
 had power and used it were belfries to be found. 
 No need for a Roland to summon slaves to 
 assemble. 
 
 "The privilege of Romain" was one of the 
 ancient usages of Rouen, dropped since 1790. 
 Its origin is wrapped in the mists of antiquity. 
 Its earliest recorded observance was 12 10 and 
 either it was based on the legend of St. Romain 
 or else the legend was woven around the practice 
 later. At any rate, once upon a time a "gar- 
 gouille" lived in a cave and devoured passing 
 citizens. He was old and ugly, ancestor possibly 
 to the stony gargoyles of Notre Dame in Paris. 
 St. Romain used a prisoner for bait to lure him 
 from his den. The dragon was caught without 
 losing the bait and thereafter on each Ascension 
 Day for almost eight centuries a prisoner was 
 liberated amid scenes of great rejoicing in which 
 a large dragon and a long procession cut much 
 figure. 
 
 Normandy's greatest son, William the Con-
 
 ^ 
 
 Rouen 27 
 
 queror, was born at Rouen in 1028. His father 
 was the sixth duke, Robert, known as the Mag- 
 nificent among the courtiers but more widely 
 named Robert the Devil. The mother was a 
 tanner's daughter and William's first title sug- 
 gested the informality of his birth. Later in 
 his life he insisted on strict rules of marriage 
 in the church among his subjects — but like many 
 travelers, he relaxed in his own behavior when 
 en tour. Else had there never been the family of 
 Peveril of the Peak in England. 
 
 The repartee of William when retorting upon 
 those who gibed at his humble origin was force- 
 ful rather than humorous and would have been 
 remembered by its victims through a longer life 
 than usually was vouchsafed to them. 
 
 When a beseiged city hung tanned skins upon 
 its walls as a delicate reminder of the lowly trade 
 of his maternal grandfather, William's reply was 
 to toss hands, feet and other choice morsels of 
 prisoners over the ramparts. When King Philip 
 at the time of William's illness uttered an un- 
 timely jest regarding the number of candles that 
 should be lighted around his sick bed, William's 
 neat little response was a promise to burn one 
 hundred thousand in Philip's honor as soon as 
 he recovered. He kept his word at Mantes and 
 burned the city at the same time. 
 
 He died at St. Gervais in Rouen in 1087, be-
 
 28 Three Weeks in France 
 
 queathing Normandy to his son Robert "Short 
 Hose" who fell down for lack of supporters, 
 and giving much treasure for the rebuilding of 
 churches in France and England. 
 
 As a sort of codicil he left the throne of Eng- 
 land in the hands of God and William Rufus. 
 He was buried at Caen and in 1793 his tomb was 
 destroyed during the Reign of Terror. 
 
 Richard Coeur de Lion was another Duke of 
 Normandy who reached the front page fre- 
 quently. His lion heart is buried in the cathedral 
 at Rouen, the first place visited by us. 
 
 Its most beautiful tower is the Tour de la 
 Beurre, built with funds contributed by the peo- 
 ple for the privilege of using butter during Lent. 
 Nowadays the butter privilege in France seems 
 to have been surrendered during the entire year? 
 We paused before a memorial tablet to La Salle 
 who died March 19, 1687 "apres avoir decouvert 
 et explore les Bassins de l'Ohio et du Missis- 
 sippi." 
 
 Rollo, the first duke of Normandy is buried 
 here, on the south side of the cathedral. His 
 tomb dates from the thirteenth century. It is 
 a long time to have been dead. 
 
 A mutilated figure of Richard Coeur de Lion 
 was shown to us. He died in 11 99 and the statue 
 was found somewhere about seventy-five years 
 ago and brought to the church.
 
 NTATI'K OF JKAXXN I >'A UC— KOI'KX
 
 Rouen 29 
 
 The most interesting, because the most insin- 
 cere, tribute in the cathedral is the magnificent 
 tomb of Louis de Breze, titular husband of Diana 
 of Poitiers whose fondness for Henry II oc- 
 casioned some remark during the sixteenth cen- 
 tury. The grateful widow is depicted kneeling. 
 I could not read the inscription, but it probably 
 anticipated Charles II's remark to his courtiers 
 about "being an unconscionably long time dy- 
 ing." 
 
 The most imposing tomb in the cathedral (be- 
 cause Breze's tomb really imposes upon no one) 
 is the monument to the great Cardinal George 
 d'Amboise and his nephew. High above them 
 near the ceiling are suspended (as is the uni- 
 versal custom) the red hats of their office. 
 
 Cardinal d'Amboise was the energetic minister 
 of lazy Louis XII whose motto was "Laissez 
 Georges le faire," which put into plain English 
 means "Let George do it." 
 
 The misericorde seats in the choir, eighty-eight 
 in number, are beautifully carved and represent 
 the various trades. No two are alike. 
 
 The crowning glory of the cathedral is its 
 stained glass. Story after story the windows 
 rise in five divisions, making the most magnifi- 
 cent large display of the kind in France. Of 
 course nothing equals the gem-like beauty of
 
 30 Three Weeks in France 
 
 La Sainte Chapelle in Paris, but the latter is tiny 
 beside the cathedral at Rouen. 
 
 The Duke of Bedford is buried near the high 
 altar. During his administration he did a great 
 deal for Rouen but at the same time his council- 
 ors by his consent were pursuing Jeanne d'Arc 
 with every legal and religious technicality. No 
 one invoked the Privilege of Romain for her. 
 
 We drove past an old flower market redolent 
 with bloom and noted a queer sign for a dry 
 goods store : "Au bon Diable." Our destination 
 was St. Maclou, whose doors are black with 
 age and grotesquely carved. The first Maclou 
 was a Scotchman, Bishop of Aleth. He died in 
 561. W r ithin, a Gothic staircase leads to the organ 
 loft. The stairs to the organ in Ely cathedral 
 are copied from these. At the doorway an old 
 woman sat rattling a tin cup and begging. This 
 dolorous and regularly repeated noise finally 
 drove us into the street. Beggars follow you 
 everywhere in Rouen, even, or especially, into 
 the churches. 
 
 To escape them we felt like reviving the 
 "clameur de haro" (ha Rou) or call of "Haro," 
 the ancient "Hey Rube" of the Rouenese, which 
 still survives in the Channel Islands. It is quoted 
 in Sir Gilbert Parker's "Battle of the Strong" 
 in speaking of Jersey:
 
 Rouen 3 1 
 
 "A Norman dead a thousand years cries Haro ! 
 Haro! if you tread upon his grave." 
 
 Rolf, or Rou, made Rouen his headquarters 
 in 876. It had disappeared as a city after 
 Charlemagne's death. 
 
 Rouen's situation made her a favorite place 
 of assault for ages. Thus to-day she is not so 
 much a relic of Rome as of the Gothic captains 
 who overthrew Rome. There is little extant 
 of Merovingian Rouen except in the cases of 
 the Museum of Antiquities. Bronze axe heads 
 and women's gear survive. Finger rings are 
 more numerous than weapons. Vanity preserves 
 her own more tenaciously than does ambition. 
 
 Fredegond made Rouen howl in the sixth cen- 
 tury. She was decidedly deadlier than the male 
 of her species. She spared neither relative nor 
 prelate. She ran amuck through the pages of 
 history with poison and dagger. She murdered 
 a bishop and was never punished. We ascer- 
 tained that she was safely dead or we would have 
 crossed Rouen from our itinerary. 
 
 The Palais de Justice next claimed our atten- 
 tion. It is a greater monument to Georges d'Am- 
 boise than the one in the cathedral. The driver, 
 as usual, was eloquent regarding the charms of 
 its interior. A cabby dearly loves to make a 
 ten-minute drive to a building, and then wait 
 fifty minutes outside while you inspect the in-
 
 2,2 Three Weeks in France 
 
 terior. Nevertheless the rascals charge sight- 
 seers more per hour than they do natives who 
 keep them on the move every minute. 
 
 The Palais de Justice is the most beautiful 
 courthouse in the world. The ceilings of the 
 Hall of Pas-perdus should be studied. 
 
 The Hotel du Bourgtheroulde is partly used 
 as a bank, partly as a residence. It has on its 
 exterior a bas relief representing scenes at the 
 meeting of Francis I and Henry VIII in 1520 
 on the Field of the Cloth of Gold where Francis 
 tried to impress Henry by the magnificent dis- 
 play of wealth but only aroused his desire to 
 possess it. The bas reliefs are almost worn away 
 but the principal figures are pointed out. 
 Henry IV slept here, but with fine sarcasm they 
 have put up a plate on the wall stating that 
 Jeanne d'Arc never sojourned there. 
 
 Near the Hotel du Bourgtheroulde is the Old 
 Market. Meat and fish are still being sold there 
 as they were in 143 1 when at its northwest cor- 
 ner occurred the most diabolical act since the 
 Crucifixion: the burning of Joan of Arc. The 
 disgrace is divided between the church and the 
 governments of France and England, and there 
 is enough to go around. France, by adding in- 
 gratitude to bigotry and cowardice, is entitled 
 to the larger share.
 
 Rouen 33 
 
 A tablet marks the spot and it is perpetually 
 covered with mourning wreaths. 
 
 Henry V's army was at Rouen when the Eng- 
 lish bought Joan of the Duke of Burgundy, who 
 bought her of John of Luxembourg who bought 
 her of the Bastard of Vendome who captured 
 her at Compiegne abandoned in the midst of the 
 enemy. The price was ten thousand pieces of 
 gold to the church, the price of an army. 
 
 The charges against her were (1) employing 
 magic, (2) disobeying parents in taking up arms, 
 (3) wearing male apparel and (4) asserting 
 revelations without ecclesiastical authority. She 
 was tried by the English to whom she had been 
 sold. Under threats she recanted and was given 
 a life sentence. This did not satisfy her purchas- 
 ers. They left nothing but men's clothes in her 
 cell. Forced to don these or appear unclothed 
 before her brutal jailers she was re-sentenced, 
 this time to be burned. 
 
 Three scaffolds were erected at the Old or Fish 
 Market. On one was Beaufort representing the 
 King of England and the prelates representing the 
 church of God; on the other the preachers, 
 judges and bailli ; on the third was Joan. They 
 burned the wrong scaffold! 
 
 A great platform was raised beside Joan's 
 scaffold. It was made of plaster and heaped high 
 with wood. The idea was to make her visible
 
 34 Three Weeks in France 
 
 above the lances to the remote parts of the square 
 — so that the smallest lion should not be deprived 
 of his share of Daniel. 
 
 She was bound to the stake and crowned with 
 a mitre bearing the inscription "Heretic, re- 
 lapsed, apostate, idolater." Her murderers for- 
 got that God had learned to distrust human signs 
 since that other day of Calvary. 
 
 Some of her replies showed great wisdom. 
 When asked the catch question whether she was 
 sure of the favor of God, she evaded the trap 
 by replying: "If I am not, may God help me to 
 it; if I am, may God preserve me in it." 
 
 Soon after her execution Pierre Cauchon, 
 Bishop of Beauvais, who pronounced her sen- 
 tence, died of apoplexy. Nicole Midi, who de- 
 livered the sermon at the execution, was struck 
 with leprosy. 
 
 No attempt was made by the French to rescue 
 her. The religious crime involved in the burn- 
 ing of Joan of Arc does not worry me. It would 
 take an excellent mathematician to strike a bal- 
 ance between Catholic and Protestant in the mat- 
 ter of crimes. But the disgrace to France in 
 allowing the English to kill this nineteen-year- 
 old girl is ineffaceable. She was the first patriot 
 France ever had and France sold her for gold. 
 
 One of the bright rays in the dark dungeon of 
 the Tour Jeanne d'Arc was in February, 1432,
 
 SCENE <>K JEANNE'S MARTYRDOM ROKKN
 
 Rouen 35 
 
 when Ricarville with fewer than one hundred 
 men was let in by Pierre Audeboeuf and killed 
 the entire English garrison except the Earl of 
 Arundel — who has since died. Gallant Ricar- 
 ville! We searched in vain for your tomb, but 
 we dropped a tear in the neighborhood in honor 
 of the man who did something to the murderers 
 of Joan. For fifty days this handful of men held 
 the entire English garrison at bay and yet nine 
 months before none of them lifted a hand to save 
 her. It was not until 1449 that Charles VII 
 again rode into Rouen. 
 
 We dismissed our cabby and spent the rest of 
 the afternoon dodging cabs. The sidewalks vary 
 in width from nothing to two feet. The streets 
 are narrow and crooked and used by pedestrians 
 more than the sidewalks. 
 
 The women of Rouen have rosy cheeks, and 
 like most French women are in active charge of 
 business. We soon became accustomed to women 
 at the desks of the hotels and men making the 
 beds. 
 
 St. Ouen was named for the saint who was 
 buried in the second church erected on this site 
 in 689. It required one hundred and fifty years 
 and fifty architects to build the present structure. 
 It was started in 1321. The first twenty-one years 
 finished choir and chapels, the huge pillars be-
 
 36 Three Weeks in France 
 
 neath the central tower and part of the transept, 
 and cost five million francs. The church has 
 within it many tombs of architects, of whom the 
 names of all are known except the first and 
 greatest. It was sacked by the Protestants in 
 1562, was made a museum by the Revolutionists 
 and in 1793 used as a blacksmith shop and arm- 
 ory. It has survived a dozen "restorations" and 
 is still beautiful. In its cemetery Joan both "ab- 
 jured" and was "rehabilitated." 
 
 They showed us where some of the white paint 
 had been removed, showing the ancient paintings 
 beneath. Blue was the most expensive color used. 
 It was made from lapis lazuli and worth its weight 
 in gold. Cobalt blue was discovered in the six- 
 teenth century by a German glass maker. Green 
 was a mixture of blue with yellow ochre. The 
 white was powdered &gg shells. The black was 
 lamp black. 
 
 The sides of St. Ouen are nearly all glass. It 
 is a long climb to the top of the tower but well 
 worth the effort. The view from clerestory and 
 tower is magnificent. 
 
 I sat myself down on a rocky step two hundred 
 feet above the busy streets to jot down my im- 
 pressions. To the southeast lies a velvet hill with 
 a cemetery at an angle of forty-five degrees, down 
 which long-dormant feet will slip when Gabriel 
 blows his horn. At the foot of the hills winds
 
 Rouen t>7 
 
 the tortuous Seine, as crooked as a hotel bill. 
 Directly south is St. Maclou. West of that 
 rises the spire — with lantern — and two towers 
 of Notre Dame. The north tower is in splints 
 undergoing repairs, but the "butter" tower is in 
 good shape and free from scaffolding. The aerial 
 or "transporter" bridge farther west (a similar 
 one is at Duluth) is conveying passengers across 
 the river. The gray slate roofs with individual 
 chimneys projecting like lemonade straws are 
 bunched in irregular groups by the crooked 
 streets. At our feet is a beautiful park. If you 
 care for them, you are on a hand-shaking level 
 with as homely a lot of gargoyles as ever spat 
 rain water from a church roof. 
 
 We moved our camera so as not to disturb 
 the skeleton of a baby bird which must have 
 dropped from some greater height to its death 
 away up among the stones of St. Ouen. 
 
 Then we commenced to admire and wonder at 
 the skill and courage which piled this sculptured 
 mountain high in the air centuries before steel, 
 steam and electricity made sky-scraping easy. 
 
 To the north lie tree-clad and villa-dotted hills, 
 while below us is the wide pavement of the Hotel 
 de Ville, faced by an equestrian statue of Napo- 
 leon I. Here and there on the roof of St. Ouen 
 is an empty pedestal and one wonders when its 
 statue fell and whether any chance passer-by was
 
 38 Three Weeks in France 
 
 hurt thereby. Many of these roof stones are 
 leaded together instead of being held by the early 
 Christian mortars. 
 
 Our hotel room boasted two — count 'em, two 
 — incandescent lights and we marveled at the 
 liberality of the management. We attempted to 
 turn both on and discovered that French thrift 
 had anticipated our extravagance and contrived 
 a switch which turned off one light as it turned 
 on the other. This device we found in most of 
 the electric-lighted hotels in France. We had a 
 lot of fun trying to light them both at once but 
 finally owned ourselves defeated. 
 
 Our dinner bill was "augmented'' ten cents for 
 the privilege of eating at a small table. In spite 
 of the fact that it marked us for extravagant 
 Americans, the segregation was worth the price. 
 
 A loaf of bread two feet long and uncut was 
 placed in front of us. The proper practice is to 
 hug the loaf to your bosom, and draw the knife 
 toward you in severing a portion. Butter was 
 brought when demanded and was unsalted, of 
 course. Wine was included in the price of the 
 meal and was in a decanter on the table. Water 
 was more difficult but was secured. Dinner was 
 served in courses with everything changed for 
 each course but napkins and table cloth. The 
 food was well seasoned and properly cooked. 
 That remark will apply to every meal we ate in
 
 Rouen 39 
 
 France. Coffee is the only unpalatable thing they 
 put on the table. After one or two attempts we 
 surrendered and for breakfast drank chocolate, 
 which was as uniformly excellent as the coffee 
 was poor. The meal ended with strawberries, fat 
 and florid to the eye, but apples of Sodom to the 
 palate. 
 
 The large table was filled with men, principally 
 traveling salesmen we judged, and displaying 
 many varieties of French whiskers. Our jewelry 
 friend of the train renewed his acquaintance with 
 us temporarily, but dropped us to start a violent 
 flirtation with a seventeen year old girl at another 
 table. This gave us an opportunity to study the 
 unique ceiling decorations of the dining room, 
 formed by fitting plates and platters of all sizes 
 into the design. 
 
 The jewelry salesman who had visited Rouen 
 a hundred times admitted that he had never been 
 inside the Cathedral nor seen the spot where 
 Joan was burned. 
 
 A be fore-break fast walk revealed the fact that 
 a suit of clothes would be made to measure for 
 eleven to twenty-two dollars and good looking 
 straw hats were fifty-five cents each. Not many 
 straw hats were worn in this part of France. 
 The loudest patterns in clothing were marked 
 "Sport," a word which they have taken over from
 
 40 Three Weeks in France 
 
 the English with a pretty definite idea of its 
 meaning. 
 
 Women in mourning abound all through 
 France and especially in Normandy and Brittany. 
 "When they mo'n, they mo'n" in a manner to 
 excite the envy of Ruth McEnery Stuart's Mor- 
 iah. We were puzzled at first by the number of 
 seeming widows. France had not had any recent 
 wars nor had she been visited by an epidemic. 
 What then, was the reason for all these trappings 
 of woe? Inquiry developed the information 
 that it is the custom to wear mourning for periods 
 varying from three months to a year for husband, 
 wife, parents, brothers or sisters, and in a coun- 
 try of large families this means almost perpetual 
 black. 
 
 At breakfast the waiter asked us something 
 about Kelly, and B. said "Cease." I said, "Don't 
 be so brusque with the young man. Answer his 
 question." She said, "I did. He asked me the 
 number of our room — 'Quelle est la numero de 
 votre chambre?' — and I told him six." But the 
 way he melted all that Quelly stuff into three 
 syllables was marvelous. 
 
 An Englishman at breakfast inquired if there 
 was a Thos. Cook & Sons' office in Rouen. He 
 wanted to go to Cannes and there are several 
 depots in town. Apparently he would walk 
 blocks to a Cook's office rather than ask the lady
 
 Rouen 41 
 
 at the desk. Such is the value of good-will and 
 the force of habit. If there was no Cook's office 
 in Rouen he probably went to the nearest town 
 that has one and from thence to Cannes. Verily, 
 you cannot have too many Cooks. 
 
 Our first purchase was a copy of "L'Indicateur 
 Chaix." There are several French time-tables 
 but the Chaix one is the most complete. It is 
 much simpler even to an Englishman than Brad- 
 shaw's. It is issued weekly and it is better to 
 have a late copy as French railroads manifest 
 the national trait of volatility and fickleness. 
 When the train guard and the station master can 
 not agree as to the proper time for starting a 
 train they refer the matter to L'Indicateur and 
 abide by its decision. 
 
 You are apt to catch cold warming yourself in 
 sections under the feather mattress which forms 
 the bulk of your bed covering. You are warmed 
 very much as French farms are cultivated — in 
 strips. You pull the mattress up to your chin and 
 go to sleep. Presently the perspiration from the 
 upper half of your body trickles down to your 
 toes where it forms icicles. Then you push the 
 cover down to your feet, thaw out the icicles and 
 dream that you are caught by the shoulders under 
 a slowly descending avalanche. 
 
 After breakfast we went to the Tower of Joan 
 of Arc and into her cell, not her worst one — that
 
 42 Three Weeks in France 
 
 has been destroyed — but into the better one to 
 which she was removed before her execution. It 
 is about the size of a lower berth. We peered 
 through a narrow slit in the wall, hardly visible 
 from the outside. There are exhibited in the 
 tower many reduced copies of statues erected in 
 Joan's honor all over the world, including the 
 beautiful one at Domremy, her birthplace. We 
 studied the plans of the old prison, bought post 
 cards, petted the cat, tipped the concierge and 
 drove to the Boulevard Jeanne d'Arc for a snap- 
 shot of the tower. Thence we went down her 
 boulevard past countless souvenir stores and post 
 card shops, for Joan has been capitalized as well 
 as canonized. Then our driver showed us a 
 statue of Joan which he said was put up in the 
 thirteenth century to mark the spot where she was 
 burned but it is on the wrong spot. No wonder 
 they made a mistake two centuries before the 
 event. They should have waited. We tried to 
 move the driver up to the sixteenth century but 
 he would come no farther than the fourteenth and 
 in his own mind was still loyal to the earlier date. 
 Baedeker puts the date as 1755, and makes no 
 mention of the error. It says on the statue, 1456. 
 B. reported that date but my curiosity being by 
 this time thoroughly aroused, I got out and in- 
 vestigated. The date 1456 is given as the date 
 of her vindication — a theological unscrambling
 
 Rouen 43 
 
 of eggs that may have rescued Joan's soul from 
 the flames, but did not save her poor tortured 
 body. 
 
 Next we went down the rue Grosse Horloge 
 just as the big clock struck ten. It has been 
 keeping fairly accurate time since 1529. 
 
 R. L. S. tells us that part of the nineteen months 
 spent by John Knox in the galleys was on the 
 river Seine "where he held stealthy intercourse 
 with other Scottish prisoners in the Castle of 
 Rouen." 
 
 Corneille was born in a house in what is now 
 rue Pierre Corneille, June 6, 1606. B. armed 
 with a smile and a single franc stormed the ad- 
 jacent dwelling and secured a base for her camera 
 in the second story thereof. You can do as much 
 by tipping the hat as by tipping the concierge in 
 France. Always lift it the limit. A mere touch 
 of the brim is a deadlier affront than a nod. 
 
 Corneille's best known play "Le Cid" is played 
 in France to-day. He was a great dramatist who 
 fully appreciated himself, being typically French 
 in that respect. When reproached for not cul- 
 tivating the graces of society, his defense was 
 "I am always Pierre Corneille." 
 
 Moliere, sixteen years his junior, played in 
 Rouen in 1643 an( ^ Pascal lived here and knew 
 and influenced Corneille. From Rouen, Rene 
 Cavalier de la Salle set out to explore the Missis-
 
 44 Three Weeks in France 
 
 sippi and the Gulf of Mexico. Lord Clarendon 
 died in 1674 at Rouen, an exile from England. 
 
 Rouen was only lightly touched by the Reign 
 of Terror. But three hundred and twenty-two 
 persons were guillotined in all of Normandy. 
 
 Every tiny house had a tiny bird cage in front 
 of it with a canary in it trying to sing its little 
 head off. A French poodle, barbered a la Sir 
 Isaac, sniffed at a door and whined but was too 
 well bred to scratch and wandered away. He 
 was not so formal with himself as he was with 
 the door. 
 
 We went next to St. Gervais where William 
 the Conqueror laid all his trophies at the feet of 
 the universal conqueror, death. Underneath this 
 old church is a really wonderful crypt. Here is 
 buried St. Mellen, first bishop of Rouen. This 
 is the oldest crypt in France, a subterranean 
 cavern that has no parallel except the catacombs 
 of Rome. It is thirty-seven yards long and sev- 
 enteen yards wide. Low stone seats run around 
 all of the walls except at the altar. 
 
 The beautiful windows of St. Vincent are well 
 worth a visit. Those in the south of the church 
 depict scenes in the life of Joan of Arc, and are 
 not badly marred by restoration. 
 
 When we returned to the carriage we found the 
 driver engaged in conversation with a shabby 
 servant girl from a sailors' boarding house near
 
 Rouen 45 
 
 by. She had run out on the chance of hearing 
 some English and being a Londoner, was hungry, 
 poor soul, for a word from home. 
 
 Yes, she goes 'ome h'often but 'aving no par- 
 ents, it mikes little difference ware she is. She 
 'as dawnced a bit on the styge in Paris but that's 
 no life for a gyurl. She likes Rouen. There's 
 more movement 'ere than in 'Avre. 
 
 We bade her good-bye and there was a tear 
 in her eye, which organ is, we suspect, always 
 more or less watery. 
 
 Finishing our ride, we handed our pourboire 
 to the driver who thanked us and said it was 
 "pour manger" and not drink money. 
 
 At lunch I almost ate a snail. Later I actually 
 accomplished it. But at Rouen the only novelty 
 that we really ate was stewed sheep's feet, not 
 unlike pig's feet. This is a country where noth- 
 ing is thrown away. Even the feet of the chicken 
 are not entirely removed before cooking. They 
 are simply pedicured. 
 
 The hotel office is usually six by eight and 
 devoted exclusively to the register, ledger and 
 other business records. The loafing must be clone 
 either in the cafe or dining room, or else in the 
 gloomy recesses of the parlor. 
 
 Another illustration of the odd names for 
 stores: we bought pottery at Aux Dames de la 
 Maternite.
 
 46 Three Weeks in France 
 
 From the morning paper we learned of riots 
 at Havre, in which a commissaire de police re- 
 ceived two stones, one on the head and one on 
 the cheek. As usual "differentes autres person- 
 nes," which is French for Innocent Bystanders, 
 were hurt. 
 
 We also read in the American news that "la 
 victoire of M. Wilson in novembre" is consid- 
 ered "comme possible" and that the success of 
 the third party is seriously compromised. From 
 which we feared that the French readers would 
 infer the eternal triangle and confuse American 
 politics and French domestic affairs intermin- 
 ably. 
 
 The entire menage, including several total 
 strangers, assembled to bleed the parting guests. 
 There was some thinly-veiled disappointment, as 
 our slogan abroad is "no taxation without repre- 
 sentation," no tips without service rendered. 
 
 We were not so indiscriminate as an American 
 friend whom we ran across at Marseilles. Hap- 
 pening to see him and his wife in their carriage 
 ready to depart and distributing largesse I rushed 
 forward with outstretched hand to say farewell, 
 and was given fifty centimes.
 
 Chartres 47 
 
 III 
 
 Chartres 
 
 BUR train to Chartres took us past miles of 
 quarries where the great hills have been 
 pared away like cheeses, past market 
 
 gardens with only an occasional fence, 
 through Petit-Couronne where Corneille lived. 
 His residence is now a museum. On every side 
 stretched the perfect roads and symmetrical trees 
 of France; and always the winding Seine. An 
 anecdote is current illustrating the crookedness of 
 this river and the ignorance of some French of- 
 ficers, topographically, during the Franco-Prus- 
 sian war. 
 
 General Ducros was making a sortie from 
 Paris. He crossed the Seine and after a few 
 hours' march came upon the river again. He 
 called an aide to his side. "What river is this?" 
 he asked. "The Seine, General," was the reply. 
 "Great heavens ! Then we are retreating." 
 
 Our train ran through a tunnel. Shortly after- 
 ward we heard the patter or rumble of feet on
 
 48 Three Weeks in France 
 
 the roof of our car and out went our light. More 
 French thrift. 
 
 Another instance. The freight cars intended 
 for the rear end of the train have a coupling at 
 one end only and the car is labeled "For the rear 
 end of train." 
 
 Thence in and out of Elbeuf with women 
 tending railroad gates and soldiers loafing about 
 the station. The town and river are below the 
 tracks on the left and the hills tower high above 
 on the right. 
 
 We crossed the Eure. A river in France might 
 be described as a stream of water running be- 
 tween two banks with a woman washing clothes 
 in it. The river laundry is ever present. 
 
 At Louviers many third-class travelers came 
 aboard, including a shovel-hatted priest. We 
 passed through the great Forest of Louviers with 
 the cut wood carefuly stacked and the faggots in 
 bundles, ready for kindling or brooms. A new 
 tree is growing for every one cut down. Con- 
 servation and conversation are the two leading 
 traits of the French nation. The Republic was 
 born in disorder and confusion, but has out- 
 grown it nobly. Even the stone quarries are 
 orderly and the viaducts under which we passed 
 are capped at top as neatly as a castle wall. 
 
 Many freight cars are labeled "32-40 men, 8 
 horses," indicating that the conveyance of men
 
 Chartres 49 
 
 and troops is always the ultimate end of these 
 government railways. 
 
 Many men and women were cutting grass and 
 wheat with scythes. One sees so few modern 
 mowing machines in riding through France on 
 the railroad that a wrong impression is given. 
 We were told by a representative of the largest 
 American agricultural machinery house that his 
 corporation sold about thirty thousand mowers a 
 year in France but that the larger farms were 
 not close to the railroads. Add to this the fact 
 that the French farmer houses his machinery 
 when not in use instead of leaving it in his fields 
 a l'American, and you can further account for 
 the apparent dearth of modern implements. 
 
 At Bueil a company of soldiers clambered 
 aboard bound for Bordeaux, another strike cen- 
 ter. The train alongside for Cherbourg was also 
 filled with red epaulets peeping from the car win- 
 dows like soiled poppies. As long as the strike 
 continued the French army had ample employ- 
 ment. 
 
 It was raining when we passed through Ivry- 
 la-Bataille, famous for the White Plume of 
 Navarre and the great victory of Henry IV over 
 the powers of darkness or the army of the Lord, 
 depending on your point of view. Henry's view 
 point shifted, you remember. 
 
 The people along the tracks cheered the sol-
 
 50 Three Weeks in France 
 
 diers on the train and the boys responded with 
 bugle calls. The private soldier is much nearer 
 the hearts of the people in France in time of peace 
 than is "the regular army man" at home. 
 
 It was still raining as we pulled into Dreux 
 where the Due de Guise whipped the Protestants 
 and captured Conde in 1562. Henry IV be- 
 sieged it in 1590 and again in 1593 and destroyed 
 its castle. The Germans took it in 1870 but 
 then the Germans took almost everything in 
 this part of the country. 
 
 Speaking of names, the Allez Brothers of Paris 
 furnish the benches at the rural stations. The 
 name "Allez" does not suggest repose. The 
 peasants hereabouts are burned black and are 
 like in complexion but in nothing else the peasant 
 of pre-Revolutionary times. 
 
 At Chartres at last, once the granary of Paris. 
 We scorned the advances of the porter of the 
 Grand Hotel de France and insisted upon being 
 driven to the Hotel de Due de Chartres — nothing 
 less. Our omnibus climbed a short, steep hill and 
 deposited us at the Duke's hostelry. We in- 
 quired for dinner and found we must eat at the 
 de France half a block away as our hotel was an 
 annex thereof and under the same management. 
 Our room was on the first floor facing the Place 
 des Epar and looking at a bronze statue of Gen- 
 eral Marceau, born at Chartres in 1769. He
 
 Chartres 51 
 
 was and is Chartres' favorite son. He was the 
 revolutionary officer who whipped the Vendean 
 army at Le Mans, a soldier at sixteen, a gen- 
 eral at twenty-three, a corpse at twenty-seven, 
 on the borders of the Rhine. The path of glory 
 led to the grave by a short cut in his case. 
 
 Chartres is not so proud of Petion who was also 
 born here in 1753. He was a fierce Jacobin and 
 supporter of Robespierre. It was Petion who 
 personally conducted the return trip of Louis XVI 
 and party from Varennes and was unnecessarily 
 rough about it considering the amiable character 
 of his chief prisoner. He was mayor of Paris in 
 1791 and voted for the execution of the king. 
 Nevertheless Robespierre, the "sea green," ar- 
 rested him with the Girondists in 1793. He es- 
 caped and perished in a field either by suicide or 
 starvation. 
 
 Henry IV was crowned at Chartres. Henry 
 had a way of scattering his activities like a true 
 politician. Every city in France is a witness of 
 something he did in it or to it. 
 
 After dinner we retired to Room 4, with one 
 candle each. We found that there were no bath- 
 rooms in the hotel and that the public baths in 
 this town of twenty-three thousand people close at 
 six P. M. even on Saturday nights ! Which con- 
 firmed my theory as to the relative popularity of
 
 52 Three Weeks in France 
 
 bathing and drinking in France, for the Buvettes 
 never close. 
 
 After trying to write by the shade of a candle 
 I turned both illuminants over to B. and re- 
 treated to the parlor where the gas was burning 
 brightly. 
 
 We sighted the cathedral miles before our train 
 reached Chartres. Therein in 1594, Henry IV, 
 finding that it was a case of "No cross, no 
 crown," accepted both. 
 
 Within the Cathedral is an effigy of Berengaria 
 who in private life was Mrs. Richard Couer de 
 Lion. The effigy forms a stiff contrast to her 
 glowing picture in Scott's "Tales of the Cru- 
 saders." 
 
 We arose early on Sunday morning but found 
 many were up ahead of us and crossing the Place 
 in droves on their way to mass at the Cathedral. 
 
 A yard or so of bread was delivered at the 
 hotel door which we recognized later at the break- 
 fast table by the Bertillon system. The break- 
 fast table was spread in our room as is the cus- 
 tom in most dining-roomless hotels. As we ate 
 we noticed dozens of nurses in lace caps and here 
 and there a vegetable cart drawn by a burro. As 
 a beast of burden the burro is hard to beat. At 
 least he is hard to beat with any result. There 
 were many cyclists. A little girl all in white at- 
 tended by her mother drove past from the city
 
 Chartres 53 
 
 hall to the Cathedral. We suspected that she 
 was going to confirmation. Later we walked 
 over to the church and had our suspicions con- 
 firmed. 
 
 A great many automobiles honked by. A rail- 
 road runs down the west side of the square and 
 a funny little mixed train toddled along ringing 
 what sounded like a subdued dinner bell. It 
 pulled tiny band boxes filled with freight and 
 small bird cages full of people. 
 
 Our room viewed from the outside has two 
 shuttered windows. They do not come through. 
 A cavalryman in blue harem skirts walked by 
 leading a fine looking horse. The man looked 
 like a Cossack, so dark was his skin and so red 
 his fez. 
 
 In the Cathedral several services were being 
 conducted in the various chapels, so we left our 
 cards for Berengaria and softly walked out. 
 The windows must be magnificent on a brighter 
 day. 
 
 As we were leaving, two priests entered. One 
 of them moistened his finger in the font and 
 passed his dampened digits to the other who 
 seemed to obtain from them sufficient unction 
 to satisfy his cravings. 
 
 Our driver showed the usual predilection for 
 rural scenes and drove us as far from the hotel 
 as possible. All the time a light rain was falling
 
 54 Three Weeks in France 
 
 and we were insufficiently protected by a rubber 
 hood which permitted us to be gently soaked from 
 the waist up. 
 
 We stopped for a minute on a bridge across the 
 Eure and the sun removed five of his seven veils, 
 permitting a picture of some reflections more 
 beautiful than our own. Several fishermen with 
 the tireless patience of their craft were standing 
 on the banks. If it be a sin to catch fish on Sun- 
 day we believe the Eure a most sinless stream. 
 
 A five-passenger donkey cart passed us, cutting 
 out the muffler as it went, and emitting from 
 the propeller a beautiful nasal bray quite Parisian 
 in its perfection. We caught splendid views of 
 the spires of Notre Dame from several points 
 along the river. 
 
 Once when B. was skirmishing for a snapshot 
 our driver calmly halted on the railroad track. I 
 dismounted and made notes from a neighboring 
 bench. I was not afraid of the cars but I did not 
 want to be a party to the wrecking of one of their 
 toy trains. 
 
 We stopped at old St. Andre, seven hundred 
 years of age and now a warehouse, a not un- 
 familiar sacrilege with less venerable church 
 buildings at home. We climbed several steps to 
 reach the front. Its roof was thickly grown with 
 grass. How much kinder nature is to buildings 
 than to men. Us she strips of even our normal
 
 Chartres 55 
 
 head covering as the years pass by. The stone 
 balustrade of the stairway was even more worn 
 than the steps and as we paused the reason be- 
 came obvious. Eighty per cent of the passers-by 
 were children and ninety per cent of the kiddies 
 slid down the banisters. 
 
 We killed time on the ominous sounding rue 
 du Massacre for awhile and photographed some 
 picturesque back doors. Many women were 
 keeping the Sabbath by beating the dirt out of 
 some laundry on the rocks. 
 
 The sun came out as we drove through Porte 
 Guillaume, a part of the old city walls. 
 
 We loafed around, catching here and there 
 glimpses of old timbered houses, notably on the 
 Place de la Poissonerie. We passed the same 
 dark-skinned vender of pottery half a dozen times 
 with what looked like a ton of crated earthen- 
 ware packed on the back of a diminutive donkey 
 which could almost have crawled into the largest 
 of the vessels he was carrying. 
 
 On the rue Noel Ballay is an interesting nar- 
 row old house, the Maison du Docteur. Its his- 
 tory we did not learn, but it needs no legend to 
 make it picturesque. 
 
 On the corner of a building at the end of the 
 street a large barometer had its arrow pointing 
 to "Variable." That is always a safe bet. The 
 arrow micrht well be nailed there.
 
 56 Three Weeks in France 
 
 We returned to the hotel and after eating, sat 
 in the hotel parlor. There were many engravings 
 and paintings on the wall. All bad. The table 
 was covered with a mass of literary miscellany 
 which for dullness and antiquity has only one 
 equal in the United States and that is in the wait- 
 ing room of the average dentist. 
 
 Another walk emphasized the weakness of the 
 surface sewer system. We learned quickly to 
 sidestep the yawning spout when it is spouting 
 from the side of a residence, like an inverted 
 gargoyle which has taken to drink and is filled 
 with vain regrets and emptied of all else. We 
 left the sidewalks to the sleeping dogs and walked 
 in the streets. 
 
 There are interesting crypts under the Cathe- 
 dral but we did not visit them. Service was still 
 going on upon the occasion of our second call 
 and we dropped a coin into the box "for heating 
 the church" and came away. One chapel in the 
 Cathedral at Rouen had a box for demands as 
 well as one for offerings, an excellent idea.
 
 Mont St. Michel 57 
 
 IV 
 
 Mont St. Michel 
 
 M 
 
 E left for Vitre, passing through more 
 miles of fenceless France. For the first 
 time we noted snow sheds to the right of 
 the track. It was hot in the afternoon 
 whereas it had been damp and cold in the morning. 
 We stopped at La Loupe until the triple signal 
 was given for starting. First the station master 
 indicated his desire to be rid of us by blowing a 
 tin whistle. The conductor acquiesced by a blast 
 on a small horn. Lastly the engineer tooted his 
 steam whistle either before or just as the train 
 started. This is the usual modus operandi except 
 at very small stations, when either the tin whistle 
 or horn frequently is absent. 
 
 The beautiful pastures of La Perche through 
 which we passed just out of Chartres are the 
 home of the Percheron draft horse and a magni- 
 ficent specimen stood proudly near the depot at 
 Conde-sur-Huisne with an equally proud groom 
 astride his back. 
 
 We were in Sully's country. This faithful
 
 58 Three Weeks in France 
 
 minister of Henry IV died at the Chateau de 
 Villebon in 1641, having served his king and 
 country without surrendering his beliefs. At 
 our next stop, Nogent-le-Rotron, he is buried in 
 the Hotel Dieu. His family name is perpetuated 
 in Bethune street in New York. 
 
 We passed two soldiers at rest and two women 
 making hay. Thus does France preserve her 
 economic equilibrium. It does not require pro- 
 phetic vision to foresee the time when women will 
 govern France politically even as she controls 
 her commercially to-day. 
 
 Le Mans, our next stop, is fated to appear in 
 these annals several times. It is at a junction of 
 railroads and you change cars for almost every- 
 where at Le Mans. This fact, however, we 
 learned later. 
 
 It was the scene of some pretty hard fighting 
 between the Republicans and the Vendeans. It 
 was here that General Marceau of Chartres won 
 his spurs. The Vendeans were "agin the Revo- 
 lution." Like Rhode Island in i860, they were 
 afraid that the rest of the country would secede 
 and leave them to pay the national debt. They 
 increased the complications of an already badly 
 tangled Convention, but were finally subdued. 
 This town was besieged twenty times. Here the 
 Germans defeated the second army of the Loire 
 in 1 87 1, preventing the attempt to relieve Paris.
 
 Mont St. Michel 59 
 
 Here was born Henry II, the first of the Plan- 
 tagenets. Of course it has a cathedral. 
 
 Much of this part of Brittany is pasture land 
 and not so tonsorially cultivated as Normandy, 
 whose landscape is trimmed, singed and pomaded. 
 Nevertheless, there is no waste ground in Brit- 
 tany. The hedges are not planed off at the top and 
 some of the blades of grass are longer than the 
 others, conditions which would receive imme- 
 diate attention in the neighborhood of Rouen. 
 
 Sable, our next stop, has a chateau and cas- 
 tle. There are quarries of black marble which 
 may have given the town its name. 
 
 The name did not look right to us. We hauled 
 out our time table. Heavens ! Sable was not on 
 the run from Chartres to Vitre! Fortunately 
 the front compartment of our car was occupied 
 by the postal service, a not infrequent device. We 
 appealed to the mail messenger. He was inter- 
 ested and sympathetic. He told us just what to 
 do and when to do it, and we found we would 
 be none the worse for our carelessness except 
 for the loss of two hours' sleep. 
 
 This is what we had done. We had taken the 
 Vitre train but not the Vitre coach. In our zeal 
 to find an unoccupied compartment we had piled 
 into the wrong car. Thereafter we not only 
 studied the signs at the depots, but the cards on 
 the sides of the cars.
 
 60 Three Weeks in France 
 
 We disembarked at Etriche-Chateauneuf for 
 an hour, to await the return train to Le Mans. 
 The station master gave us a long document re- 
 lieving us of the necessity of paying return fares 
 to Le Mans. He was very kind and went to a 
 good deal of trouble but the paper was never 
 called for and is still one of our prized souvenirs. 
 
 The station master asked for our name. We 
 handed it out letter by letter. "Is that all?" he 
 inquired with a twinkle in his eye as we paused. 
 We assured him that we had no other syllables 
 concealed about us and he filled in our passport 
 properly. 
 
 Instead of sleeping at Vitre as planned we ad- 
 vanced our lines as near to Pontorson as possible 
 that night. That meant that we must sleep at 
 Fougeres, going to bed quite late and arising very 
 early but we reached Mont St. Michel at the time 
 originally planned. 
 
 Here is another piece of advice. It will not 
 keep you out of trouble entirely but it will assist 
 and will make some trouble for others. Always 
 inquire when you buy a railroad ticket whether 
 there is a change of cars. Ask the porter who 
 carries your bags the same question. Lay the 
 matter before the station master and the train 
 guard. Repeat the inquiry to each passenger. At 
 every stop get the opinion of the fruit vender.
 
 Mont St. Michel 61 
 
 You will usually be able from these widely diver- 
 gent sources to form a correct opinion. 
 
 Our blunder was more than offset in our ex- 
 perience by the kindness and courtesy which it 
 revealed among postmen, guards and fellow 
 travelers. 
 
 On the return train for Le Mans our com- 
 panions were a prosperous looking gentleman 
 with a red ribbon in his button hole, a young lady 
 who peered anxiously out of the window when- 
 ever the engine whistled, and a woman with a 
 moustache that would arouse the wildest envy 
 of the average French soldier. This matter of 
 female beards in France attracted our attention 
 more and more. Can it be possible that by some 
 subtle law of evolution, masculine hirsute adorn- 
 ment is being transferred to the once fair sex 
 along with other male prerogatives ? 
 
 At Le Mans we had ample time for a good 
 dinner at the depot dining room, after which I 
 asked a gold-braided official to assist me in find- 
 ing a porter. To my surprise he picked up the 
 two suit cases and carried them to our car. The 
 usual ten cents was tendered and accepted. 
 
 The silence which we once commended in 
 French railroad stations has disappeared. Ap- 
 parently the engineers have discovered the pos- 
 sibility for disturbing the peace that is latent in 
 the boilers, and like the motorman with the new
 
 62 Three Weeks in France 
 
 gong, are utilizing it to the utmost. Engines 
 shriek madly through the train sheds with no 
 provocation whatever. 
 
 It was very foggy in the hills out of Le Mans. 
 There were more hedges than in other parts of 
 France. 
 
 Our train left Le Mans fifteen minutes late. As 
 there were only eleven minutes between trains at 
 Vitre where we change for Fougeres we won- 
 dered if we would make the connection. We 
 still had much to learn of French railways. There 
 is never any need to hurry or worry. At Vitre, 
 we carried our luggage across the platform, while 
 a good-natured station master ran into the depot 
 and brought us out two tickets to Fougeres 
 where we arrived at eleven at night. We drove 
 in the hotel bus up a dimly lighted street, through 
 a bunch of Sunday revelers to the Hotel des Voy- 
 ageurs where we were shown to a room lighted 
 by a lamp and candle, and left a call for six in 
 the morning. Two rather timid boys acted as 
 chambermaids and we saw no other employes in 
 the hotel during our brief stay. 
 
 Notwithstanding the meager furniture of the 
 inn at Fougeres, everything was neat and clean 
 and wherever there was room a vase of wild 
 flowers was standing. 
 
 This is a shoe-making town but from the
 
 Mont St. Michel 63 
 
 sounds afoot we judged that most of its citizens 
 wore wooden-soled sabots. 
 
 B. argued local railroad management with the 
 station master. It did not alter the methods of 
 the road and afforded her excellent French prac- 
 tice. She could not see why we should be forced 
 to change cars again at Pontorson in order to 
 reach Mont St. Michel. The fact that the rail- 
 road becomes a tram at Pontorson was not known 
 to us at the time, and when revealed seemed a 
 good and sufficient reason for the transfer. Any- 
 how, she had the last word, which was a com- 
 pound of French, English and gasp. But he had 
 the last smile, so perhaps he was the victor after 
 all. 
 
 The train for Pontorson backed in. We 
 walked half its length to meet it and accom- 
 panied it back to our starting point. Then it 
 went the other way with us trailing. Finally 
 it occurred to us that it would be the part of wis- 
 dom to let the train settle and then go aboard. 
 This was accomplished gradually with our com- 
 partment door at our original starting point. 
 
 Once aboard B. proceeded to put away her 
 camera. 
 
 "Why are you doing that?" 
 
 "There is nothing to take at Pontorson." 
 
 "Oh, yes there is." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "The tram."
 
 64 Three Weeks in France 
 
 After St. Germain-en-Cogles, a stone-cutting 
 village, our train climbed through a country of 
 grass and orchards with here and there a wheat 
 field and with hundreds of chestnut trees in 
 bloom. Wild birds were singing and poppies, 
 daisies and bluebells marked the landscape with 
 the tri-color of France. 
 
 At the small stations flower beds occupied the 
 space that in a village at home would be devoted 
 to returned empties. There were no loafers at 
 the depots. They were all in the army. At St. 
 Brice (also en-Cogles) we dropped our French 
 companion, a traveling man of about thirty, with 
 rosy complexion and unmowed, virgin beard. So 
 many beards in France are of this first growth 
 variety. They follow the same general land- 
 scape plans with whiskers as with trees. A group 
 of Frenchmen suggests nothing so much as a 
 forest of inverted Versailles cedars of all shades 
 of red, black and brown. 
 
 Our ride took us past small orchards where 
 young, careless trees in their first fruitage nodded 
 coquettishly to the passing train, while matronly 
 old ones with contours made less graceful but 
 more beautiful by long continued maternity in- 
 dulged in stiffer boughs. 
 
 Farmers either with picturesque red sashes or 
 carelessly displayed flannels were wielding big 
 clumsy scythes. The speed of our train, about
 
 MONT ST. M I CI I I'M.
 
 Mont St. Michel 65 
 
 eight miles per hour, made it difficult to deter- 
 mine the exact nature of the decoration. 
 
 A French officer makes an uncomfortable 
 traveling companion. Habit keeps him on the 
 march and he tramps up and down the corridor 
 or in and out of the compartment continually. 
 Every time he stumbles over your feet he apolo- 
 gizes and salutes and you feel that you must re- 
 turn the salute or risk a violation of the military 
 code. 
 
 When we reached Pontorson we took a car- 
 riage at two francs each for the ride to Mont 
 St. Michel. The tram started ten or fifteen min- 
 utes later and arrived at the abbey about the 
 same time that we did. The drive was a de- 
 light. We stopped for photographs whenever 
 we wished to. We hoped to see the mad, rushing 
 tide and were prepared to stay all night if neces- 
 sary. Later we discovered that the tide only 
 rushes in March and September. The balance of 
 the year it comes in like a fairly swift river. 
 
 Almost as soon as we left Pontorson the spire 
 of St. Michel appeared and from that moment 
 it was a constantly changing and always entranc- 
 ing picture. Shrouded in haze it was a painter's 
 delight but a photographer's despair. 
 
 Each turn of our carriage wheels brought new 
 details into view or sharpened the outlines of 
 those observed before. A heavy wind was blow-
 
 66 Three Weeks in France 
 
 ing across the causeway, increasing the difficulties 
 of photography. The canal to the left of the 
 road is the line between Brittany and Normandy. 
 This canal is called the Couesnon. It formerly 
 changed its bed as frequently as does the Mis- 
 souri river. Its present course is west of the 
 Mount and hence the saying : "The Couesnon by 
 its folly has placed the Mount in Normandy." 
 
 This soil is principally quicksand and when 
 covered by water it engulfs man or horse who 
 enters upon its surface. 
 
 We are indebted for much that follows to a 
 little book by the Marquis of Tombelaine, a de- 
 voted student of the Mount who lost his life in the 
 sands in 1892. 
 
 The town of St. Michel has a population of 
 two hundred and thirty — mostly in the restaurant 
 or souvenir business. 
 
 A few centuries ago the forest of Scissy cov- 
 ered most of the land east of the road. In 709 
 an earthquake occurred, after which the sea 
 rushed in to about its present boundaries. In 
 1735 a terrific tornado raised part of the sandy 
 bed and exposed a number of oaks as well as some 
 ruins of the lost village of Etienne. 
 
 The Abbey was founded by St. Aubert in 708, 
 one year prior to the earthquake. Hugo calls 
 it the Pyramids of France and by some it has
 
 Mont St. Michel 67 
 
 been nominated for that greatly crowded emi- 
 nence, the eighth wonder of the world. 
 
 It is a hollow rock built by a man on a solid 
 rock left by nature on the shore. It is as much 
 a fortress as an abbey. The Benedictines have 
 been in charge since 966. The rock was called 
 Mt. Belenus by the Gauls. Later the name was 
 transferred to the adjacent rock and transformed 
 into Tombelaine. 
 
 In the sixth century some hermits moved onto 
 the rock and provisions were sent to them on a 
 donkey's back. A wolf ate the donkey, was con- 
 verted by the monks and made a donkey of him- 
 self and carried the burdens. 
 
 St. Michael ordered Aubert to build on the 
 rock. It looked like a pretty large order. After 
 tamping around awhile without finding a good 
 foundation, Aubert waited. A second time St. 
 Michael appeared. Still Aubert procrastinated. 
 Then St. Michael came and put his thumb on the 
 back of Aubert's head and pushed. Aubert was 
 deeply impressed. His skull exhibited in the 
 church of St. Gervais at Avranches has a hole 
 in it where St. Michael's thumb was placed. 
 Either Michael was in a militant mood or Au- 
 bert's head must have been softer than we like 
 to believe it. 
 
 Anyhow, he got busy. A heavy dew formed 
 one night over all of the rock except the site for
 
 68 Three Weeks in France 
 
 the building. Another hint to Aubert that his 
 work would soon be overdue again. He started 
 the abbey as outlined. 
 
 During the Norman raids fugitives fled to the 
 rock and built the town. 
 
 In 1017 Abbot Hildebert II began the present 
 structure. Work was carried on with a unity of 
 plan possible only to a religious community. By 
 1080 they had started the nave. After many 
 other setbacks, in 1203 the town and much of the 
 abbey was burned. It must have resembled a 
 fire in a marble-yard. Work necessarily pro- 
 gressed slowly. A glance at the surroundings 
 makes it difficult to understand how they worked 
 at all. In 12 12- 18 the Salle des Hotes and Salle 
 des Chevaliers were completed. In 1228 the 
 cloister was finished. And so step by step this 
 gigantic task progressed. 
 
 It was necessary to fortify so rich an abbey. 
 The English besieged it for years in the four- 
 teenth and fifteenth centuries but never took it. 
 In 1419 Mont St. Michel was the only spot in 
 Normandy not held by the English. They nearly 
 ruined it in the Hundred Years War. Two Eng- 
 lish cannon are to the right of the entrance of 
 the fortress, relics of the assault in 1434. The 
 Huguenots took a whack at it in 1591 and fell 
 back to rub their bruises. It was used as a prison 
 during the Revolution and called Mont Libre!
 
 Mont St. Michel 69 
 
 Napoleon III discontinued this use of it in 1863 
 and began its restoration in 1865. 
 
 Whatever else may be said regarding Napoleon 
 III, France is filled with monuments to his love 
 for the beautiful old structures of his adored 
 country. 
 
 The highest spire of Mont St. Michel is 
 modern. It is the third one and doubtless there 
 will be others. It affords a tempting target for 
 the lightning which has destroyed it twice. 
 
 The most prominent feature of the town is 
 the Hotel Poulard. One would think that the 
 Poulard family believes that men toiled through 
 the ages, gnawed at the living rock, fought, bled, 
 prayed and died to give a suitable background for 
 Mother Poulard's famous chicken and more 
 famous omelette. 
 
 I do not wish to pose as an iconoclast or dis- 
 parage the Poulard cuisine. It is quite as good as 
 that of the average French hotel, and no better. 
 Yet so well has it been advertised that every one 
 eats an omelette as a sort of rite when in Mont 
 St. Michel. 
 
 B. almost hurt their feelings when out of 
 politeness she asked if Mme. Poulet was to be 
 seen. 
 
 "Poulet, madame? You mean Poulard, doubt- 
 less?"
 
 jo Three Weeks in France 
 
 And it was a stupid blunder, for Mme. Poulard 
 is no chicken. 
 
 After watching the cheerful blaze from the 
 roaring fire of the kitchen whose fireplace is 
 blasted from the solid rock, we walked up the 
 little street to the House of Bertrand du Guesclin 
 and his first wife, Tiphaine Raguenel of Dinan. 
 She was the brains of the family, he was the 
 biceps, a good combination when each recognizes 
 his or her limitations. 
 
 Bertrand was born in the days of Philip of 
 Valois who was the sixth Philip that fate gave to 
 France. Bertrand was the oldest and toughest 
 of a family of three children, a terror to the 
 neighbors and a grief to his parents. He com- 
 menced to joust as soon as he left the nursery 
 and fought with every boy in the neighborhood. 
 
 He was as generous with his clothes as with 
 his blows and frequently stripped himself to dress 
 a needy companion. The clothes probably inter- 
 fered with his fighting, anyhow. 
 
 About the time that his domestic standing had 
 reached its lowest ebb, a soothsayer happened 
 along and foretold that he would one day be a 
 great warrior. Marvelous prescience ! 
 
 Thereafter his parents took more notice of 
 him. 
 
 When he was twelve the nobility held a great 
 tournament at Rennes, the fourteenth century
 
 Mont St. Michel 71 
 
 forerunner of joy-riding as a means for killing 
 off the idle rich. Bertrand borrowed a suit of 
 armor from one of the mail carriers and de- 
 horsed every opponent but lowered his lance be- 
 fore his father. 
 
 Some one succeeded in unhelmeting the lad and 
 disclosed his identity. Papa du Guesclin's heart 
 was filled with pride and gratitude; pride that 
 Bertrand had vanquished all the other entries 
 and gratitude that he had spared his father. 
 
 The doting parent at once hired trainers for 
 the boy, allowed him to put up a punching bag 
 in the barn and proudly watched him through a 
 knot-hole. 
 
 Bertrand became a soldier first under John, 
 Duke of Brittany, and later with the Count of 
 Blois. He distinguished himself at the siege of 
 Rennes in 1342. By 135 1 he was the French- 
 man's hope and "Notre Dame du Guesclin" was 
 a war cry that frightened an Englishman worse 
 than does a lady aspirant for the suffrage plus 
 a brick nowadays. 
 
 We would like to give Bertrand's biography 
 by rounds but time forbids. The fight which 
 Tiphaine witnessed was at Dinan. Bertrand got 
 the decision and with it, Tiphaine. He died a 
 High Constable of France in 1378. 
 
 In this little house on Main street in St. Michel, 
 Tiphaine cast horoscopes in her star foundry
 
 72 Three Weeks in France 
 
 while Bertrand was bringing new constellations 
 within the range of vision of every Englishman 
 whom he thumped on the head. She planned his 
 campaigns and contributed greatly to his success 
 while he by sticking to the seat of his steam 
 roller managed to hold office during most of his 
 life. 
 
 We secured a young woman guide who led 
 us up one hundred and twenty-seven steps to 
 the door of the Musee and turned us over to a 
 soldier. Of course, she expected and received a 
 franc for her entirely superfluous services. We 
 would have found the Musee, and the soldier 
 would have found us, without assistance. 
 
 The Musee is interesting, being filled chiefly 
 with works left by monks. They give you an 
 idea of the slow centuries that have rolled by 
 while these patient men toiled at labor and at 
 prayer. The museum dates from 1888 and con- 
 tains, beside the fruits of holy labors, many his- 
 torical objects found on the Mount or uncovered 
 by the sands. It has also a rich collection of old 
 weapons and ancient watches. Its pride, however, 
 is its curious specimens of ancient watch cocks, 
 more than twenty-five thousand in number. 
 
 It is customary to refer to obsolete affairs like 
 watch cocks and leave the research work to the 
 reader. This is a lazy habit and breaks the con- 
 tinuity of the narrative. Besides, it turns the at-
 
 Mont St. Michel 73 
 
 tention from the book in hand to the Encyclopae- 
 dia, and the Encyclopaedia may prove so much 
 more interesting as to be installed in place of the 
 travel book in the reader's affections. Therefore, 
 we will transfer the information to these pages 
 and tell you all about watch cocks or "coqs" as 
 the French spell them. 
 
 They do not exist now except as curios but 
 from the end of the fifteenth century until after 
 the Restoration in France, every watch had one 
 of these hand-chiseled pieces of metal which pro- 
 tected the balance wheel suspended from it. The 
 name cock is supposed to be a corruption of the 
 German word kloben (hook). If so, it shows 
 how unrecognizably some things are corrupted in 
 France. 
 
 The great care exercised in decorating these 
 non-essential accessories is explained by the fact 
 that the early watch was not so much a chrono- 
 meter as it was a piece of jewelry. The cock 
 was carved with an engraving tool on a plate of 
 copper, chiseled in open work to allow the move- 
 ment of the balance to be seen. It was then en- 
 graved with extraordinary skill by special artists. 
 Sometimes the work on this part of the watch 
 would cost several hundred francs. 
 
 There are in the museum some mosaics in straw 
 made by priests or prisoners and they tell a 
 thrilling story of despairing patience. There are
 
 74 Three Weeks in France 
 
 also many of those eloquent arguments against 
 heresy in the shape of iron boots and spiked col- 
 lars, the latter so far ahead of the modern saw- 
 edged linen collar as to fill the bosom of a laun- 
 dress with wildest envy. 
 
 The Chamber of Horrors portion of the mu- 
 seum is a wax-works exhibit that is out of place 
 in such a setting. It certainly gives vivid pictures 
 of historic and legendary events, and the lighting 
 and grouping of the different scenes are worthy 
 of Belasco, but it is a sublimated Mrs. Jarley's 
 just the same. 
 
 We were first shown a realistic cyclorama of a 
 thirteenth century battle on the sands. They do 
 not forget to add in the foreground the head of 
 a man sinking into the quicksands. 
 
 The various historical scenes and personages 
 are in separate rooms or cells, adequately lighted 
 and realistically posed. The bust of St. Aubert 
 shows the parchment skin, protruding bones and 
 staring eyes of the ascetic. Other abbots are 
 there and one room is given to Bertrand du Gues- 
 clin and Tiphaine. 
 
 The visit of Louis XI to the Mount is com- 
 memorated by a group, the most striking figure 
 of which is the archer peering out of the narrow 
 window. 
 
 All was fish that came into this ecclesiastical 
 net, so you are not surprised by the figure of the
 
 AX OLD SKA CHKST— MONT ST. MICHEL
 
 Mont St. Michel 75 
 
 sculptor prisoner Gaultier whose talents were 
 used for the decoration of the abbey. Three 
 times he threw himself from his platform in at- 
 tempts at suicide. The third time, he succeeded. 
 
 We next passed through a bit of outdoors 
 where stone cannon balls were piled and where 
 two domesticated tortoises formed a sluggish con- 
 trast to a family of kittens playing around them. 
 
 In the next room is shown some ancient pirate 
 coffers. One was dragged into the light for 
 photographic purposes. A single turn of the key 
 shot eleven bolts into place. 
 
 On the walls were hung many old weapons and 
 the sword of some paladin, "Never drawn with- 
 out reason nor returned without glory." 
 
 We crossed the platform with its figure of St. 
 Christopher, patron saint of chauffeurs, and en- 
 tered the Prisoners' Gallery. Again we found 
 well arranged and lighted stage effects but savor- 
 ing even more of a wax-works exhibition than 
 the room we had just left. 
 
 The first is the cell of Barbes, a West Indian, 
 imprisoned from 1839 to 1854. He died in Hol- 
 land in 1856 and is buried at The Hague. He 
 was a political prisoner. Later we saw a statue 
 of him at Carcassonne. 
 
 Blanqui was another victim of his own insur- 
 rectionary ideas. He is represented as sitting in 
 his cell.
 
 y6 Three Weeks in France 
 
 Bernard and Raspail, also prisoners dating 
 from the troubled period of the second empire, 
 occupied the next two cells. 
 
 Then we walked right into the crowning horror, 
 Colombat depicted as swinging from a rope in a 
 well whose bottom was strewn with skeletons. 
 In attempting to escape he lowered himself into 
 this forgotten oubliette, thinking it led to free- 
 dom. We were glad to learn that this plucky- 
 prisoner later did escape and descended from the 
 lower tower by a rope. He was the only prisoner 
 who ever got away from Mont St. Michel with- 
 out royal sanction. 
 
 By this time our nerves were in condition to 
 stand the cell of Dubourg, a victim of the wrath 
 of Louis XV. He died in prison, and his body 
 was found partly eaten by rats. A very success- 
 ful attempt has been made to reproduce his ap- 
 pearance at the time. 
 
 We were glad to get into the sunlight again 
 and thence into the room where they keep the 
 spectograph. This instrument throws on a pol- 
 ished surface a moving picture of any desired 
 object within several miles of the Abbey. It was 
 marvellous to watch the shell gatherers a mile 
 away and then focus it on the horses and car- 
 riages at the entrance to the town. Every stamp 
 of the horses' feet, every switch of their tails was 
 repeated on a surface a yard in diameter. The
 
 Mont St. Michel yy 
 
 spectograph is useful in times of war to enable 
 one behind walls to observe the actions of the 
 enemy. It is a most fascinating thing to watch. 
 
 We were finally shown into the salesroom of 
 the museum where are exhibited countless 
 articles of jewelry made from old watch cocks. 
 After investing in one or two souvenirs we ate 
 lunch at the Cafe Poulard and walked entirely 
 around the rock over sand which is firm when 
 dry but which when wet engulfs its victims and 
 leaves no sign. Fortunately tides run on sched- 
 ule time and the periods when it is safe to cir- 
 cumnavigate the rock are well known. It was 
 an impressive sight, this dull-gray, damp Sahara 
 stretching for miles all about us. The sand, dry- 
 ing in irregular splotches had the appearance of 
 being flecked with cloud shadows. We encoun- 
 tered three Americans who were invading 
 France without a word of French in the whole 
 party. Their "good-bye, folks" at parting 
 sounded like music in our ears after several 
 days of "bon voyage." 
 
 Again we climbed the narrow street of the 
 town, this time bound for the Abbey. When we 
 attained the top we felt that whispered orisons 
 would reach the throne, so near did we seem to 
 heaven. We waited for a long time for a guide 
 through the building, writing post cards the 
 while. The guides are all men of venerable ap-
 
 yS Three Weeks in France 
 
 pearance, usually with white mustaches and 
 imperials. 
 
 We registered our names and likewise our pro- 
 tests against the pens provided for visitors. 
 Finally a guide appeared and we trailed along in 
 his wake. 
 
 Most of the interior is glaringly new, thanks 
 to the activity of the restorers. Stone masons 
 were working in some of the rooms. 
 
 We paused on the Grand Terrace and looked 
 at the relief map of the sands below us. Our 
 guide prattled French with the exquisite modula- 
 tion and expression of a graphophone. A plan 
 of the original Abbey — the one outlined in dew — 
 is marked in red stone in the floor. The walls 
 are new, the bas reliefs are old. There are fools' 
 names scribbled everywhere. The cloister is high 
 in air and dates from 1225. Each pair of its 
 two hundred and twenty tiny rose-colored gran- 
 ite columns was a labor of love sculptured by a 
 monk in his cell. This explains the variety and 
 individuality of the designs. The guide was very 
 kind and permitted free use of the camera, but 
 while B. was photographing I gleaned very little 
 information. 
 
 Here and there as we climbed up and down, a 
 bit of natural rock peeped through the masonry 
 like a rugged elbow through a torn coat. This
 
 Mont St. Michel 79 
 
 part of the Abbey, its foundation, defies both de- 
 stroyer and restorer. 
 
 We visited some of the prison cells and peered 
 through a slit in the sixteen foot walls. Then 
 we were shown the big wheel used for raising 
 supplies into the Abbey. St. Michael after mark- 
 ing the site of the Abbey ran out of water, and 
 such as there is on the rock is in a reservoir and 
 not real fresh. Do not drink it. 
 
 The Crypt of the Great Pillars rests on twenty 
 immense pillars based on the rock and forming 
 the real foundation of the Abbey. 
 
 In the Refectory are two gigantic fireplaces. 
 The Knights' Hall was built about 1220 and so 
 was the big assembly room. Beneath it and con- 
 nected by a staircase is the cellar or storeroom. 
 
 There are many, many more rooms but we 
 would advise you to buy the book by Tombelaine, 
 printed in both French and English, and sold at 
 the souvenir stores. The stores that have only 
 the French editions will insist that there are no 
 English copies but be not deceived. There are. 
 
 After all, it is the exterior of the Abbey that 
 thrills. Within, it has been restored to death. 
 The process is doubtless essential, and it will not 
 take more than a century or two to soften the 
 lines of the interior into harmony with the rest. 
 Right now it is neither young nor old, a be- 
 rouged ruin.
 
 80 Three Weeks in France 
 
 After our visit was finished there was the 
 usual hurried whispered consultation as to the 
 size of the tips. The French handed out coppers, 
 the English ten sou pieces while the sole repre- 
 sentative of America, who had not understood a 
 word that was told him, again shamed his country 
 with a whole franc. We paid in proportion to 
 what we had not comprehended. 
 
 Again outside the walls we found that we 
 could share a motor car with another couple and 
 return to Pontorson immediately and for a trifle 
 less than the tram tariff. As this would enable 
 us to take our choice of seats on the train to Le 
 Mans we availed ourselves of the opportunity 
 and soon were speeding away with many admir- 
 ing looks backward at Mont St. Michel. 
 
 It is not safe to talk to a French chauffeur. 
 He is liable to drop everything else in replying 
 and the effect of rushing along a country road 
 at a thirty mile an hour gait with a gesticulating 
 chauffeur narrating local history is disquieting. 
 
 Instead of a horn, many chauffeurs use 
 whistles. This is because of the difficulty of dis- 
 tinguishing between the very loudest horns and 
 a Frenchman or woman blowing his or her nose. 
 In cultivating a decided nasal accent the French 
 have developed the possibilities of the nose as 
 a musical instrument to the most amazing extent. 
 Young and tender maidens will place fine lace
 
 VILLAf.K STRKKT— MONT ST. MK'UKL
 
 Mont St. Michel 81 
 
 handkerchiefs to delicately chiseled noses and the 
 resultant blast is astonishing. 
 
 The tram fare from Pontorson to the Mont is 
 twenty-three cents. Our motor cost us twenty 
 cents each. The carriage driver charged us forty 
 cents apiece. The slower, the higher. Still we 
 would advise the use of a carriage in one direc- 
 tion, especially if you have a kodak.
 
 82 Vitre 
 
 V 
 
 Vitre 
 
 0T Fbugeres we had an hour and invested 
 in a box lunch. It included roast beef, 
 I ham, bread, cheese, cakes, nuts and a 
 
 bottle of water (by request) for forty- 
 five cents. 
 
 Our three Americans who had rejoined us 
 temporarily had each a glass of wine and a plate 
 of cakes, at the conclusion of which feast the 
 shortest one consulted a pocket vocabulary and 
 said gravely, "Combine?" 
 
 We shared in the fun they had in settling the 
 bill. Finally, they adopted the dangerous but 
 prevalent custom among American tourists of 
 holding a palm full of small coins in front of the 
 waitress and saying "Help yourself." Is it any 
 wonder that our coming is hailed with joy by 
 the needy of foreign climes? Even then she only 
 took twenty-eight cents, a very modest over- 
 charge for the refreshment provided — not over 
 one hundred per cent. 
 
 At Vitre our room was floored with oak boards
 
 Vitre 83 
 
 eight inches wide and polished with age. It was 
 two blocks from the hotel to the nearest bathing 
 establishment, whose proprietress conducts a 
 laundry in connection therewith. We were not 
 sure of the price of baths but thirty cents each 
 must have included a tip judging from the 
 salaams bestowed upon us. 
 
 Vitre was the first Protestant town in which 
 we stopped overnight. It was also the smallest 
 town so distinguished by us. 
 
 It has only about ten thousand people but is 
 as neat and clean as any place can be that has 
 surface sewers and deposits its garbage in the 
 middle of the street to await the call of the scav- 
 enger. 
 
 It was a walled town at one time and our hotel 
 window looked out on a portion of the old wall. 
 In the early morning we watched some farmers 
 who had brought to town a big frightened bull 
 tied in a cart. They drove to the municipal scales 
 and thence to the shipping yards. 
 
 A musical peddler with a wooden leg came 
 singing his wares gayly down the boulevard. His 
 stock consisted of half a dozen skinned rabbits, 
 doubtless poached from some one's preserves in 
 the earlier morning. He made no sale in our 
 neighborhood, but bless you ! he did not seem to 
 care. He did not sing to sell his wares but 
 seemed rather to use his vocation as an excuse for
 
 84 Three Weeks in France 
 
 pouring forth his joy in song. What had he to 
 sing for? Heaven only knows, but thank God 
 that he had it. 
 
 The morning Paris journal printed dispatches 
 from Belgium, Switzerland and Alsace-Lorraine, 
 for the French still dream of the day when they 
 will re-establish their borders beyond that prov- 
 ince and rarely include it when referring to Ger- 
 many. 
 
 Dogs seem almost as favored in this part of 
 France as in Constantinople. They lie in the 
 sunniest spots and foregather on the most popu- 
 lous corners. We counted fourteen dogs in one 
 short block at Vitre. 
 
 Their especial habitat, however, is Mont St. 
 Michel. It is doubtful whether the Mont could 
 have guarded against the surprises of the English 
 in the fifteenth century but for the vigilance of 
 the dogs. 
 
 This led to a decree issued in 1475 by Louis 
 XI granting an annuity of twenty- four pounds, 
 Tours weight, for their keep. The act reads in 
 part: 
 
 "From the earliest times it has been customary 
 to have and nourish at the said place, a certain 
 number of great dogs, which are tied up by day 
 and at night brought outside the enclosure to 
 keep watch till morning." 
 
 We took a very roundabout way to the rue
 
 Vitre 85 
 
 Poterie, one of the quaint arcaded streets of 
 Vitre, suggesting according to Baedeker, the 
 Rows of Chester. This is the only instance that 
 we recall of Baedeker giving way to a flight of 
 the imagination, and it is a very wild flight. 
 
 A more direct route from the depot to the rue 
 Poterie would be straight out the rue Garengeot. 
 A short block will bring you to what we reached 
 only after a walk of half a mile. There we saw 
 old houses tottering and leaning over like disso- 
 lute topers, their lower stories arcaded but not at 
 all suggesting beautiful Chester. 
 
 We drove out to the Chateau des Rochers 
 where once lived Mine, de Sevigne whose 
 sprightly letters give us the best idea that we have 
 of seventeenth century manners. 
 
 Although left a charming widow at the age of 
 twenty-five she never remarried but devoted 
 herself to the rearing of her son and daughter. 
 The published letters were written to the latter 
 and abound in delightful gossip, witty anecdote 
 and keenly discriminating comment on the men 
 and women around her. By turns she was a 
 noted beauty, a brilliant wit, a religious devotee 
 and a woman of business, struggling to make 
 her income meet the demands of an extravagant 
 son. The letters fill fourteen large volumes. 
 
 When disposed to grumble at the inconven- 
 iences of modern hotels it is a great consolation
 
 86 Three Weeks in France 
 
 to read how this great lady often had to lie 
 on straw in inns when traveling and a room in 
 which she could undress was a luxury. In those 
 days travelers carried their own knives, the land- 
 lord furnishing plates, spoons and forks. This 
 latter condition obtained in parts of France 
 within the last forty years, as is witnessed by R. 
 L. S. in his trip through the Cevennes mountains 
 with Modestine. 
 
 The Chateau is surrounded by an immense 
 park, part of it highly cultivated but most of it 
 in a state of nature. It forms a fitting setting 
 for the turrets, spires and chimneys of the grand 
 old residence. 
 
 We were first admitted to the chapel built in 
 1 67 1 by an uncle of Mine, de Sevigne, the Abbe 
 of Livre. Its furnishings are exactly as described 
 in her letters, with the original crucifix and the 
 large painting of the Virgin with the words "Sole 
 Deo" above it. 
 
 From thence we were conducted by a sweet- 
 voiced woman to that part of the chateau once 
 tenanted by its illustrious owner. We stood in 
 her bedroom and saw the bed in which she slept 
 and by the north window the desk where she 
 wrote most of her charming, sparkling letters. 
 Her portrait by Mignard shows a proud, viva- 
 cious beauty with the plump hands so character- 
 istic of French women to this day. The furni-
 
 Vitre 87 
 
 ture is of oak and badly worm-eaten. The old 
 parquetry floor is of the same material. 
 
 The property is occupied all the year round by 
 Count des Netumiere and family. We walked 
 out into the garden with its four big cedars. An 
 old sun dial told us the hour as faithfully as it 
 did the laughing beauty who has been dust for 
 over two centuries. There were orange trees 
 in boxes and blooming. They had echo stones, 
 on one of which you stand while the party of 
 the second part takes his position on the other. 
 When one shouts the other hears an echo. It is 
 true that you can hear the same echo without 
 standing on the stone, but the spots marked give 
 the sharpest responses. 
 
 We had asked in vain for an opportunity to 
 photograph the big cedars. At a certain point 
 behind some bushes our conductress said "Here 
 we are hidden," and told us we might attempt a 
 picture of the chateau. We thanked her and 
 snapped one of the big trees. We had already 
 taken several pictures of the chateau. Then we 
 sat on the grass and changed films amid a perfect 
 chorus of wild birds. 
 
 Our courteous old driver passed a pedestrian 
 on the road coming out to the chateau. "Allez- 
 vous loin?" (Are you going far?) he asked, 
 pointing to the seat besides him. The man said
 
 88 Three Weeks in France 
 
 "No," and the incident was closed, but it was 
 characteristic and pleasing. 
 
 We inquired the history of a tumble-down 
 stable which had a stump of a steeple surmounted 
 by a cross. We learned that it was a leper's 
 chapel one hundred and fifty years ago and that 
 the property across the road was the hospital and 
 farm. The driver hastened to assure us that it 
 had been a long time since there were any lepers 
 in France. 
 
 After luncheon in Vitre we again visited the 
 rue Poterie which by this time had picked up its 
 garbage and was a little more picturesque. 
 
 Thence we walked through back streets past a 
 very inhospitable dog, which, fortunately for us, 
 was securely chained, and finally reached the river 
 where were assembled the usual washerwomen 
 beating buttons from shirts. Like death, the 
 French laundress loves a shining mark and a 
 bright pearl button awakens all her energies. 
 She places it carefully on a flat rock, takes a stone 
 in her right hand and cracks the button as if it 
 were a nut. We no longer button our garments. 
 We lace them up. 
 
 Walking in Vitre is tiring because it is up-hill 
 in every direction. It is the only town in the 
 world where you seem to walk up-hill most of the 
 way to any given point, and up-hill most of the 
 way back.
 
 Ot'TSTDE THE RAMPARTS— VITRE
 
 Vitre 89 
 
 Our laundry was done for us in fifteen hours 
 at about two-thirds United States prices and no 
 extra charge for amputating the buttons. 
 
 We had a not unusual experience when leav- 
 ing the hotel. We could not find the chamber- 
 maid to give her a tip. And that reminds me that 
 whenever you wander from the track of the tour- 
 ist, tips are not sought but are accepted with be- 
 coming gratitude. That fact seems to answer 
 the question, "Whose is the fault?"
 
 go Le Mans and Tours 
 
 VI 
 
 Le Mans and Tours 
 
 nHE corridor in a continental passenger 
 coach is its most popular part. There 
 I the children play, the smokers smoke, 
 
 and the sight-seers lean from the win- 
 dows. Of course there are smoking compart- 
 ments, but the man who prefers to occupy a non- 
 smoking room, may smoke in the corridors. 
 When circumstances forced us to invade the pre- 
 cincts of My Lady Nicotine, Frenchmen of all 
 conditions invariably would inquire if smoking 
 was disagreeable to B. 
 
 The fruit trees of Brittany are heavy with 
 apples. Peaches are being sold at the stations 
 but they are of that emerald hue so fatal to 
 Johnny Jones and his sister Sue. Many vege- 
 table gardens had their plants protected by huge 
 glass jars. 
 
 Everywhere in France we found evidence of 
 that marvelous conservation of natural resources 
 that has made France — I almost said, the eighth 
 wonder of the world. When you consider the
 
 Le Mans and Tours 91 
 
 millions of dollars that are gleaned annually from 
 an arable area smaller than Texas and when you 
 think that this tribute has been exacted from the 
 soil for a thousand years and that to-day the 
 ground is as rich as ever, you must doff your hat 
 to the French peasant. 
 
 This advanced cultivation has gone hand-in- 
 hand with machinery of the most primitive type. 
 It is within a generation that the modern mowers 
 have found a market in France. 
 
 The prejudices against better machinery is of 
 long standing. Improved scythes were forbid- 
 den in the eighteenth century because they cut 
 the grass too closely and deprived the poor man 
 of the stubble which served as bed and covering 
 in his hut. The solicitude thus shown reminds 
 one of the tender-hearted lady who told the hun- 
 gry tramp that he would find longer grass in the 
 back yard. 
 
 Now that the subject of agriculture has been 
 dragged into this chapter it might be well to 
 remind citizens of our great United States that 
 in 1908 we broke all records by raising 376,537,- 
 000 bushels of potatoes. In the same year 
 France, on soil worked for centuries, raised 623,- 
 770,000 bushels. In addition thereto she raised 
 356,000,000 bushels of wheat to our 737,000,000. 
 We raise fifteen bushels to the acre on virgin 
 soil. France raises twenty-two bushels per acre
 
 92 Three Weeks in France 
 
 on land that has been worked for centuries and 
 she does it by the use of unceasing industry and 
 artificial stimulants. France does not figure in 
 the world's wheat markets but she feeds herself. 
 She is the largest wheat grower in Europe out- 
 side of Russia. 
 
 Besides the things mentioned, France produces 
 millions of dollars worth annually of wine, oil, 
 vegetables, butter and cheese. She raises twice 
 as much beet sugar as we do. Her big agricul- 
 tural college is at the Sorbonne. The green rib- 
 bon, the Merite Agricole, is bestowed for im- 
 provements in farming. 
 
 With all this ever recurring tide of wealth, 
 provincial prosperity has been apt to manifest 
 itself in statuary rather than sanitation. Muse- 
 ums, schools and boulevards have preceded drain- 
 age and sewers. 
 
 The peasants are thrifty and well-to-do but 
 not clean in their person nor cultivated in their 
 tastes. They ride in carriages and occasionally 
 go without feet in their stockings. 
 
 Henry IV and his minister Sully were great 
 friends of agriculture, the former having intro- 
 duced the silkworm into France. 
 
 Gaillard is the bill-board man of France and 
 glories in his shame. His name is given equal 
 prominence with that of his patron. Quite often
 
 Le Mans and Tours 93 
 
 it is difficult to determine whether Gaillard or 
 Menier makes chocolate. 
 
 We reached Le Mans and this time we did not 
 forget to change cars. Having an hour we drove 
 to the Place de la Prefecture where there is a 
 statue of Pierre Belon, a sixteenth century botan- 
 ist. We studied the beautiful west front of Notre 
 Dame-de-la-Couture awhile before going over to 
 the Place de la Republique, really adorned with 
 one of the best war monuments in France, com- 
 memorating the soldiers of 1871, with a statue 
 of General Chanzy, who commanded the unfor- 
 tunate Army of the Loire. 
 
 We next visited the cathedral and admired its 
 intricately carved choir screen and beautiful old 
 windows. They showed us the tomb of Beren- 
 garia, brought here from its original resting 
 place. In looking for it I asked a reverend father 
 in my very best French for the "tombeau" and 
 he led us the entire length of the church and to 
 an exit to show us the tramway. 
 
 The cathedral is restored to the point of dis- 
 traction to the antiquarian. The interior walls 
 are as spick and span as are those of a newly 
 finished sky-scraper. 
 
 We were conducted down forty-six steps to a 
 chapel filled with tombs. One was very recent 
 and covered with fresh flowers. No tips were 
 expected or accepted in this church. The old
 
 94 Three Weeks in France 
 
 choir screen has been utilized for doors to the 
 closets containing the vestments. These ward- 
 robes are well worth looking at, but unless we 
 had made the acquaintance of a hospitable priest 
 we should not have seen them. 
 
 Along the Sarthe, between washerwomen, were 
 countless fishermen, possibly their husbands. As 
 the stone-walled banks are quite steep some had 
 brought ladders which they had lowered from the 
 top, using the rounds for perches. 
 
 All the way to Tours our companion was a 
 very pretty and very industrious young lady 
 doing some embroidery work. Fully half the 
 women who travel do needle work of some sort 
 in preference to reading. 
 
 We noticed an increased number of refrig- 
 erator cars with "Viandes Refrigerees" on the 
 outside. I trust they are not forerunners of cold 
 storage warehouses. Else the delicious broiled 
 chicken of France will become a memory. 
 
 France had made great progress in railroading 
 since our visit of nine years before. They have 
 a large number of full-grown locomotives, and 
 solid-wheeled freight cars are rapidly replacing 
 the band boxes with spoked wheels. We noticed 
 many gigantic flat cars. 
 
 At Dissay we commenced to note the wine 
 vaults extending back into the hills. These nat- 
 ural caves vary in embellishment from a simple
 
 Le Mans and Tours 95 
 
 hole in the mountain side to some quite elab- 
 orate portals. Some reminded us of swallows' 
 nests and then we remembered that countless 
 swallows do nest here until called for. 
 
 We plunged into seas of vineyards and knew 
 we were' in the fair country of Touraine. We 
 crossed the broad, placid Loire and entered 
 Tours. The Loire is very wide but has not the 
 swift current of the Rhone. Nevertheless his- 
 tory tells us that the Loire has its fits of bad 
 temper and on such occasions vast territories are 
 inundated. 
 
 At Tours we found ourselves at another of 
 those hotels that "augment" their rates a franc 
 a day if you do not eat one meal a day at the 
 hotel in addition to breakfast. 
 
 I do not know whether these petty augmenta- 
 tions worry other travelers as they do me, but 
 I had rather pay two franc more per day and 
 have it stated at the outset than to pay one franc 
 in extras. 
 
 Tours has a very handsome depot and its 
 modern business buildings face smooth, clean 
 streets. The hotel was crowded and we slept on 
 a top floor for the first time. In place of the 
 usual dog, a cat shared B's table d'hote. Our 
 room was electric lighted. 
 
 I arose early in the morning and found my 
 way to the post office. It was a well arranged
 
 96 Three Weeks in France 
 
 office with thoroughly modern equipment. Tele- 
 grams as well as mail are handled in the French 
 post offices. 
 
 There were six desks for the public, good pens, 
 and all manner of blanks to fill out. Soldiers 
 occupied two desks. It is also a public telephone 
 station, but using the telephone in France is not 
 a matter to be lightly done. When they do call 
 anyone, the greeting is "Alio," an approximation 
 of our own "hello." There are windows at the 
 Tours post office for money orders, general 
 delivery and packages. Parcels post has been a 
 great success in Great Britain and on the conti- 
 nent. Its adoption in the United States has been 
 delayed by opposition from two sources, the large 
 express companies and the local store-keepers. 
 With the altruism which has always distinguished 
 the American voter, who never knows when his 
 own pet industry may be tampered with, the eco- 
 nomic problem involved in the parcels post has 
 never received due consideration except at the 
 hands of a few theorists and magazine writers. 
 
 A law has finally been passed which goes into 
 effect in 1913 giving citizens of the United States 
 a modified parcels post. While changes may be 
 necessary because of the greater territory cov- 
 ered there can be no doubt as to the desirability 
 of the general plan. [Mankind has been prodded 
 or kicked up every round of the ladder of- prog-
 
 Le Mans and Tours 97 
 
 ress from the time of the first bow and arrow 
 to the natal day of the electric telegraph, and in 
 the case of the parcels post another great ser- 
 vice has been forced on reluctant beneficiaries. 
 
 It is safe in any town in France where you 
 are marooned for an hour to call a cab, offer the 
 driver a franc less than he asks and request to 
 be driven to the cathedral, only you call it "cate- 
 dral" with the "h" silent as on West Madison 
 street. Nine times out of ten there will be a 
 cathedral and the tenth time, you will be taken 
 to "something just as good" in the shape of an 
 ancient church. 
 
 Tours possesses that indefinable attribute of a 
 town or a woman indicated by Maggie Shand 
 with the word "charm" ; picturesque houses, the 
 wide rolling Loire, steeple-crowned islands and 
 richly wooded hills. 
 
 We visited first the tomb of St. Martin, 
 enclosed by a new building whose interior is 
 made impressive by fourteen massive marble pil- 
 lars. The tomb is a few feet below the level 
 of the floor. Facing it is the tomb of Cardinal 
 William Renat-Meignan who died in 1896 within 
 one year of fifteen centuries later than his illus- 
 trious forerunner. Above the cardinal's tomb 
 hangs his red hat. 
 
 Both the Poitevins and the Tourangeoise 
 claimed the body of St. Martin. Finally the lat-
 
 98 Three Weeks in France 
 
 ter secured the prize and tradition says they 
 floated the body up the Loire to Tours without 
 sail or oars. This was considered a miracle in 
 France, but to float up-stream was once a daily 
 occurrence with articles on the surface of the 
 Chicago river and its freight was far from 
 saintly. When the body was beached, it was 
 found that under the rules he could not have a 
 church dedicated to him because he was not a 
 martyr, although he suffered every penalty short 
 of martyrdom for his faith. So he was buried 
 in a cemetery. Then a chapel to St. Stephen 
 was built over his tomb. In 473, on the fourth 
 of July, his body was transferred to its present 
 resting place. It became a shrine and was vis- 
 ited by kings and queens, bishops and popes. 
 A school was established here, the cradle of 
 all French universities. The Chapter was rich. 
 It had the privilege of coining money and the 
 talent for doing it. Hence in 838 the Nor- 
 mans who had a keen nose for surpluses con- 
 cealed by surplices attacked the town. In order 
 to stampede the besiegers the citizens brought up 
 their biggest gun. They exhumed the body of 
 St. Martin. You cannot keep a good man down. 
 They paraded around the walls with the body 
 and stampeded the enemy with a corpse that had 
 been dead over four hundred years. 
 
 Then the relics were shipped around like Lib-
 
 Le Mans and Tours 99 
 
 erty Bell. Orleans, Chablis and Auxerre had 
 them in turn. For thirty-four years the tomb was 
 empty. It required a pitched battle between the 
 various holy men before Tours recovered the 
 remains. 
 
 In 1562 the Protestants pillaged the edifice and 
 scattered most of the bones. Some parts were 
 recovered and requiescated in peace until the 
 French Revolution, when the tomb was ravished 
 and the edifice ruined. The nave was taken down 
 in 1802. 
 
 But shrines are too profitable to be easily lost 
 and in 18C0 the exact spot was located. There 
 is no use to tell you how this was done. If you 
 believe in such things, the details would be 
 superfluous and if you do not, you would scoff 
 at them. Anyhow, we do not know. 
 
 The shanties in the vicinity were removed and 
 after many masses and several collections, won- 
 der of wonders, the exact spot was found. 
 
 While on the subject of ancient customs, I am 
 reminded of an incident at Vitre. Usually the 
 price of a railroad ticket is printed thereon. The 
 station agent wrote the price on our tickets to 
 Tours and instead of drying the ink with a blot- 
 ter, she sanded it! Anno Domini, 191 2! Fact! 
 
 YVe went over very rough cobblestones to what 
 that joy-killer Baedeker calls the "alleged" house 
 of Tristan, the Hermit. He is usually described
 
 ioo Three Weeks in France 
 
 as Louis XI's executioner and this title sets the 
 lightly-informed to searching their histories in 
 the vain hope of learning of Louis' execution. 
 Louis XI was not executed. Possibly he should 
 have been on several counts, but he was not. 
 He employed Tristan to execute criminals. 
 
 Naturally enough the house is decorated with 
 quaint carvings. It also did not surprise us to 
 find the concierge a little worse or better for 
 liquor. Wisely he did not attempt the winding 
 tower stair but hiccoughed information up to us 
 in boozy French. The house is a pretentious one 
 and evidently Tristan was well paid for his work. 
 
 The Loire at the time of our visit only partly 
 filled its wide bed, like a slim tourist in a feather 
 mattress. There was a large island in the center. 
 I remarked to B. that the river was low. 
 
 The driver said, "Certainement, c'est 1'eau" 
 and was at a loss to know why we smiled. 
 
 The front of the old Hotel de Ville on the. 
 bank of the river bears an honorable scar left by 
 the Prussian bombardment in October 1870. The 
 enemy's guns were placed on the opposite bank 
 and made a neat little scalp wound directly under 
 the roof of the building. There is a new Hotel 
 de Ville to-day and the old one is used for a 
 public library. 
 
 The military road to Paris and Bordeaux 
 crosses the river at this point. Statues of Rabe-
 
 STATI'K (>F RAI'.KLAIS Tori:
 
 Le Mans and Tours 101 
 
 lais and Descartes face the library. Tours has 
 a street named for Zola, but there are more trans- 
 lations of Nick Carter in the book stalls than 
 copies of Zola's works. In fact, Nick seems to 
 be the best seller in France to-day. 
 
 A glass enclosed hearse with four attendants 
 in plug hats and sombre garb passed us as we 
 paused to photograph one of the narrow streets 
 leading away from the river. 
 
 Mass was being celebrated at the cathedral to 
 a congregation of six or eight. The tomb of 
 the children of Charles VIII represents two chil- 
 dren lying as if in slumber while angels watch at 
 their heads and feet. The windows are beauti- 
 ful. 
 
 The rest of the cathedral does not live up to 
 the fagade of which Henry IV said that it was a 
 jewel to which only the casket was wanting. 
 
 Within is a picture of Christ and the Roman 
 soldiers "given by the Emperor, 1855." As the 
 centuries roll on that inscription will need to 
 be made more definite. We stumbled over the 
 rough stones, hollowed by the feet of centuries 
 of worshippers and murmured "This is indeed 
 hollowed ground." 
 
 It cost ten cents and a little exertion to ascend 
 the tower, but the view justified both expendi- 
 tures. 
 
 From a photographic standpoint B. objected
 
 102 Three Weeks in France 
 
 to the gargoyles because they were so high. Most 
 people would prefer them still higher. 
 
 The Tomb of St. Martin has a dome not un- 
 like that of the Invalides where Napoleon is en- 
 tombed. 
 
 The new Hotel de Ville is white with a black 
 roof. Four large caryatides support it and four 
 figures of heroic size ornament the roof. A 
 bronze statue of Balzac decorates the Place in 
 front. He was born here in 1799. Tours is at 
 once the cradle of the French language in its 
 purity, and of the French novel in its impurity. 
 
 Beautiful as is the French language it is not 
 patrician in its origin. It is based on the collo- 
 quial Latin of the Roman soldier. The Celtic 
 element, not being written, disappeared. The 
 Germanic tribes contributed little but war terms. 
 The invading Franks deposited about nine hun- 
 dred words in the great moraine. 
 
 Gambetta made Tours the headquarters of his 
 ambulatory government in 1870 until chased out 
 by the Germans. Prior to this, 1138 years to be 
 exact, Charles Martel checked the Saracens at 
 this point. 
 
 At the hotel we paid our bill to the smiling man- 
 ageress and tribute to the man who took care of 
 our room and ransomed our baggage from two 
 porters. The bus driver witnessing the deluge of 
 ten sou pieces resolved to participate so he clung
 
 Le Mans and Tours 103 
 
 to our suit cases at the depot at the imminent 
 danger of making us miss our train. Eventually 
 he landed both us and our tip in the proper 
 places.
 
 104 Chambord and Blois 
 
 VII 
 
 Chambord and Blois 
 
 BUR train stopped at Amboise with its 
 blood-soaked castle. Twelve hundred 
 I Protestants were killed here in 1560 to 
 
 frustrate a plot against the Guises. 
 The Edict of Amboise in 1563 granted amnesty 
 to the Huguenots. This would seem a safe order 
 of procedure. First massacre your fellow Chris- 
 tians for doctrinal differences, then grant them 
 amnesty. 
 
 Abd-el-Kader, an Algerian chief, was a pris- 
 oner here from 1847 to 1852 for trying to apply 
 the Monroe doctrine to Africa. 
 
 In 1895 the castle reverted from the d'Aumales 
 to the Orleans family by some process as mys- 
 terious as stage law and to-day it is an asylum 
 for superannuated servants. Most castles are, 
 but usually the premises are shared during part 
 of the year by the family. 
 
 Just then right under our car window an argu-
 
 Chambord and Blois 105 
 
 ment started which for a few minutes put the 
 feud of the Guises and the Condes out of our 
 minds. For a brief space the air seemed full of 
 fight, but we soon discovered, in the language of 
 Mr. Dooley, that the fight was full of air. The 
 question under debate was whether a tardy 
 Frenchman should be permitted to put his bicycle 
 into the baggage car. After delaying us ten min- 
 utes the station agent seemed to think he had 
 saved his face and the wheel was put aboard. 
 Our suggestion that he ride the wheel to the 
 next station and await our arrival, apparently 
 was not understood. At any rate it was not 
 adopted. 
 
 Beyond Veuves-Monteaux (which must be 
 where the widows come from) we saw the 
 Chateau of Chaumont on the right. Diana of 
 Poitiers lived there. She was the ancient lady 
 who captured the heart of Henry II while he was 
 Dauphin and although twenty years his senior she 
 held the citadel of his affections against all out- 
 side assaults until his death. 
 
 Some one must have told her that her husband 
 was dead in 1 531, and in grateful recognition of 
 his demise she built the splendid tomb that we 
 saw at Rouen. At the death of Henry she estab- 
 lished a charitable institution for the care of 
 twelve widows, although she had abundantly
 
 io6 Three Weeks in France 
 
 proved that a widow could take care of herself. 
 Her married name was Breze, and we see no ob- 
 jection to giving both vowels the long sound. 
 
 Catherine de Medici, the titular wife of Henry 
 II also lived at Chaumont. She showed she was 
 a pretty lively widow after his death, but under 
 the circumstances you could hardly expect her to 
 mope as much as Diana did. She was the lady 
 who engineered the Bartholomew massacre in 
 1572 which did so much to correct the proportion 
 of heretics to true believers. As an intriguer she 
 was worthy of her Italian lineage and was one 
 of many outsiders who have altered the history 
 of France for better or worse: Gambetta, Cag- 
 liostro, Mazarin, yes even Napoleon Bonaparte, 
 who was always more Italian than French in 
 his vanity, his egotism and his violence. You can 
 not change a man's character by pushing a boun- 
 dary line past his birthplace a year before he is 
 born. 
 
 We rode through miles of vines, green, pur- 
 ple and almost black. They were heavy with 
 tiny green clusters that promised a big harvest. 
 Possibly you have ridden through a wheat coun- 
 try and gazed over a rippling yellow sea of grain, 
 reaching from horizon to horizon. We were just 
 as literally surrounded by vines. 
 
 At Blois we had a dusty drive to the hotel and
 
 Chambord and Blois 107 
 
 ordered a motor for Chambord. A carriage could 
 be hired more cheaply but would require a longer 
 time. 
 
 Our room window gave a good view of the 
 Chateau of Blois which is really a castle. Its 
 most beautiful portion was built by Francis I, 
 the great builder. We postponed our visit to the 
 interior until the morrow. 
 
 Chambord and its twenty square miles of park 
 claimed our first attention. This too was begun 
 by Francis I and was his favorite residence. He 
 originated the fashion of carving your initials on 
 castle walls. His "F" is everywhere, together 
 with a vicious looking salamander endeavoring 
 to make both ends meet — a gigantic task for a 
 king whose fad was castles. 
 
 Louis XV gave Chambord to Marshall Saxe 
 in 1748. Saxe was also ambidextrous. He was 
 the left-handed grandpa of George Sand. Stan- 
 islaus of Poland lived here an exile from 1725- 
 33 in better quarters than he had ever known at 
 home. Had an attempt been made to rescue 
 him, we have no doubt that Stanislaus would have 
 been found among the chateau's most determined 
 defenders. Napoleon gave it to Marshall Ber- 
 thier when he was passing castles around. Ber- 
 thier fought in America under Lafayette, so we 
 felt quite as if we were returning a call.
 
 108 Three Weeks in France 
 
 It now belongs to the Parma family, well 
 known for their excellent cheese. 
 
 We whirled rapidly along a smooth but dusty 
 road upon the Loire embankment past two clean 
 little villages and a wayside cross of iron. We 
 turned into the park down a long avenue whose 
 vista of trees is closed by the walls of the chateau. 
 We left the machine and walked to the entrance 
 door where we dropped coins into a slot ma- 
 chine which reluctantly spat two tickets into our 
 hands. The party which had come by bus joined 
 us and waited for the guide. All of the tour- 
 ists were English or Americans. As usual we 
 were kept in a room devoted to the sale of post 
 cards and souvenirs, for about half an hour. 
 Within the court the famous spiral staircase was 
 visible. 
 
 Chambord is not elaborately furnished. Most 
 of the carved panels, wainscots, doors and shut- 
 ters were used as fuel by the Revolutionists in 
 1793. There is no doubt but the basic idea of 
 these earnest men was correct, but one cannot 
 help deploring some of their methods. There 
 ought to be some better reason for demolishing 
 a thing than that it is artistic and that it once 
 gladdened the eye of an aristocrat. 
 
 The first room we entered looked like an Elk's 
 dream of heaven, a B. P. O. Elk, we mean. The
 
 Chambord and Blois 109 
 
 walls were covered with antlers and heads of 
 stags and elks of all degrees. 
 
 There is a new staircase, also spiral. The old 
 one is so constructed that those ascending cannot 
 see the persons coming down. So says Baedeker, 
 but if they came down the same ones that you 
 were ascending we do not see how you could 
 help seeing them unless you were blindfolded or 
 intoxicated. For fear this book may fall into the 
 hands of a serious-minded reviewer it might be 
 well to state that if you select the proper stair- 
 way, you can pass any one ascending by the other 
 one without being seen ; a very useful arrangement 
 for Francis when the contractors began to bring 
 in their bills. Anyhow, the staircase is closed 
 now. 
 
 The big stove in one of the rooms was built 
 there by Marshall Saxe. That man did love to 
 make it warm for people. 
 
 There are over four hundred apartments in the 
 chateau, and in case it was crowded, a few guests 
 could be accommodated in the barns where there 
 is room for twelve hundred horses. They were 
 built when France had a stable government. 
 
 In the chapel is some lovely tapestry made by 
 a lady when a prisoner here. We did not get her 
 name and we may be tangled on the facts. But 
 we know there was tapestry in one of the rooms 
 and we believe it was in the chapel.
 
 no Three Weeks in France 
 
 The dining room was built by Louis XIV. 
 That man might overlook a bath room but he 
 never forgot the dining room. He usually started 
 dinner with two or three kinds of soup, just 
 for an appetizer. Louis Philippe was even more 
 royal. He would eat four kinds of soup and call 
 for a fifth plate in which he mixed the remains of 
 all four. No wonder the head that wore a crown 
 lay uneasy. And no wonder that Louis Philippe 
 decorated a room in the Palace at Fontainebleau 
 with plates. He should have been crowned Louis 
 Fillup. 
 
 There are many portraits, including one of 
 Mme. Lafayette and a large painting of the 
 Count of Chambord at forty-four. His bed 
 chamber bears the initials M. T. and H. He 
 would have been Henry V of France in 1830 had 
 not France decided otherwise. M. T. did not 
 refer to the throne but were the initials of his 
 wife Maria Theresa of Modena. He died in 
 1883 after several efforts to ascend the throne 
 of France, the final attempt following Sedan. 
 
 We went into the workshop and study of 
 Francis I. Once he scratched his name on a 
 window of this room, but Louis XIV, the Mag- 
 nificent, because of jealousy, broke out the pane 
 of glass. If you do not believe it they will show 
 you the pane that replaced it, and sure enough, 
 there is no writing on it. Some say he was
 
 Chambord and Blois in 
 
 jealous of la Valliere's admiration for Francis, 
 but that is a gross injustice to the memory of 
 that lady. Louise was not picking dead ones. 
 
 We went up the new circular staircase to the 
 ball room. It was much larger before this big 
 staircase was cut through. In the time of Louis 
 XIV it was gilded and used as a theatre. Moliere 
 played here. It is interesting to compare this 
 grand auditorium in which he played three of his 
 "first nights" with that narrow stage in the dark 
 dining room of the Middle Temple in London 
 where Shakespeare played before Elizabeth. 
 
 There are four hundreds panels in the ceil- 
 ing of the Chambord ball room. No two are 
 alike, but each embodies either an ornamental F 
 or a hideous salamander. We were skeptical as 
 to their unlikeness. It may save you trouble to 
 know that we checked them all back. Once we 
 thought we had one on Nepveau, the architect. 
 The eighth panel in the fourth row in the north 
 room looked very similar to the third one in the 
 sixth row in the west room, but after trotting 
 back and forth several times we discovered that 
 the end of the tendril around the middle arm of 
 the F curled in different directions in the two 
 designs. There are some dissimilarities among 
 the others that are even more marked. 
 
 We walked out on a roof from which we had 
 a splendid view of the park. From here we could
 
 ii2 Three Weeks in France 
 
 note that even the chimneys were marked F. R. 
 F. for Francis Roi de France. To the south 
 stretched the large field where Saxe maneuvred 
 his cavalry. 
 
 After a twenty-five mile ride we reached the 
 hotel and actually took a nap. 
 
 Oh, the joy of running water! I do not mean 
 the babbling brook or the graceful cascade but 
 the humble creation of the modern plumber. 
 The hotel at Blois was the first one we had found 
 that had running water in its rooms. After gaz- 
 ing for hours at fieurs de lis and salamanders 
 and capital F's, we were saved from envy by the 
 thought that when Francis I wanted to wash his 
 royal lineaments he had to have water brought 
 to him in a pail. 
 
 Our chauffeur when given two gold pieces, 
 which exceeded his lawful and agreed fare by 
 five francs, tipped his hat and started to climb 
 into his machine. Now five francs was or were 
 too much pourboire. He might overdrink him- 
 self. So we said sternly, "The change, please." 
 A plaintive look came into his big brown eyes. 
 We put out a palm hard with honest American 
 labor, and he produced a wallet with a time lock 
 on it from which he slowly dug up a franc. We 
 said "Encore" with more enthusiasm than we 
 ever did at grand opera and he found another 
 franc in an oubliette behind a flap in the pocket
 
 Chambord and Blois 113 
 
 book. Feeling that if we extracted one more coin 
 he would bleed, we let him retain a three franc 
 largesse. It sounds pretty small when you write 
 down the labor involved in settling a sixty cent 
 tip but all things are relative and it had cost us 
 several hundred dollars to be laid down in Blois 
 and we did not mean to be held up. 
 
 Henri had saved us the best table in the din- 
 ing room, which confirmed the theory that a di- 
 minishing system of tips to the headwaiter pays. 
 Your first tip, if liberal, impresses him. The 
 second one, a few sous smaller, perplexes him, 
 and he increases his efforts. The third, if further 
 reduced, fills him with despair and he taxes his 
 ingenuity to please. It will not work for a long 
 stay, but is fine for one or two days. 
 
 At dinner we noticed a friendless dog on the 
 sidewalk tussling with a piece of tough bread. 
 A big, well-fed canine came along and took the 
 morsel from his unresisting victim. The rob- 
 ber carried his spoil to the middle of the street, 
 worried it awhile in front of its former posses- 
 sor and left it uneaten and covered with dust. 
 
 The puppy, mildly acquiescent in the Divine 
 Right of big dogs, blinked his eyes. We from 
 our seven course abundance selected bits of meat 
 and threw them near him. He did not see us, 
 but sniffed the meat and hungrily devoured it.
 
 ii4 Three Weeks in France 
 
 We succeeded in remaining undiscovered as he 
 ate course after course. 
 
 Doubtless he regarded his dinner as a direct 
 gift from heaven, and had he possessed the 
 power he would have erected a large kennel on 
 the spot and lame and hungry dogs from all 
 Christendom would drag themselves hither. For 
 most miracles are only miracles to the ignorant 
 and ignorance is a relative term. 
 
 Our apple tart was ornamented with slices of 
 the peel cut in crescents and arranged around the 
 border. It did not add any to the nutriment 
 thereof, but it was pretty to look at and easier to 
 eat and cost nothing but a little care. It was 
 characteristically French. 
 
 Friday morning we were awakened at six 
 o'clock by the bell ringing for mass. We peered 
 out at the early worshippers but did not arise 
 until eight. At that hour people were still going 
 into church — mostly women. 
 
 After breakfast we walked to the chateau and 
 snapped the equestrian statue of Louis XII over 
 the entrance. Beneath it was the hedgehog or 
 porcupine of the House of Blois. There are good 
 points about such an emblem. In the courtyard 
 is an excellent view of the valley of the Loire. 
 Many fallen gargoyles are strewn about like a 
 stone-mason's nightmare. 
 
 We were taken in charge by an intelligent and
 
 i:\TIi.\XCI-: TO CHATEAU — BLOIS
 
 Chambord and Blois 115 
 
 intelligible guide who showed us through the 
 three wings of the castle named after their re- 
 spective builders, Francis I, Gaston and Louis 
 XII. There are some magnificent fireplaces, par- 
 ticularly in the Louis XII wing. He also built 
 the richly decorated Chapel of St. Calais ; his 
 betrothal to Anne of Brittany is depicted in one 
 of the windows. There are three Halls of the 
 Guard. We ascended the beautiful staircase built 
 by Gaston. The Francis I staircase is more mag- 
 nificent and also more complete, for the sculptor 
 who made the Gaston staircase died before fin- 
 ishing it and it stands as he left it. There are 
 salamanders everywhere, the sign manual of 
 Francis I. The bedroom of Henry II and Cath- 
 erine de Medici is handsomely furnished and has 
 beautifully carved stone doors. We invaded her 
 toilet room and stood in the apartment where she 
 died, unhappy, wicked, thwarted woman. 
 
 There are two hundred and ninety panels in 
 her study and writing room, no two alike. The 
 castle abounds in secret stairways, closets and 
 chambers. In the study, the guide pressed a 
 spring with his foot and the solid wall in front 
 of him opened, disclosing a closet. 
 
 We went out on the gallery and thence to the 
 dungeon, with an oubliette in the center of the 
 floor. We were now in the assassination center 
 of the Henry III administration. This vacillating
 
 n6 Three Weeks in France 
 
 coward killed the Cardinal de Guise in the dun- 
 geon. 
 
 On the floor above, his brother, the "scar-faced" 
 Francois, the second duke, was stabbed to death. 
 He died right where we were standing, but not 
 before he had received a kingly kick in the face 
 from Henry III who was himself to die by the 
 hand of a Dominican friar. That ended the 
 Valois line and opened the way for Henry of 
 Navarre, gay, rollicking soldier of fortune, Prot- 
 estant or Catholic as the situation demanded and 
 always the typical Gascon, with equal parts of 
 gas and con. The Jesuits were banished for 
 trying to assassinate him in 1595, although he had 
 joined the Catholic church in 1593. They wanted 
 to kill him while he was converted. 
 
 He was flat broke when he took the job and 
 even utilized the mourning clothes of his prede- 
 cessor, cut down to fit him. Armies were as un- 
 certain as Southern delegates in those days. 
 Sometimes a noble would take his gang and go 
 home without giving notice. Navarre was a born 
 leader. He showed great bravery in battle but 
 feared assassins in private. Men loved him. So 
 did women. At least fifty-six are known to have 
 done so. He was a small man. So many heroes 
 and lady killers are. At the Battle of Ivry he 
 wore a white plume on himself and another on 
 his horse. He realized the value of the front
 
 Chambord and Blois 117 
 
 page and had he lived to-day he would have been 
 a constant occupant thereof. 
 
 His conversion to Catholicism was due partly 
 to politics, partly to sentiment. Gabrielle de 
 Liancourt, his second mistress, knowing that the 
 Huguenots disapproved their liason urged him 
 to join a church with more catholic views. 
 
 Navarre took his degree in Roman Catholic- 
 ism before Paris would admit him. He wanted 
 to cut out the instruction and take the whole 
 business on faith but he had to go through with 
 it. He accepted purgatory because "through 
 the masses for the souls in purgatory you clergy 
 make such excellent revenues." But having re- 
 canted Protestantism, he turned a cold shoulder 
 on the Huguenots. The Edict of Nantes was the 
 sole sop thrown to them. 
 
 He gave France thousands of mulberry trees 
 and founded the silk industry. He and Sully did 
 much to improve agricultural methods in France. 
 He built most of the Louvre. His daughter 
 Henriette Maria was the wife of the ill-fated 
 Charles I of England. 
 
 Henry IV was assassinated in 1C10. From his 
 death the pot of the Revolution began to sim- 
 mer. 
 
 Just why we should have been lured from the 
 Chateau of Blois into a long dissertation regard- 
 ing Henry of Navarre, we do not know, except
 
 n8 Three Weeks in France 
 
 that to us he is the most fascinating figure in 
 history; not the most consistent, nor the most 
 admirable perhaps, but the most human. 
 
 The gallery of the throne room is gone but 
 they have left a most remarkable echo wander- 
 ing through these haunted chambers. There are 
 two figures over the door. One is a piper and 
 the other, to judge from his pained attitude, a 
 listener. 
 
 B. could not listen and interpret simultaneously, 
 so we had to look up afterward to see whether 
 the person mentioned was married or murdered 
 in certain rooms. This method insures accuracy 
 to the reader, but renders intelligent and appro- 
 priate emotion on the spot difficult. 
 
 There are not very many carriages for hire in 
 Blois. The only one near the hotel was taken, so 
 we climbed into a trolley car. Before the car 
 started the carriage was disengaged and we took 
 it. Just as the carriage drove off we had the 
 pleasure of seeing the trolley start. 
 
 We drove to the cathedral and down the rue 
 des Orfevres with its old houses, past rows of 
 garbage in the middle of the street, to the theatre 
 and market place. 
 
 As usual, we returned to the hotel out of 
 breath and found the untipped horde awaiting 
 our arrival and trembling lest we be late.
 
 A KALI-UN GARGOYLE — BLOIS
 
 Pau 119 
 
 D 
 
 VIII 
 
 Pan 
 
 T was very hot when we left Blois, and 
 we were booked for eleven hours 
 through the tropical portion of France. 
 Our destination was Bordeaux, but it 
 would have been folly to stop there on such a 
 day, so we kept right on to Pau and the 
 Pyrenees. There were six of us in an eight 
 place compartment. Each one had considerable 
 baggage and two were somewhat oversize. A 
 large man in a yellow duster sat by B.. while 
 my companion was a corpulent lady with a wide 
 hat who had the yielding surface and a good deal 
 of the temperature of a hot water bag. Every 
 one was frankly observant when I read or wrote. 
 Curiosity is a characteristic of the French. 
 Carlyle in his French Revolution quotes J. Caesar 
 who wrote a travel book nineteen centuries ago 
 and remarked on the volatility of the Gauls and 
 their fondness for news. 
 
 This abounding curiosity and love of novelty 
 is the basis for another trait, fickleness. Within
 
 120 Three Weeks in France 
 
 fifteen years after the inception of the French 
 Revolution when men committed every atrocity 
 in their frenzy for political liberty, on May 18, 
 1804. there was only one dissenting voice in the 
 Tribunate against making Napoleon emperor of 
 France. That was the voice of Carnot. 
 
 Flow on earth has even the semblance of a re- 
 public been built from such material surrounded 
 on every side by intriguants of the old regime 
 and honeycombed with antagonistic religious in- 
 fluences ? There can only be one reply. The op- 
 posing outside pressure has given solidity to a 
 mass that left to its own devices could never have 
 taken permanent form. 
 
 The pope himself came to Paris to crown the 
 joke and the coronation took place December 
 2, 1804, year thirteen of the Republic. Bona- 
 parte came late on the scene and reaped what he 
 had not sown, seizing a crown from the hands- 
 of a tired, fickle people. 
 
 The French are daring innovators. They think 
 logically and execute artistically. The Revolu- 
 tion had its inception in the Encyclopedists and 
 its culmination in the Code Napoleon. In the 
 Theatre Francois, the price of the seats is cut in 
 marble but the monogram of the government is 
 detachable. 
 
 They evolve brilliantly along all lines. Bicy- 
 cles, automobiles, aeroplanes, the gas engine, the
 
 Pau 121 
 
 mitrailleuse, submarines, photography and pyro- 
 metry find their highest development in France. 
 Here originated the decimal system, or rather here 
 it first took root after its invention by Stevin, a 
 Belgian. Berthelot developed modern chemistry 
 and Pasteur and Curie in their respective fields 
 made revolutionary discoveries. Stearine candles, 
 Argand burners, storage batteries, all are French. 
 A Frenchman deciphered the hieroglyphics. The 
 French after bringing silk manufacture to its 
 highest point, invented artificial silk. 
 
 They love new ideas. Franklin received 
 prompter recognition in France than in England 
 or America. We repeat, they are brilliant inno- 
 vators, working in an orderly, logical, artistic 
 manner. 
 
 And while most of our fellow passengers are 
 hanging out the corridor windows, gulping in 
 hot air we will try to maintain nature's equili- 
 brium by adding a few more words about France, 
 based largely on reading and confirmed by ob- 
 servation. 
 
 Since ever there has been a France she has em- 
 bodied the social instinct. The absence of in- 
 dividual spirit, the absence of the sense of 
 personal responsibility, the social interdependence 
 of the people, one associates at once with the in- 
 fluence of the Catholic church. 
 
 The great work of the Reformation was to
 
 122 
 
 Three Weeks in France 
 
 quicken the sense of personal responsibility by 
 awakening the conscience. It did away with 
 middlemen and put a man face to face with God 
 without benefit of saint or clergy. But the Ref- 
 ormation never made any headway in France. 
 
 A man's conscience should be moved from 
 within and not from without. It should be 
 propelled by springs, not spurs. Renunciation 
 and asceticism are virtues of the Catholic church 
 — but not of a Catholic community. 
 
 The church has organized its renunciation, and 
 sold the indulgence earned thereby to society. 
 Like citizens who desire to evade military duty, 
 the layman pays a substitute to do his spiritual 
 fighting and doubtless feels that he has obtained 
 full value. We have no quarrel with him if he 
 is satisfied. 
 
 The result is a splendid army of fighters and 
 a very much relaxed society. Thus we find in 
 French cities a condition of immorality which is 
 harmoniously evolved without spiritual restraint. 
 
 The French are the most homogeneous people 
 in the world. They are truly a nation. What 
 one notes in an individual is, more than in any 
 other country, a national trait. 
 
 Character counts less than capacity. They 
 worship intelligence. They become ennuied of 
 each other and are political epicureans. They 
 pay the penalty of the bon vivant to whom the
 
 Pau 123 
 
 most highly spiced viands taste flat, hence they 
 must have an occasional revolution. 
 
 There are few intellectual giants among the 
 French, but- this is due to the high general level. 
 France is not a plain with here and there a cloud 
 piercing peak. It is a plateau. 
 
 As remarked before, the great French are apt 
 to be Italians, but Italians who would never have 
 been great in Italy. 
 
 This plateau is great en masse. Great indi- 
 viduals like Mirabeau or Danton are apt to be in- 
 complete, to lack a balance wheel. They are not 
 illuminants, they are pyrotechnics. They are not 
 candles, they are Roman candles. 
 
 Solider building has been done by the entire 
 nation acting under the Corsican, Napoleon Bona- 
 parte, or the Genoese, Gambetta. The man who 
 planted the seed of the Revolution, Rousseau, 
 was a Swiss. 
 
 Because of their boiling at such a low temper- 
 ature there is a great deal of scolding in France 
 but no fighting. The landlady scolds the serv- 
 ants and they scold back. The driver scolds his 
 horse and hands him a lump of sugar. The 
 policeman scolds the driver but does not arrest 
 him. 
 
 The sensation that the French produce on an 
 impressionable foreigner is mental exhilaration. 
 All France is electric. Faris is shocking. Noth-
 
 124 Three Weeks in France 
 
 ing stagnates. Vivacity is universal and con- 
 tagious. This is what France stands for. Paris 
 will stand for anything. 
 
 This alert intelligence is unhampered by moral 
 restraint. Sam Small once remarked to the 
 writer, "If I had money and no moral sense, I 
 would rather live in Paris than anywhere else." 
 He who goes there with one soon loses the 
 other. 
 
 Nowhere outside of France could an aviation 
 meet at which a Minister of War was killed be 
 continued and a record broken on the same day, 
 as occurred in 191 1. 
 
 To admit a thing after it has been proved ; to 
 adopt it after it has been admitted : this is French, 
 and with them traditions, whether political or re- 
 ligious, have very little weight. 
 
 There is little emigration from France and 
 that little always hopes to return. 
 
 The contrast between the peasants and the 
 aristocracy is as remarkable now as it always has 
 been. The peasants are thrifty and conservative. 
 Only the wine growers are spendthrifts. Fertile 
 soil, admirably conserved, industry and economy 
 have made France rich. They are not colonists, 
 nor enterprising merchants, nor large manufac- 
 turers. One-third of the land in France is owned 
 by peasants whose individual holdings are less 
 than twenty acres. There are over three and a
 
 Pau 125 
 
 half million proprietors cultivating their own 
 land. In 1792 Arthur Young wrote "The magic 
 of property (ownership) turns sand to gold." 
 Contrast this result with the effect of the tenant 
 system in Great Britain and Ireland where they 
 are even losing their sand at present. 
 
 Taxes are about as high now as under Louis 
 XV but they are equally distributed and it costs 
 less to collect them. Napoleon did efficiently 
 with six thousand collectors the work that it re- 
 quired two hundred thousand to do badly under 
 Louis XV. The cost of collecting is now less 
 than five per cent. Under the old regime not 
 half the money collected reached the royal coffers. 
 The rest was graft. 
 
 In addition thereto the church was entitled to 
 its tithe but it was lenient and probably did not 
 get more than seven per cent. There were feudal 
 dues also. Quite often these three, king, church 
 and overlord, took one-half the earnings of a 
 land owner. 
 
 Some sections fared better. Languedoc, Prov- 
 ence and Dauphiny were usually prosperous. Or- 
 leans, Brittany and Limousin were as a rule 
 starving. 
 
 That is enough for a hot day, so I will return 
 to actual experiences. And the word "return" 
 reminds me that in France as in Holland and 
 other continental countries, round trip tickets
 
 i2o Three Weeks in France 
 
 are so much used that the first question a ticket 
 seller asks you after learning your class and des- 
 tination is "Retour?" You say "Aller," which 
 means "to go," unless you desire a return ticket. 
 
 Smoking is permitted in compartments marked 
 "Fumeurs" and in the corridor. Cigarettes are 
 universal. We rarely saw a cigar or pipe. Straw 
 hats are rare among the men. 
 
 Two women each with an infant in arms took 
 the two remaining seats in our compartment. 
 We are now "complet" plus two. We had an 
 opportunity to learn French baby talk, which does 
 not differ greatly from what we hear at home. 
 If there is a universal language it is the cooings 
 and murmurings of a young mother the world 
 over. The boy baby was learning to say "Vive 
 la France" with a droll baby salute. 
 
 Our car had nine compartments of eight places 
 each, so that seventy-two persons might ride in 
 it comfortably. 
 
 Once you take a seat, you can hold it by leaving 
 your hat or the morning paper therein. Your 
 rights are sacred even in the most crowded train. 
 
 We waited too long before going to the diner 
 and missed the table d'hote. For fifty cents each 
 we were served with omelette, meat, potatoes, 
 peas, cheese and plums. Everything that was 
 cooked was well cooked and seasoned perfectly.
 
 Pan 127 
 
 The water was too warm to drink and too cold 
 for shaving purposes. 
 
 Dogs are admitted to second-class compart- 
 ments if their owners provide tickets for them. 
 Two shared our corridor to Poitiers. They were 
 not friendly. 
 
 Mail is handled in France at a minimum of 
 expense in the provinces. The mail messenger 
 has no other uniform or badge of office than a 
 hat band with the word "Postes" on it. There 
 are no mail cars but a card is hung up in a second 
 class compartment window and that compartment 
 becomes the mail car pro tern. 
 
 At Poitiers we unwrapped our Baedeker of 
 Southern France. We were in the neighborhood 
 of Charlemagne's great victory over the Moors. 
 Coligny unsuccessfully besieged Poitiers in 1569. 
 The spires of Angouleme, St. Martial and the 
 Hotel de Ville form a beautiful sky line. It was 
 a Roman town and is now the center of the paper 
 industry. 
 
 It grew hotter as we neared Spain. We noted 
 many preparations for July 14th, Bastille Day. 
 Rural Maypoles were decked with the tri-color 
 and with straw decorations. 
 
 At Bordeaux we first noticed the tax of two 
 cents levied on each railroad ticket which costs 
 more than two dollars. 
 
 We put our baggage in a compartment on the
 
 128 Three Weeks in France 
 
 Pau train, feeling safe because the other occu- 
 pants were two nuns. Our car was not a cor- 
 ridor car, so we walked along the Bordeaux plat- 
 form to the "Restaurant Wagon" where we ate 
 dinner with more or less uneasiness, clambering 
 down the wrong side of the car and running the 
 length of the train at Morcenx where we re- 
 claimed our baggage. The gentle little nuns were 
 quite worried about us, being sure we had been 
 left at Bordeaux. Although we have never had 
 any mischances connected with these dining car 
 episodes we are glad that the corridor compart- 
 ment car is replacing the other sort, making it 
 possible for one to pass to the diner without leav- 
 ing the train. 
 
 The two sisters are going to Lourdes. They 
 are a mixture of attractiveness and repulsive- 
 ness. With gentle eyes, kindly faces and voices 
 that might win forgiveness for a sin-sick soul, 
 assuage the pain of the sick room, or allay the 
 terrors of the grim messenger, they combine 
 shaven heads and horrible teeth. 
 
 They no longer have the right to teach in 
 France, a drastic bit of remedy which one who 
 does not know the disease has no right to pass 
 upon. 
 
 We passed miles of pines being cupped and 
 bled for a peculiar resin used in making celluloid. 
 The market for celluloid collars is very wide in
 
 till <? ,1 ■ Sir li. 
 
 
 ENTRANCE TO CASTLE — PAT
 
 Pau 129 
 
 France. Well dressed traveling salesmen wear 
 them. 
 
 At Dax we took a breather on the platform 
 while the diner was being detached. Then "En 
 voiture," which means "all aboard," and "Prenez 
 garde" as the door bangs shut and we sizzled 
 southward again. 
 
 Soon we approached Pau, where the foothills 
 of the Pyrenees commence to stain the map a 
 pale yellow. The city is six hundred and seventy 
 feet above the sea and we hoped for cool weather. 
 We did not get it. Our day in Pau was the hot- 
 test of our journey and it was also our last hot 
 day in France. 
 
 B. selected a hotel that Baedeker says "over- 
 looks the Pyrenees." That sounds as careless to 
 me as the man who lost his bass drum. An ex- 
 amination of our bill at parting showed that the 
 hotel overlooked nothing but the Pyrenees in 
 making it out. 
 
 This is the country of Henry of Navarre, who 
 was born at Pau. His mother Jeanne d'Albret 
 was a remarkable woman. She was a Calvinist 
 and reared her son in that faith. She sang a 
 Bearnaise song when giving birth to the lusty 
 young infant whose- father, Antoine de Bourbon, 
 carried him off to rub his lips with a clove of 
 garlic in order to give him a taste of the local 
 Jurancon wine.
 
 130 Three Weeks in France 
 
 The boy was raised among peasants and al- 
 lowed to run barefoot over the hills. 
 
 Our bus drove up a zig-zag street through 
 the sleeping city. It was smelly around the de- 
 pot and it was not the odor of sanctity, although 
 most of the people in the waiting room were en 
 route to Lourdes. If the water from the Grotto 
 could be piped into bath tubs it would fill a longer 
 felt want than in any other way. 
 
 Pau was the noisiest city of our trip. Our hotel 
 was on the public square, with a cafe that was 
 sufficiently turbulent when in operation, but when 
 it closed it was a bedlam. Then a few carts rat- 
 tled over the stone pavement. Many of the horses 
 had bells on. An auto tooted past and at 5 :$o 
 A. M. a troop of horsemen in white uniforms 
 went galloping by. 
 
 All of this was particularly distressing because 
 we had chosen Pau as a haven of rest after an 
 eleven hours' ride on a hot day. 
 
 Bordeaux was at the boiling point. We would 
 not have stopped at Bordeaux if it had had four 
 cathedrals. No, not if it had not had a single 
 cathedral. 
 
 Bordeaux is the Battle Creek of the low-priced 
 wine industry. It gives the name to wine bottled 
 all over western and southern France. The Ga- 
 ronne, passing through it, looks like a real river 
 with excellent docks and crowded with shipping.
 
 Pau 131 
 
 Like all French ports it was having its troubles 
 on account of the strike of "les dockers." 
 
 Pau is a modern town dating from the tenth 
 century. She only had two celebrated sons and 
 one of them, Bernadotte, grew up a Swede, or 
 at least Napoleon handed him the crown of Swe- 
 den. Neither Henry IV nor Bernadotte, how- 
 ever, decks the square in front of our hotel, but 
 a statue of Bosquet who distinguished himself 
 in Algeria and the Crimea and was wounded at 
 the siege of Sebastopol. 
 
 A whole family on burros with turbans and 
 sashes of fiery red riding by, gave our street for 
 the moment an Andalusian tinge. We are not far 
 from Spain. 
 
 We rode on a tram to the castle and walked 
 two or three blocks, passing a school where we 
 were arrested by a chorus of several hundred 
 children shouting the Marseillaise at the tops of 
 their young voices. They were rehearsing for 
 Bastille Day. 
 
 This grand song of de Lisle's was born of the 
 Revolution and has been taken into the hearts 
 of the people very much as Dixie has been 
 adopted ; the former, the white ingot of a soul 
 inspired, the latter the simple melody of African 
 slaves. Verily the pedigree of a national air is 
 as unaccountable as is that of a national hero. 
 For while Dixie has never received legislative
 
 132 Three Weeks in France 
 
 sanction it is the one tune, north or south, that 
 is always greeted with shouts and followed by 
 applause. 
 
 A four-ox team, all blindfolded, picked its 
 way past us as we listened to the children shout- 
 ing "March on." The custom of blindfolding 
 draught cattle is almost universal on the con- 
 tinent. 
 
 At the castle we sat for awhile on a bench 
 under a massive sycamore and listened to the 
 Gave du Pau as its waters rushed under the new 
 stone bridge a few hundred yards down stream 
 from the moss-covered piers of its predecessor. 
 The hills across the river were clothed in every 
 shade of green from a pale yellow to a darkness 
 almost black. 
 
 There are many grand old towers around the 
 castle with interesting histories and poetic names. 
 The Bird Tower was so called because it could 
 only be entered by means of a ladder which in 
 case of siege was drawn up into the tower. 
 
 Within the castle we found many interesting 
 rooms. The Hall of the Guards contains two 
 pictures of Henry IV, one in the Tower of St. 
 Germaine, the other showing his assassination in 
 Paris. In the Officers' Dining Room are statues 
 of Henry IV and Sully to whom he owed much 
 of his solid and enduring fame. The rooms are
 
 Pau 133 
 
 hung with Gobelins tapestries representing Fran- 
 cis I riding to the chase. 
 
 The magnificent staircase is covered with M's 
 oft-repeated, the initial of Margaret of Valois, 
 to remind Henry to remove his shoes before go- 
 ing up stairs. After his divorce in 1599 he mar- 
 ried Marie de Medici, so he did not need to 
 change the marking. 
 
 At the top of the stairs was the waiting room 
 with more tapestry and a beautiful marble-topped 
 table left here by Francis I when he moved. 
 
 In the Reception Room six Catholic nobles 
 were murdered by order of Montgomery, an of- 
 ficer of Henry's mother. It has a fine fireplace 
 and contains several Sevres vases of very odd 
 design. Birds are painted on the china and en- 
 closed behind wires. There is also a magnificent 
 rose porphyry table in this room. 
 
 Rather than make this chapter read like the 
 catalogue of a second hand furniture dealer I 
 will refrain from telling of all the beautiful 
 things we saw. 
 
 Of course we visited the room in which Henry 
 IV was born and looked at the cradle in which he 
 was rocked. The latter is an immense tortoise 
 shell. 
 
 In the corridors is some Brussels tapestry rep- 
 resenting scenes from the life of John the Bap-
 
 134 Three Weeks in France 
 
 tist, including a very much overdressed Salome, 
 according to modern standards. 
 
 At the hotel, after dinner, we poked three bil- 
 liard balls around for awhile. If I could describe 
 that layout and that game I would ask no other 
 reward than to be permitted to do it. In the first 
 place there was no charge for billiards to guests. 
 That alone speaks volumes for the worthlessness 
 of the game. All of the balls were white. Two 
 of them had been "restored." You distinguished 
 them by the shapes. In playing for position, you 
 must take into consideration the flat side of 
 the ball and the depressions in the table. The 
 rails were dead, and after striking them with a 
 dull thud, the balls rolled listlessly down the 
 patched cloth with the gentle purr of a cog wheel. 
 The counters were of metal and affixed to the 
 sides of the table so that casual passers could not 
 see how shamefully low the score was. The cues 
 were fishing rods with tips on the small ends. 
 The chalk was blue with the blue of approaching 
 dissolution, for it was about gone. Two trian- 
 gular fragments the size of dimes were all that 
 remained. These had to be rubbed carefully over 
 the tips lest we lose them under our finger nails. 
 Nevertheless each of us had a lot of fun whenever 
 the other one shot. 
 
 There were many flies in the dining room and 
 this was true of all French dining rooms. A
 
 Pau 135 
 
 "swat the fly" campaign is badly needed. The 
 street was unbearably hot but our closed bedroom 
 was cool. 
 
 We concluded to drive about the baking city. 
 Madame took a horn from its hook, went to the 
 hotel door and blew. The very Methuselah of 
 drivers with a horse that must have known him 
 in youth responded to the call. He wanted three 
 francs an hour. No. He dropped to two and 
 a half. No. Finally he came down to two, the 
 legal rate, but in the interval we had spied a 
 sprightlier looking horse, signaled its driver who 
 readily closed with our two franc offer and we 
 drove out along the river. 
 
 I hope I am making it clear that in these strug- 
 gles over twenty cents I was fighting your 
 battle, if you intend ever to travel abroad. I do 
 not object to five francs an hour if that is the 
 tariff. My platform is, "No discrimination 
 without expostulation," and I will not pay more 
 than the resident Frenchman pays if I can help 
 it. 
 
 The Pyrenees, forty or fifty miles away were 
 shrouded in haze. We drove past the Place 
 Royale decorated with a statue of — guess! 
 Right ! Henry IV ! We entered the Park Beau- 
 mont where the White Plume of Ivry instantly 
 was eclipsed by some swans floating lazily and 
 gracefully over the surface of a pond.
 
 136 Three Weeks in France 
 
 At the entrance to the Park stands the Winter 
 Palace where summer vaudeville is given. We 
 visited it in the evening and will tell you about 
 it a page or two farther on. 
 
 We were proud to see that United States 
 Avenue was beautiful with a double row of mag- 
 nolia trees, young but like our own republic, full 
 of promise. 
 
 Everywhere they were stringing flags, electric 
 lights and Japanese lanterns for the 14th of July, 
 now only two days away. 
 
 I went into the Museum. B. returned to her 
 swans while I loafed through the small but in- 
 teresting collection of painting and sculptures. 
 One of the pictures illustrates an ancient French 
 joke and is called "Le Concierge est Tailleur." 
 Quite often the concierge is a tailor but more 
 often he is "ailleurs" (elsewhere) and by carry- 
 ing over the final "t" of the "est" you get a very 
 fair pun and one that Frenchmen cursed by ab- 
 senteeism among the concierges chuckle over fre- 
 quently. 
 
 One large painting represents the birth of 
 Henry IV, with his mother in a magnificent ball 
 dress singing the Bearnaise song. There are also 
 a "Henry IV at Notre Dame" and a "Henry IV 
 Assassination." 
 
 There are some good marbles on the first floor. 
 There is a real Bacchante swagger to the female
 
 Pau 137 
 
 figure of "The Vine" and the bas relief "Phil- 
 osophy and Life" is full of humor and keen 
 irony. Hero has pulled Leander out of the water 
 as usual, and he, damp from the Hellespont, is 
 reclining in her arms. 
 
 A bull fight was advertised at Bayonne for 
 July 28th. The Spanish proximity has resulted 
 in a considerable following for this form of 
 cowardly butchery in much of southwestern 
 France. 
 
 After leaving the Museum I awaited B's re- 
 turn, sitting in a dusty and grassless square under 
 a dense shade. The tri-color hung from every 
 branch. The Museum did not look any better 
 after longer acquaintance. It is a rectangular 
 barn of a building, but its collection of 'paintings 
 would make an American curator's mouth water. 
 
 We drank a citron presse, which was a lemon- 
 ade. If you ask for lemonade you are handed, 
 not a lemon, but a bottle of lemon pop. 
 
 While wringing the last drop from the lemon 
 my mind reverted to our first cabby of the day, 
 and at the risk of protesting too much, I hastily 
 jotted down a few words. The town was asleep, 
 the blinds of the shops were drawn and I felt 
 safe in writing what I thought. 
 
 It affords me no particular joy to witness the 
 groveling of a sixty year old man, underfed and 
 over-drunk, but I am actuated by purely patriotic
 
 138 Three Weeks in France 
 
 motives in emphasizing to these drivers the fact 
 that Americans are not the legitimate prey of 
 crude extortions. In doing this I must not only 
 work against the stream of past history, but of 
 present practice. This practice is due more to 
 ignorance of the language and fear of being 
 thought "cheap" than to any overwhelming liber- 
 ality on our part. At least, let us demand a little 
 finesse on the part of the extortioner and not 
 submit to crude efforts to increase a plainly 
 printed tariff without explanation or apology. 
 True, the tariff when doubled is not high com- 
 pared to prices at home, but it is not fair to put 
 us on an American basis unless the cost of our 
 steamer passage is deducted. As to the admir- 
 ation excited by the lavish tipping of "those rich 
 Americans" we can only draw attention to the 
 fact that the Frenchman of the hotel-servant class 
 is one of the best actors in the world and can 
 prostrate himself before the guest whom he may 
 be deriding five minutes afterwards. 
 
 This is no reflection on French sincerity. It 
 is a tribute to their art. It does not take many 
 days in France to tell which trait is more highly 
 cultivated. Tell a Frenchman that he is artistic 
 but insincere and he will smile and shrug his 
 shoulders. Tell him that he is sincere but in- 
 artistic and you have started something. 
 
 In other words, the social instinct is the French
 
 Pau 139 
 
 motive power. Externals count for everything. 
 Their conscience is extraneous. Like the mir- 
 rors in Dutch windows it is used to detect what 
 is going on outside. 
 
 Public opinion, custom, is everything. The 
 French are ruled by honor more than duty. 
 Hence their code of morals while broader is less 
 liable to be stretched beyond the lines. Whether 
 this is a cause or effect of Catholicism is difficult 
 to determine. At any rate it conforms to the 
 idea of putting your spiritual affairs into the 
 hands of proxies. 
 
 Americans have individual standards which 
 vary not only in individuals but in the same in- 
 dividual. Hence the American away from home 
 behaves worse than when at home. The Parisian 
 does not. He cannot. He has not the facilities. 
 
 He falls into sin easier but it worries him less, 
 and he gets out of it more quickly. His main 
 consideration, like the sailor sweetheart of Poll, 
 is to have his heart right. 
 
 It is a dangerous doctrine and one not for ex- 
 port, although it would pass the custom house 
 easily. It has no duties attached. 
 
 Brownell in "French Traits" says : "What 
 would be vice among us remains in France social 
 irregularity induced by sentiment. * * * 
 The irregularity may be very great, and the 
 sentiment very dilute, but between these and such
 
 140 Three Weeks in France 
 
 vice as social irregularity of the kind generally 
 means with us, the distance is very great and the 
 distinction very radical." 
 
 In other words, the French can balance them- 
 selves more nicely — are more Blondin-like — on 
 ropes which would form an insufficient footing 
 to an American. 
 
 They must not be judged by our standards. 
 The complete absence of divorce in a Catholic 
 society in France has a tendency to substitute a 
 de facto evil for one de legis. They are shocked 
 by our divorces without sufficient reasons. We 
 are shocked by their sufficient reasons without 
 divorces. 
 
 If marriage is understood by an entire com- 
 munity not to be a contrivance to "bind love to 
 last forever," the principal objection to binding 
 marriage to last forever disappears. 
 
 In other words, if you can dissolve the obliga- 
 tions of matrimony, the permanence of the tie 
 becomes less important. Thus anti-divorce laws 
 make inevitable in France the evils which are the 
 frequent cause of divorce in the United States. 
 
 The above soliloquy was started at a sidewalk 
 cafe and finished in our cooler quarters at the 
 hotel. We then rolled up the curtain, opened 
 the window and found the temperature much 
 lower outside and arranged to attend a vaude-
 
 Pau 141 
 
 ville performance at the Winter Palace, tickets 
 ten cents, reserved seats, five cents extra. 
 
 While on the subject of prices, I will mention 
 that our laundry bill at Pau was seventy cents 
 for what would have cost us one dollar and ten 
 cents at home. Even after replacing the buttons 
 we were ahead. At that, the hotel made money, 
 for the average daily pay of a laundress is about 
 thirty cents. 
 
 The Winter Palace is a glass-enclosed amphi- 
 theatre with a temperature conducive to the 
 growth of almost anything except audiences. It 
 has a large concert room in the center of which 
 is a table for playing "Little Horses," the real 
 raison d'etre for the Palace, as we discovered 
 later in the evening. The theater is at one side 
 of the room and a few people sat down in front 
 of a stage of fair proportions where a good sized 
 orchestra played popular airs. There were four- 
 teen musicians and they were better drilled than 
 dressed. In fact, they were almost shabby. The 
 men in the audience kept their hats on until the 
 performance started. A man passing in front 
 of a seated lady would remove his hat with an 
 inimitable Gallic sweep and replace it on his 
 head after sitting down beside her. 
 
 By nine o'clock the thermometer had dropped 
 thirty degrees and the roof was creaking with 
 contracting glass. At nine-thirty the men of the
 
 142 Three Weeks in France 
 
 orchestra went out for ten minutes and thirteen 
 drinks, leaving the lady high — and dry — at the 
 piano. Then a bell rang long and loud and the 
 musicians accompanied the audience into the 
 auditorium, with the audience only slightly in the 
 majority. 
 
 Three knocks and the curtain went up. They 
 always do their knocking before the show in 
 France. The first performer gave a "grapho- 
 logue," a talk on penmanship, and read the char- 
 acters of several who sent up their signatures. 
 Then three child acrobats did a turn. They will 
 be tumblers some day. At present they are little 
 more than wine glasses. Then there was an ex- 
 tended entr'acte to give the gamblers a chance. 
 
 Afterwards, part of the audience strolled re- 
 luctantly back to listen to an amateurish young 
 woman try to gesticulate with her collar bone 
 while singing an amorous ditty or two. She 
 made two unsolicited returns to the stage amid 
 deep silences. Finally a Spanish team, a man and 
 a woman, did a tabloid opera. The husband left 
 his wife to visit the city. The tempter came and 
 smothered her in jewels. The husband returned 
 and enraged by the character of the jewelry — 
 you could see from the back row that it was 
 paste — denounced her. She begged him to kill 
 her. Instead he sang a tenor solo to her, the 
 coward! And the curtain descended between the
 
 Pau 143 
 
 afflicted woman and an innocent audience forced 
 to share her punishment. 
 
 The game of Little Horses has a lay-out sim- 
 ilar to roulette, but with nine numbers. The 
 one who strikes the right number is paid seven 
 for one, a percentage that makes cheating abso- 
 lutely unnecessary. 
 
 The bets were single francs as a rule and the 
 patrons seemed to be clerks and shop girls. 
 
 We listened awhile to the monotone of the 
 man who rolled the ball. "Marquez vos jeux" 
 followed by "s'en fait" as the ball was rolled 
 and "ne va plus" a contraction of "rien ne va 
 plus" as a signal to stop betting on that turn. 
 There were two croupiers and an intoxicated pro- 
 prietor. It all looked very wicked to us but we 
 had not yet seen Monte Carlo.
 
 144 Lourdes 
 
 IX 
 
 Lourdes 
 
 0N hour and ten minutes from the busy, 
 commercial city of Pau is Lourdes, the 
 I most popular of modern shrines. Its 
 
 discovery was as accidental as that of 
 Cripple Creek or buried Pompeii. Just who 
 learned of the medicinal qualities of the spring, 
 if it has any, is not known, but Bernadette 
 Soubirous was the instrument chosen to reveal 
 them to a suffering world. This occurred as 
 recently as 1858. She was a shepherdess, four- 
 teen years of age, when she saw the visions 
 which led to the establishment of the shrine. It 
 was a success from the beginning. It seemed to 
 heal every one but Bernadette, who saw it first. 
 She was a lifelong sufferer from asthma and died 
 after twenty-one years of invalidism in 1879. 
 Mean way to treat a press agent. 
 
 Once Lourdes had a bastille. Prisoners were 
 sent here by letters de cachet before the Revolu- 
 tion. By the way, these letters while bad enough
 
 Lourdes 145 
 
 in principle were not such frequent implements 
 of tyranny as popular writers would lead us to 
 believe. Not one in a thousand was issued for 
 political reasons. They were principally used by 
 parents to control vicious or disobedient sons. 
 Much capital has been made of the fact that Mir- 
 abeau was arrested by this process. He was. 
 Twice. Both times his father requested it and 
 we imagine there are fathers in the free republic 
 of the United States who would like to revive 
 the custom. Men of low degree, mere bourgeoise, 
 frequently controlled wayward sons and daugh- 
 ters by their means. Husbands had wives ar- 
 rested in their evil courses and vice versa. Most 
 of the cases have much of the intimacy of detail 
 found in modern divorce courts. One cobbler 
 refused to be released saying that he was happier 
 than with his wife, so he cobbled his life away 
 in prison. 
 
 We were a month ahead of the grand rush at 
 Lourdes which starts on Assumption Day, Aug- 
 ust 15th, and is participated in by people from 
 all over the world. It keeps up for a month. 
 Still there were plenty of people there, many of 
 whom did not lean on miraculous power for sus- 
 tenance, judging by the numerous signs warning 
 the public against pick-pockets. Isn't it a shame, 
 right here where you can buy candles at not over 
 five hundred per cent profit and receptacles for
 
 146 Three Weeks in France 
 
 healing water at a similar rate, that pickpockets 
 should try to start a little game of their own? 
 
 Modern plumbing assists in the miracles at 
 Lourdes by conveying water to basins in which 
 the sick bathe. The water is very cold. 
 
 In going to Lourdes we passed through Coar- 
 raze where Henry IV was brought up barefooted 
 and bareheaded, after the manner of the peas- 
 ant's children. We were skirting Spain. We saw 
 occasional corn fields and many fences, rail, stone 
 and hedge. By the time we reached Defau the 
 clouds were lifting from the mountains on our 
 right. After Montant-Betharrum, the scenery 
 became beautiful. The gorges were black with 
 mist. At St. Pe, B. startled me by saying "Isn't 
 that dam pretty?" It was only a little cascade 
 harnessed to a millwheel. We grew gaspy and 
 rushed from side to side of our cage devouring 
 snatches of scenery with our eyes. 
 
 The approach to Lourdes was picturesque. 
 We could see hundreds toiling up the Way of the 
 Cross. The old castle is a ruin. We took a 
 street car to the church. Here we had our first 
 encounter with the highly developed commercial 
 sense which pervades this shrine village. Car- 
 fare which is two cents in winter is three cents 
 from April to October. The foreigner pays the 
 tax. Our conductor smoked a cigarette as he
 
 Lourdes 147 
 
 took our fare. The signal to start the car is one 
 ring and three rings stop it. 
 
 We were broke, and feeling that we had better 
 be healed financially before seeking other aid we 
 stopped at the local shrine of the Credit Lyonnais 
 to have an express order cashed. We were 
 courteously accommodated after signing the 
 order twice and a receipt twice, once on each of 
 the revenue stamps affixed thereto. The price of 
 the stamps, six cents, was the only charge made. 
 
 We trammed to the Church of the Rosary, 
 very beautiful and very new. Several fine statues 
 decorate the Place in front, including one of the 
 Virgin in blue robes. The interior of the church 
 is built largely of "merci" tablets. 
 
 They were still working on the massive stone 
 staircase. Fourteen men by actual count were 
 in consultation over the raising of a ladder. It 
 was evident that the work would continue for 
 some time. 
 
 There were no 14th of July decorations in 
 Lourdes. Probably the local administration 
 would be glad to re-build the bastille if they could 
 put a few heretical deputies therein. 
 
 We returned to the station where we had 
 eight minutes in which to reclaim our baggage 
 and get on the train. Nevertheless our porter 
 obtained a light for his cigarette before saunter- 
 ing slowly to the check room.
 
 148 Three Weeks in France 
 
 We visited Gavarnie before completing our 
 inspection of Lourdes, whither we returned two 
 days later. 
 
 Lourdes needs no station signs. The dismal 
 array of wheeled chairs at the depot tells you 
 that you are at some place that promises help to 
 the afflicted. 
 
 On our second visit we rode through the nar- 
 row streets banked in on both sides by objects of 
 piety on the shelves and objects of pity in front 
 of the counters trying to appease a wrathful 
 Deity with gewgaws. We walked to the foot of 
 Scala Sancta. It is forbidden to mount these 
 steps except on your knees. At the top is the first 
 Station on the Way to the Cross. The figures 
 are of bronze and more than life-size. They tell 
 their story eloquently. Each of the seventeen 
 Stations is a highly dramatic group in bronze. 
 You can obtain a nine years' indulgence if you 
 confess, climb up the steps on your knees and 
 "prier aux intentions du Pape." If I misinterpret 
 the sign I do so in all reverence. It is too pro- 
 found a mystery to my benighted intellect even 
 for comment. The tenth station was given by 
 the Catholics of Hungary and erected in 19 12. 
 The Calvary groups are especially impressive. 
 There are women praying at the foot of the 
 Cross to-day as every day at some cross for al- 
 most nineteen centuries.
 
 Lourdes 149 
 
 We did not intend to make the Stations. We 
 were looking for the Grotto. In order to pre- 
 vent your doing a similar penance, which when 
 unintentional cannot do you any good, we will 
 tell you how to reach the Grotto from in front of 
 the church. Simply walk around to the right of 
 the foot of the stairs and it is only a minute or 
 two away. There are no signs and during the 
 dull season there is not enough of a procession 
 headed that way to indicate its location. 
 
 In front of the Grotto with its impressive 
 statue of the Virgin, many were bathing hands 
 and temples in the water. They buy small flasks, 
 fill them at the taps and use the healing fluid to 
 their heart's content. There is no charge for the 
 water so used. All pray as they let the tiny 
 stream trickle from the flasks onto their hands. 
 All use their rosaries. 
 
 The Grotto is framed in canes, crutches and 
 trusses left or sent there by the lame who were 
 healed. No one could fail to be impressed by the 
 scene. No normal minded man could scoff at 
 their faith whatever his own. If one-tenth of 
 the discarded crutches represent even temporary 
 relief, little Bernadette's visions were blessed 
 ones. Perhaps they were only fooled into being 
 well, but the illusion which fools you into being 
 well is a great deal better than the hallucination 
 that sometimes says you are sick.
 
 i so Gavarnie and Luz 
 
 X 
 
 Gavarnie and Luz 
 
 D~| N traveling from Lourdes to Pierrefitte 
 we required forty-nine minutes to go 
 __ thirteen miles. Clearly we were out of 
 the miracle zone. 
 At Soum on our left is a steep railway which 
 B. in her excitement called a "vernacular." A 
 train of tiny light blue cars was just entering a 
 tunnel, so high up that they might have received 
 their tint from rubbing against the sky. Again 
 we resumed our trotting back and forth from one 
 side of the car to the other. First a mountain 
 on our right attracted us by its bold shading and 
 then the Gave on our left, made jealous by our 
 neglect, would change from a placid stream to a 
 foaming torrent as it jumped from rock to rock, 
 kicking its feet in the air like a spoiled child. 
 
 On one side were foothills framed in moun- 
 tains; on the other were picturesque washer- 
 women wherever the stream leveled up for ten 
 yards pounding away at unusually tough buttons 
 with unbounded zeal. Just who wears these
 
 Gavarnie and Luz 151 
 
 clothes when they are clean is a mystery. As 
 Mark Twain remarked of the southern Italians, 
 they seem to have two sets of clothes, one to wear 
 and the other to wash. 
 
 We sat down and pitied the thousands who 
 visit Paris every year and ignore the "provinces." 
 The mist softened everything except the task of 
 taking pictures. The cloud factories were all at 
 work turning out unlimited draperies for the 
 bare hills — and not so bare either, for they were 
 cultivated to the limit. 
 
 We had to wait at Angelis to let our schedule 
 catch up with us. Try as he might, our engineer 
 could not keep from gaining on it. We left 
 Lourdes five minutes late, had been back pedal- 
 ing all the way and still had nine minutes in 
 which to make a three-mile dash. We probably 
 gained in speeding through the towns. The 
 engineer seemed to have adopted the practice of 
 the stagecoach driver in quickening his pace 
 when entering a village. 
 
 There were no snow-clad mountains as yet 
 and no water-falls, but whole forests of chestnut 
 trees. 
 
 At Pierrefitte we changed to a tram for Luz. 
 This was a forty-six minute climb. The second- 
 class section was. filled with passengers who got 
 off at the first village, but in the meanwhile we 
 had paid fourteen cents each on the tram for
 
 152 Three Weeks in France 
 
 seats in the first-class. Here we were alone. Our 
 compartment was the front one and we had a 
 splendid view of the unfolding scenery from the 
 platform. We crept along beside the Gave for 
 miles. This stream not only furnishes most of 
 the scenery which drew us to Luz but the power 
 which drew us through the scenery. Many of 
 these streams have been tapped for power and 
 the mountain .sides are striped with titanic ex- 
 posed plumbing, the pipes which harness this 
 great force and bend it to the will of man. How 
 many tons of sparkling water does that under- 
 sized motorman turn on and off with the pres- 
 sure of a hand? He is as indifferent to the 
 power he controls as he is to the beautiful scenery 
 which to him is a daily grind, widening and dim- 
 inishing the distance between him and his fire- 
 side as he is passed back and forth like a shuttle. 
 It is a single track road. It is rarely crossed by 
 the wagon road, so he rolled a cigarette and 
 smoked it as he read a letter from his sweetheart. 
 
 The name Gave means "torrent." 
 
 Finally we began our descent into the valley. 
 We crossed a bridge and five minutes before we 
 reached Luz, we both said "Oh!" It was our 
 first glimpse of snow on the trip. 
 
 At Luz we hired a two-horse carriage for two 
 days for six dollars. This included the feed of 
 the horses and it is safe to assume that the meals
 
 Gavarnie and Luz 153 
 
 and lodging of the driver were included in the 
 rate made us at Gavarnie, our destination. Our 
 faultless French which had never failed us be- 
 fore failed to make this smiling jehu compre- 
 hend the hotel we desired to patronize, but while 
 nodding acquiescence he took us to the one that 
 he considered best for us. But I am getting 
 ahead of my story. 
 
 We drove first to St. Sauveur. The owner of 
 the carriage rode part way with us, sometimes 
 beside the driver, sometimes on the step, some- 
 times on foot, but always spouting voluble 
 French and arguing the rate question. The word 
 "spouting" must have originated in France, for 
 the French cabby when excited is the dampest 
 talker imaginable. Whenever a driver starts to 
 argue with me, I involuntarily mutter "Let us 
 spray," and turn up my coat collar. 
 
 We stopped at St. Sauveur, high up in the 
 mountains, a beautifully located health resort 
 patronized by old ladies of both sexes. Nothing 
 could be more enchanting than to sit in this 
 glass-enclosed dining room, eat a bountiful and 
 well cooked dinner and talk of the wonderful 
 Cirque and Cascade of Gavarnie. Our hopes 
 were high, naturally, being raised under glass, 
 but they never even hinted at the grandeur of 
 the reality. 
 
 It started to rain as we finished our dinner
 
 154 Three Weeks in France 
 
 but the driver with an optimism worthy of a 
 Dublin jarvie (the best weather liars on earth 
 outside the government prognosticators), assured 
 us that it would soon stop. 
 
 If you drive to Gavarnie, do not fail to break 
 your journey at St. Sauveur and eat at the Hotel 
 des Bains to the music of the torrent hundreds 
 of feet below you, and maybe the pretty waitress 
 will give you a big purple fleur de lis. Mind you, 
 we do not promise the latter, but one was given 
 to us. 
 
 The women of the Bearne region wear black 
 stockings and low cut white cloth shoes often 
 with white tapes crossed and re-crossed around 
 the ankle. 
 
 Leaving St. Sauveur we soon crossed the Pont 
 Napoleon III, dating from i860, another mon- 
 ument to that ill-starred monarch whose perma- 
 nent and practical benefits of this sort are 
 scattered all over France. 
 
 We took a photograph of it. The driver 
 said, "Wait, This is nothing. After while, mag- 
 nifique !" 
 
 At the Gate of Spain, the thrifty coachman 
 again begged us to conserve our films. We told 
 him we had five hundred. He tossed both hands 
 in the air in well-simulated amazement. 
 
 Four little mills like over-grown coffee grind- 
 ers levy passing tribute from a diminutive
 
 Gavarnie and Luz 155 
 
 mountain brook. We drove through twelve miles 
 of these delightful scenes on a smooth, hard 
 road with a spirited team. Our course lay be- 
 tween green hills and beside sparkling waters. 
 Fortunately, it began to rain hard as my stock 
 of adjectives ran low. We put up the top, 
 drew the rubber apron over us and drove along, 
 peering from under our hood like a two-headed 
 tortoise. 
 
 Our driver was old, our horses were fractious 
 and we passed many automobiles going into Luz. 
 The road is barely wide enough for two vehicles 
 and ours was on the outside. A wall three feet' 
 high protected us from a plunge of several hun- 
 dred feet into the Gave. In many places the wall 
 had been washed away or, cheering thought, 
 demolished by caroming carriages. 
 
 At Gedre we paused to let our steaming horses 
 breathe. We were invited into the inn but pre- 
 ferred to bear the ills we had than fly to others 
 that we could judge of by glimpses into a 
 crowded lounging room. The driver intimated 
 that he would not mind being so wet if he 
 were not so dry and we attended to his necessities. 
 
 Then he donned the universal raincoat of the 
 Pyrenees — cape and hood — and we drove on. 
 The cape varies in length from shoulder to the 
 waist or the heels, and the hood is cone-shaped. 
 We passed many road supervisors similarly at-
 
 156 Three Weeks in France 
 
 tired. Their business is to keep open the chan- 
 nels alongside the road, thus preventing wash- 
 outs and overflows. Usually this duty is per- 
 formed by women, or very old men. They wear 
 wooden shoes and no stockings. 
 
 At Gedre our driver borrowed an umbrella of 
 the innkeeper. It was an easy umbrella to bor- 
 row. The stick had been amputated midway of 
 the ribs and the puzzle was to insert the frac- 
 tured end into the point of juncture of the ribs 
 and then hoist the umbrella. A young and active 
 man sitting on a bench in a quiet park on a 
 perfectly calm day might have accomplished it in 
 an hour. For an old man, tremulous with age, 
 exposure and dissipation, driving two skittish 
 horses on a narrow road in a blinding rain and 
 past tooting automobiles, it was an impossibility. 
 But that did not keep him from trying. Fre- 
 quently he would put the slippery reins under his 
 soggy right leg and go to work on his forlorn 
 hope just as we were in the narrowest part of the 
 road. At other times he would lean as far back 
 as he could and try to penetrate our retreat and 
 expectorate information at us while the team 
 was jogging along at a five-minute gait. But 
 notwithstanding several pirouettes right up to 
 the retaining wall we finally reached Gavarnie in 
 black darkness and amid a pouring rain. That
 
 Gavarnie and Luz 157 
 
 was why we accepted the hotel forced on us by 
 circumstances and the driver. 
 
 We were four miles from the Cirque. The 
 balance of the journey must be made on the 
 morrow on the backs of mules. Doleful visions 
 of Killarney and the Gap of Dunloe filled our 
 dreams, but like so many troubles they vanished 
 when approached. 
 
 The Cirque is a natural amphitheatre two and 
 a quarter miles wide, the setting for the cascade 
 of Gavarnie, thirteen hundred and eighty-five 
 feet high, the highest in Europe except two in 
 Norway. 
 
 In the morning the mists had raised and there 
 within a mile of us, as though it had been brought 
 by the clouds of last night, we discovered a snow- 
 clad mountain just making its toilet and comb- 
 ing back its mists. You could almost hear it 
 declare that it had washed its clouds the night 
 before and could not do a thing with them. 
 
 We were over four thousand feet above sea 
 level. The drivers call this a two hours' drive 
 from St. Sauveur. Be not deceived. It took us 
 three hours and our team was not a slow one. 
 
 We woke up on the Glorious Fourteenth. Vive 
 la Republique! The first celebrants were the 
 wild birds. They tuned up at five twenty. At 
 five thirty the French National bird, the chante- 
 cler began to chant. At five forty-five a real 
 Rocky Mountain canary brayed soul fully under
 
 158 Three Weeks in France 
 
 our window. That ended the inarticulate chorus. 
 At six the chambermaids took up the refrain. 
 At six thirty the guests commenced fantasias on 
 the electric bells and by seven every one was 
 awake but the Boots. 
 
 This region is very like South Cheyenne Can- 
 yon. The murmur of distant cascades sounds 
 like rain on forest leaves and lulls you into deep 
 slumber. 
 
 I walked to the point where the Cascade can 
 be seen. I am not emotional, but my eyes filled 
 with tears at the grandeur of the sight. The 
 early mist had broken away from the falls and 
 formed a frame about them. Above, the solid 
 masses of white snow lying against the black 
 rocks, constitute an inexhaustible water supply. 
 The air was clear and later the mists rose and 
 the sun shone brightly. 
 
 Yesterday's barometer pointed to "Very dry" 
 as we alighted from our dripping carriage, and 
 we scoffed at it. To-day we apologize. 
 
 The Cirque looked a scant half mile away. It 
 was in reality four miles. The magnificent pro- 
 portions dwarfed everything. 
 
 The village of Gavarnie was going about its 
 duties. The children were preparing to cele- 
 brate, unmoved by what to them is a daily view. 
 But the colossal impertinence of fireworks in the
 
 Gavarnie and Luz 159 
 
 presence of the Cascade and Cirque of Gavarnie 
 struck us. 
 
 The Gave, itself a dream picture in its white 
 foam and green pools, was neglected in the pres- 
 ence of grander things. Every hillside was 
 threaded with cascades as a result of the rains 
 of the day before. Two burros stood immovable 
 at the side of a torrent and at another point where 
 the angle softens to say thirty degrees, women 
 were washing clothes in the stream. Profan- 
 ation ! 
 
 A life-size, death-like crucifix guards the street 
 to our hotel. This is a center for mountain 
 climbers and many such are buried in the little 
 cemetery in Gavanie. The hotel hat rack had 
 several alpenstocks reposing in it. 
 
 Our driver was up, bright and early, dried 
 without, but still boiling within. We told him 
 we would not need him until after lunch. 
 
 We slept under two blankets, a quilt and our 
 rain coats. They wisely put heavy mattresses 
 under you in this climate. Thus far, we had not 
 slept in an uncomfortable bed in France. 
 
 If you have binoculars or field glasses, take 
 them to Gavarnie. You will have more need for 
 them there than on shipboard. 
 
 After breakfast we bargained for two burros, 
 Navarre and Baptiste by name. We rode out 
 along a bridle path and followed the dry bed of
 
 160 Three Weeks in France 
 
 a torrent to the Cirque. The ride was indescrib- 
 able. You simply must see it. We rode toward 
 the Cascade all the time. Never for a minute 
 was it out of our sight. It dwarfed what would 
 otherwise be magnificent waterfalls. Many 
 which dropped four or five hundred feet and dis- 
 solved into rainbows, scarcely wetting the ground, 
 were almost unnoticed. 
 
 Baptiste, my bird of passage, went around 
 corners and past rocks with a reckless "sauve 
 qui peut" which utterly disregarded my pres- 
 ence on his back. Consequently I was emblaz- 
 oned with the tri-color on several parts of my 
 anatomy. Navarre was the pacemaker. Instead 
 of a white plume she bore aloft two saffron ears, 
 easily visible from any point in the procession. 
 Each had a driver. B. had requested a slow 
 beast, and it would be a happy world did every 
 one get what he wanted as completely as B. did. 
 Most of Navarre's hair had been pushed off her 
 hind quarters by the donkey-boy. 
 
 What with shouting, beating and pushing we 
 finally reached our destination, the Hotel du 
 Cirque, and ordered drinks all around, except for 
 Baptiste. That intelligent beast was well named 
 for he loitered amid-stream every time we crossed 
 a brook and drank at every opportunity. He also 
 cropped grass in places where a sheep would 
 starve, whenever we stopped to take a photo-
 
 Gavarnie and Luz 161 
 
 graph. Altogether he was a selfish beast and 
 as I inventory my fading tri-colors I cannot re- 
 gret the termination of our association. 
 
 After lemonade, I sat down beside a fat, black 
 snail four inches long which must have passed 
 us on our way to the Cirque, and watched the 
 long-horned yellow cows grazing on steeps that 
 would puzzle a burro to negotiate. These cows 
 wear iron shoes like horse-shoes that help them 
 cling to the sloping pastures. 
 
 We returned to Gavarnie more rapidly than 
 we left it. Going home the burros needed brakes 
 rather than goads. The drivers call "sto" when 
 they mean "stop," and "harree" for "hurry," two 
 obvious adaptations from the English. They 
 hastened to explain that the words were not 
 French but patois. 
 
 The grandeur of our surroundings and the 
 fact that it was the holy Sabbath made us neglect 
 to confirm the price made by the hotel porter for 
 the mules. Consequently our four franc ride 
 cost us five francs each. It was worth all it cost 
 but one hates to be "had" as the English say. 
 
 The farmhouses about Gavarnie are quite like 
 those in Switzerland except that abundant grass 
 makes thatched roofs more the rule. The whole 
 landscape is a Burbanking of Switzerland and 
 Killarney. It has the green of Ireland set in the 
 snows of the Pyrenees.
 
 1 62 Three Weeks in France 
 
 The Cirque is a stream of grandeur and color. 
 You have to force yourself to accept the state- 
 ment that it is over two miles wide. The moun- 
 tains over which is draped the Grand Cascade are 
 strongly reminiscent of the Grand Canyon of the 
 Colorado but without the overwhelming colors 
 of the latter. You get more of that coloring on 
 the sides of the mountain north of Gavarnie as 
 you return to the village. 
 
 Large ladies or old ones or unskillful eques- 
 triennes should ask for a "fauteuil" in place of 
 a sidesaddle. That is a box which transforms 
 the donkey into a jaunting car on stilts. It is 
 suspended from the side of the tiny beast and a 
 small burro with a fat lady barnacled on one 
 side of him looks like an ant taking home a 
 lump of sugar. No creature less sinewy and 
 shameless than a burro would carry such a bur- 
 den. 
 
 It was the fete day of the son and heir of the 
 proprietor of the Hotel du Cirque. He was three 
 years old and will probably cherish the illusion 
 for some time that all France is celebrating his 
 birthday on each recurring 14th of July. He 
 looked a little soldier as he stood erect for his 
 picture. 
 
 After lunch and a musical "bon voyage" from 
 the women running the Gavarnie hotel, we 
 started on our drive back to Luz. Of course,
 
 Gavarnie and Luz 163 
 
 we dodged two or three servants whom we had 
 never seen before, after tipping every one who 
 had been of the slightest service to us. 
 
 We drove past a magnificent bronze figure of 
 Count Henry Russell, seated on the unquarried 
 rock of the mountain side. He was born at 
 Toulouse in 1834 and died at Biarritz in 1909, a 
 traveler, explorer and scientist. The memorial 
 was erected by the Alpine Club and is a mag- 
 nificent conception by Leroux. 
 
 Nothing could surpass the sparkling perfection 
 of our return to Luz. The sun was bright and 
 the mountain air was tonic in its effects. The 
 clearer light brought out new beauties in the 
 Gave which romped and gamboled at our side all 
 the way. 
 
 The natural formations in this region are mar- 
 velous, culminating in one grand sweep of rocks, 
 covering acres of mountain side and splendidly 
 named "Chaos." Here, like clods turned up by 
 a plowshare, are gigantic boulders, larger than 
 cottages, leaning against each other in all sorts 
 of fantastic attitudes. 
 
 Our road zig-zagged in a triple terrace down 
 into the valley to Gedre, where our driver re- 
 turned the umbrella with as profuse thanks as 
 though it had saved him from a drenching. 
 
 Near St. Sauveur a slender cross at the top of 
 a mountain caught our eye. It marks the spot
 
 164 Three Weeks in France 
 
 where a few years ago a seventeen year old 
 shepherdess fell from the cliffs and was killed. 
 She is buried near where she fell. 
 
 We stayed all night in Luz and before dinner 
 walked out to the old church founded by Temp- 
 lars and having portions dating from the 
 twelfth century. The sacristan (early Victor- 
 ian) showed us the tiny museum with fragments 
 of old crucifixes and ancient statuettes. Two old 
 paintings are shown but time and a leaky roof 
 have almost obliterated their outlines. Part of 
 one of the old doors is Roman. 
 
 When one looks down the main street in Luz, 
 the mountain which closes the prospect is so 
 steep that it looks like a drop curtain. We 
 planned to use it as a guide when returning to 
 the hotel but found that there were mountains 
 on every side. We were not lost, just "bewild- 
 ered," and eventually found the hotel. 
 
 In the meanwhile, the mist was creeping down 
 the valley like an army with banners and soften- 
 ing the landscape before obliterating it. 
 
 On the main street a small booth was being 
 hung with lanterns and the tri-color in prepar- 
 ation for speeches and music in the evening. 
 
 We sat on the balcony of our hotel and 
 watched the scenes in the street. A fight started 
 in the cafe opposite between a waiter and a 
 guest. A bunch of boys ran out. The two men
 
 Gavarnie and Luz 165 
 
 scuffled. Neither attempted to strike the other. 
 Both screamed at the tops of their voices. Each 
 seemed anxious to quit. Finally they let go, the 
 guest resumed his seat, and the fight was over. 
 
 All Luz was celebrating the day. How? By 
 walking up and down the main street arm in 
 arm from two to five abreast. Here and there 
 a quiet party sat at a table on the sidewalk 
 drinking wine. A flock of sheep created a tem- 
 porary diversion. Occasionally an individual fire- 
 cracker was exploded. Fearing that if we 
 watched the scene of gayety too long we would 
 not sleep a wink we drew the blinds and retired 
 to dreamless slumber. 
 
 We were up at six the next morning just to 
 enjoy the clear air. There was not a shred of 
 vapor on the mountain side. Sometimes the 
 sun in hurriedly gathering up a mist overlooks a 
 piece hiding in a hollow or tears off a fragment 
 and leaves it hanging on a bush. Not so this 
 morning. The valley shone as if scoured. 
 
 The old practice of sticking extras into a hotel 
 bill seems to have disappeared in France, or else 
 our perfect accent deceived them. For the first- 
 town or two when told the price of a room we 
 would ask if the rate included light and service. 
 They were so evidently pained and surprised by 
 our caution that we dropped the practice. There 
 were no extras added at any place except Cham-
 
 1 66 Three Weeks in France 
 
 onix, other than legitimate ones such as mineral 
 water. Wine was free at all hotels and served in 
 a carafe which was kept filled and no questions 
 asked. 
 
 We shattered another tradition of French 
 travelers. With two exceptions we have drunk 
 the city water and found it excellent. We 
 ordered mineral water at Havre unnecessarily 
 and simply because we were new to the country. 
 The second exception was at Luz, of all places. 
 With mountain torrents clear and cold roaring 
 in our ears we were given what tasted like stale 
 well water. When in doubt, we ordered Evian 
 water, or if we wanted it charged (not in the bill 
 but in the bottle), we asked for Apollonaris, 
 which is standard the world over. 
 
 We returned to Pierrefitte by the same little 
 trolley. This time the second-class compartment 
 was in front and empty, so we took it. We 
 waited an hour for our train to Lourdes and 
 watched the stream of people passing through 
 the station. Pierrefitte is quite a trolley center. 
 The majority of travelers went to Cauterets but 
 a good many climbed into the train we had just 
 left and went to Luz. 
 
 Away up in the mountains, a thousand feet 
 in the air, is a tiny chapel, built very near head- 
 quarters. We discussed the relative probabilities
 
 Gavarnie and Luz 167 
 
 of its being Catholic or Protestant and finally 
 agreed that whatever it is, it is high church. 
 
 We took a ride through the narrow winding 
 streets of the town, trusting to luck to see some- 
 thing, and, as usual, having our faith rewarded. 
 Chained in the yard of a hotel, B. spied a magni- 
 ficent white dog of the Pyrenees. We stopped. 
 The driver cracked his whip three times. A 
 smiling girl came out and at our request led the 
 massive brute into a sunny place for his picture. 
 Mademoiselle refused a tip but said she would 
 prize a copy of the photograph if it came out 
 well. You may judge for yourselves. It is the 
 frontispiece. 
 
 At the station we tried in vain to buy a ticket. 
 We had to wait until twenty minutes before 
 train time. The driver who wanted five dollars 
 to take us to Lourdes in a carriage an hour be- 
 fore dropped to three dollars as train time 
 approached but he was too late. The Cascade of 
 Gavarnie has nothing on these drivers when it 
 comes to quick drops. 
 
 The station agent tried to short-change us by 
 a dodge that has grown familiar. They coin in 
 France a lead five cent piece — 25 centimes — • 
 about the size of a franc and try to pass it on 
 strangers for a franc.
 
 1 68 Toulouse 
 
 XI 
 
 Toulouse 
 
 1 ^H ETWEEN Luz and Lourcles and between 
 
 m^ Lourdes and Toulouse farming is like 
 ■ i^l cultivating a steep awning. Where it 
 is terraced it resembles cutting wheat 
 on broad steps. Single strips are like shelves. 
 Wheat is not piled up in shocks but laid flat on 
 the ground and, I imagine, spiked there. Of this 
 last detail I am not certain. 
 
 Leaving Lourdes we had a box lunch consist- 
 ing of ham, chicken, a tin of pate de fois gras, 
 bread, butter, salt, vichy, wine, two apricots and 
 a small bottle of brandy, with a glass, plate, 
 knife, fork, and cork-screw — all for seventy 
 cents. 
 
 Tarbes, our first stop, was occupied by the 
 English from 1360 to 1406. During the relig- 
 ious wars of the sixteenth century it was occu- 
 pied by other troubles. 
 
 After leaving Tarbes our long train with two 
 engines toiled up a very steep grade and over a 
 viaduct one hundred and fifty feet high. All
 
 Toulouse 169 
 
 the way to Capvern we stood in the corridor to 
 catch a glimpse of the peaks which Baedeker says 
 are on our right, but they were obscured by 
 mists. Many passengers alighted at Capvern for 
 the baths. Baths are very popular in France in 
 case of sickness. 
 
 After Lannemezan — sounds like a college yell 
 — we began to catch glimpses of snow-clad moun- 
 tains on our right and the scenery grew more 
 beautiful. We crossed the Garonne and entered 
 Montrejeau. Our narrative here threatened to 
 become a succession of adjectives as we followed 
 the river. 
 
 As a diversion, the Frenchman and his wife, 
 our fellow passengers, lost an important part of 
 their luggage. The cork came out. We started 
 to salvage our suit cases which were under the 
 seats but figured that there was enough dust on 
 the floor to dike the rising tide; so we sat fas- 
 cinated and watched its advance and wondered 
 how long it would be before the owners would 
 note their loss. They finally did, but beyond a 
 philosophic shrug of the shoulders, they showed 
 no sign of disturbance. 
 
 St. Gaudens is a clean little station. Beyond 
 it six or seven miles we saw on the right the 
 ruins of Chateau Montespan. Then we crossed 
 the river again and passed the ruins of Chateau 
 de Montpezat. The scenery became less inter-
 
 170 Three Weeks in France 
 
 esting as we turned north and the train seemed 
 eager to hurry through it. We went at the rate 
 of a mile a minute. 
 
 At Muret, Marshal Niel was born in 1802. 
 He was chief of engineers at the siege of Sebas- 
 topol and had a rose named for him. 
 
 When we reached Toulouse, a cab took us 
 promptly to the Grand Hotel des Bains which 
 looked cheaper than we really wanted. How- 
 ever they gave us a room on the garden which 
 promised well, but shortly after our arrival the 
 garden blossomed out into laundry. 
 
 Toulouse is a good sized city with about 150,- 
 000 people. It was an important center centuries 
 before Rome invaded Gaul. It became Christian 
 in the third century and French in the thir- 
 teenth. It has been the boiling point of much 
 of the religious trouble. After Bartholomew's 
 in 1572, Charles IX ordered the killing extended 
 to other cities, including Toulouse. 
 
 We visited the church of St. Sernin, a beauti- 
 ful Romanesque edifice with rounded arches. 
 Within it is a Byzantine figure of Christ on the 
 Cross. It is of wood, but time has made it as 
 hard and black as iron. It was rather difficult 
 to find but we finally located it in one of the 
 north chapels. Then we enjoyed the miseri- 
 cordes. They were not made for enjoyment but 
 we could not help it. Those old wood carvers
 
 mmimmm^M^Am 
 
 
 CHI'liCII UK ST. SKHXIN" Turi.orsK
 
 Toulouse 171 
 
 were the cartoonists of their age and so long as 
 they were graphic and forcible they did not care 
 whether they were polite or not. One carving 
 represents a pig in a pulpit and is labeled "Calvin 
 pore." They also showed us the crucifix of St. 
 Dominique, the founder of the great order of 
 Dominicans. It has an authentic history back to 
 12 1 3. The church has a fine organ and beautiful 
 chimes. 
 
 We walked down the rue du Taur to the Place 
 du Capitole, resplendent in bunting. The Hotel 
 de Ville faces the Place on one side. It has 
 been almost entirely rebuilt and the effect is that 
 of a modern building. 
 
 The Church of the Jacobins was undergoing 
 restoration. Its floor was up and we walked 
 about on Mother Earth. This gave an appear- 
 ance of added height to its really high nave. 
 There were benches grouped around the pulpit 
 and service is "uninterrupted during altera- 
 tions." 
 
 A few old windows remain, giving one a hint 
 of its former magnificence. The tower of St. 
 Sernin suggests the belfry at Pisa. The tower 
 of the Jacobins is more ornate. It is octagonal 
 and bristles with gargoyles. 
 
 The cloister and chapel are shown in con- 
 nection with the church. The old frescoes in the 
 Salle Capitulaire have nearly faded away.
 
 172 Three Weeks in France 
 
 Our hotel did not serve meals, so we dined at 
 a sidewalk cafe and had a good dinner at fifty- 
 five cents each. The return ride to the hotel on 
 a tram cost two cents each. 
 
 The only theater open in this modern, busy 
 city was a moving picture show. In honor of 
 the Fourteenth, tickets to-night are half price. 
 The Fourteenth fell on Sunday, hence a two days' 
 celebration. The performance starts at eight 
 forty-five. 
 
 The ladies of Toulouse dress in the latest 
 modes, including a hobble skirt that is all Parisian 
 and not a bit Toulouse. 
 
 We slept very little in the Hotel des Bains. 
 Hotels in France render a dictagraph unneces- 
 sary. Every sound is transmitted through their 
 thin partitions with startling clearness. The man 
 in Number 8 had a bad cough and an alarm 
 clock. The latter would be useful to Gabriel if 
 there are any heavy sleepers on Resurrection 
 Morn. It went off at five and from that until 
 seven the old man paddled around in creaky slip- 
 pers, loose at the heel, over a bare floor. 
 
 Wouldst find our hotel, or mayhap avoid it? 
 Follow the Allee Lafayette, which is not an alley 
 at all, but a regular boulevard with trees shading 
 the lovely gravel where the grass ought to be. 
 Gravel is not so soft as grass nor so green, 
 but it is easier to keep trimmed and does not re-
 
 Toulouse 173 
 
 quire so much water. It is the dandruff on Dame 
 Nature's scalp. After you cross the Boulevard 
 Strasburg you come to a widening of the Allee 
 into the Place Lafayette. This a circle. Follow 
 its circumference until you reach the Street of 
 Five Days — so called because they gather the 
 garbage therefrom every five days. Watch care- 
 fully the slight angle of departure made by the 
 rue Labeda, for it is on the latter that our hostelry 
 faces. There is nothing the matter with the 
 hotel, except the man in Number 8 and he prob- 
 ably will not live long. If his cough does not 
 carry him off, some one in Number 9 (our room) 
 unrestrained by softening wifely influence will 
 assassinate him. Then peace will reign again at 
 the Hotel des Baines et des Bains Detemps 
 Reunis. It has a large second and third floor 
 frontage on the Place Lafayette. It needs it in 
 order to hold its full name. It serves no meals 
 except breakfasts and those in your room. 
 
 We trammed to the rue Alsace Lorraine, using 
 it as a point of departure. We asked a gentle- 
 man to tell us the proper car for the Museum. 
 He pointed out the building four or five blocks 
 away and suggested that we walk. We said that 
 half a mile looked larger than four sous to us 
 and he shrugged his shoulders at our extrava- 
 gance. 
 
 Glory be ! They would let us into the Museum
 
 174 Three Weeks in France 
 
 at nine. We had been told that it did not open 
 until noon. It still lacked half an hour of the 
 opening time so we jumped on a trolley at ran- 
 dom and rode to the end of the line. We passed 
 a police station and a monument to Dupuy and 
 plunged into the frayed selvage of the city. We 
 crossed the Garonne with a string of washer- 
 women gazing, Psyche-like, into the water. The 
 river here has no visible current. Our street is 
 temporarily lifted above its neighbors by a via- 
 duct. We passed a horse butcher shop display- 
 ing the usual sign of a horse's head and near by 
 — conveniently near — a cavalry parade ground 
 and field gymnasium for soldiers; out past the 
 octroi and into the country. Returning, the 
 octroi man looked at a basket carried by an old 
 lady and accepted her statement that it contained 
 nothing contraband. 
 
 We had no key to the street car fares in 
 Toulouse. Sometimes we paid two cents each 
 and sometimes two and a half cents. Possibly 
 there are two classes. We had not enough in- 
 vested to warrant an investigation. 
 
 We sat for awhile in the garden of the 
 Museum. There is a jolly statue of a fat man in 
 an apron standing beside a half overturned chair. 
 The guard said he was a poet. Perhaps, but he 
 looked too well fed. 
 
 At my right as I sat facing the Museum is
 
 Toulouse 175 
 
 the square tower of the badly damaged church of 
 St. Etienne. The rose window dates from 1230 
 and was transplanted to the present tower in 1444. 
 The rest of the building is too new to mention, 
 dating from the seventeenth and eighteenth 
 centuries. 
 
 In the museum, we walked straight from the 
 front door through to the cloister, for this build- 
 ing was erected by the Augustines for a convent. 
 The cloister has beautiful double columns. 
 Around the walls are thirteen apostles and saints 
 rendered coy looking by a curious tilting of their 
 heads. 
 
 There are many exhumed and ancient sarcoph- 
 agi lying about. Lying about what ? Their age, 
 I imagine. 
 
 The Grand Gallery is filled with antique frag- 
 ments. We climbed the stairs to the picture gal- 
 lery. It is well lighted. Oudry's representa- 
 tion of a hunting scene which includes Oudry at 
 an easel painting the picture, is at least unique. 
 There is also a terrific "Christ between the 
 Thieves" by Rubens. 
 
 In Room 2, "The Last Dryad" would have 
 been starred if Rubens had painted it. The 
 warm flesh tints and the glistening bronze gold 
 hair would have been as far beyond him as a 
 normal infant was. It is by Guay. 
 
 Also notice Number 1619, a church interior
 
 176 Three Weeks in France 
 
 by de Pibrac, with a young girl in white taking 
 the collection. In Room 1, look at Rigaud's 
 portrait of Philippe when duke of Chartres. 
 
 It is not a large museum, but it is large 
 enough. When we were there, it housed a tame 
 pigeon which is probably pot pie long ere this, 
 but which made our visit memorable by permit- 
 ting us to stroke its back as it perched on the 
 fat finger of the doorkeeper. 
 
 In the Credit Lyonnais we thought the man 
 who took my express order had made a mistake 
 of forty francs in our favor. But the seventh 
 man through whom the document passed caught 
 the error before it reached the paying teller. 
 Then the whole thing had to be done over again. 
 The messenger carried the paper to each window, 
 showed it to all the tellers and book-keepers, 
 then took it up stairs where a board meeting was 
 in session. The directors looked it over care- 
 fully. Then the janitor was called in and said it 
 looked all right to him. After taking the name 
 of my hotel (I gave them a good hotel) I re- 
 ceived my money less ten cents to apply on the 
 French national debt. Getting through an Illi- 
 nois Central turnstile is a simple operation com- 
 pared to cashing an express order in the Credit 
 Lyonnais.
 
 Carcassonne 177 
 
 1 
 
 XII 
 
 Carcassonne 
 
 E had confidence enough in ourselves and 
 the railroad system of France by this 
 time to put our baggage into a com- 
 partment and go into the diner. At 
 these table d'hote meals, all must start even 
 whether in hotel, restaurant, or dining car. 
 
 We noted an illustration of the French love 
 for dainty appearances. Our waiter took the 
 bread from the basket, placed it on the dirty 
 cushion of the car seat while he artistically ar- 
 ranged the napkin lining the basket. Then he 
 replaced the bread. 
 
 Avignonet has a picturesque fourteenth cen- 
 tury church that looked dignified with its more 
 than five centuries. 
 
 At Segala we crossed the watershed. A rain- 
 drop that falls on this side of Segala will find its 
 way to the Mediteranean 
 
 Our train stopped at Carcassonne, not the real 
 Carcassonne, but the Lower Town, the new town
 
 178 Three Weeks in France 
 
 laid out by St. Louis in his efforts to lay out the 
 truly old town. 
 
 The carriages at the depot are built for a hot, 
 sunny climate. Light colored canopy tops tied 
 down by strings protect the occupants. We bar- 
 gained as usual before getting into one. The 
 drivers get almost as much pleasure from the 
 bargaining as from the money paid them. To 
 accept their first offer would spoil the drive for 
 them. They would not only regret the lost de- 
 bate, but would be harassed by the idea that they 
 might have asked more. 
 
 Fortified by a good luncheon on the train, we 
 prepared to enjoy our drive to La Cite, the 
 greatest wonder in the world, of its kind. Here 
 to-day is a town which, except for the inhabi- 
 tants, is as it was, not in the tenth, eleventh or 
 twelfth century, but as it was in the fifth century. 
 There are fragments dating from the second 
 century, but the town as a whole is a walled city 
 of say 450 A. D. Rome built it. The Visi- 
 goths held it. It suffered great vicissitudes dur- 
 ing the Albigensian War. These forerunners of 
 the Reformation were finally exterminated or 
 subdued or converted by Simon of Montfort 
 whose cruel life was ended at the siege of Tou- 
 louse in 1 2 18. But pounded, battered and be- 
 sieged, Carcassonne was never destroyed and to-
 
 Carcassonne 179 
 
 day is to the student of early warfare what the 
 fossil is to the geologist. 
 
 Our drive took us through the Lower Town, 
 thoroughly modern, between two rows of giant 
 sycamores and out onto the dusty road where we 
 blessed the canopy top, for while the air was 
 cool, the sun was very hot. 
 
 Here and there a beggar reminded us that we 
 were in a Mecca of sight-seers, for tourists 
 support beggary and vice wherever they go. We 
 crossed the new bridge and took a picture of 
 the old one. 
 
 We tried to create something romantic out of 
 a round tower near the road, but the driver 
 smiled at our enthusiasm and said it was a mill 
 and in active operation. 
 
 We drove away from La Cite for a half mile 
 in order to obtain a bird's-eye view of it in its 
 entirety. Nothing could surpass the impressive- 
 ness of the scene. The outer walls are sixteen 
 hundred yards in circumference and are topped 
 by fifty towers. 
 
 We drove into the Porte de l'Aude and through 
 the narrow streets to the former Chateau, now 
 used as a barracks and closed to the public. 
 
 We have viewed with awe the Grand Place 
 at Brussels, dating from the sixteenth century. 
 When they laid the foundations for those old 
 guild houses, the citizens of Carcassonne were 
 fighting behind walls over a thousand years old
 
 i8o Three Weeks in France 
 
 and those were the walls surrounding us, per- 
 fectly preserved. Prior to the invention of gun 
 powder they were impregnable to assault. 
 
 The cathedral (now a cathedral no longer) 
 suggests a fortress more than a church, but a 
 fortress with beautiful windows. Its foundation 
 runs back to the fifth century but it was rebuilt 
 between 1050 and 1350 and very carefully re- 
 stored in 1840. 
 
 We were shown through by a whispering 
 sacristan, greatly in contrast to the roaring sol- 
 dier who took us over the city walls later. The 
 tomb of Simon de Montfort is here. We dropped 
 no tears upon it. We have no quarrel with 
 Simon's religion, but his methods were not such 
 as we care to endorse. They were, however, 
 the methods of his age rather than his church. 
 Neither side had anything on the other in that 
 respect. There are many quaint carvings in the 
 old church, of pigs, salamanders and monks. An 
 alabaster tomb, once gilded, of an archbishop 
 who died in 1575, is carved with painful exact- 
 ness even to the official ring on his finger. 
 
 A thirteenth century Station, the Descent from 
 the Cross, is particularly fine, and a colored statue 
 of John the Baptist is interesting. The font 
 dates from the fifth century. A bas relief of the 
 siege of Toulouse in 12 18 gives one an idea of 
 early military tactics.
 
 Carcassonne 181 
 
 We were conducted around the walls by a 
 soldier whose enthusiasm was not tempered by 
 the heat nor by his obesity. We started with the 
 west wall, fifth century, and entered the Tower 
 of Justice, twelfth century, supported in part by 
 some second century columns. Some stones are 
 mossy with age. These columns were as 
 wrinkled as lava. We peered at old machicola- 
 tions, projecting from the walls, through which 
 the defenders could drop things on the heads of 
 the besiegers if they came too close. St. Louis 
 came in through this gate and because the citi- 
 zens were not in favor of being absorbed by 
 France, tried to build up a new town outside the 
 walls. Thus a king's petulance aided in pre- 
 serving as in amber this old dead city. We 
 passed through tower after tower, each worthy 
 of study. The Tower of the Visigoths, and the 
 Tower of the Inquisition have their histories 
 written in their names. 
 
 A modern chord, jangling and out of tune with 
 the soft, rich music of the ages, was struck by 
 the preparations being made for a grand pageant 
 on July 28th, representing scenes from the history 
 of Carcassonne. A tinsel stage and a flimsy pine 
 grand stand was being erected near the church 
 and they looked like a string of glass beads on 
 the neck of a beautiful old statue. 
 
 The highest tower is the one with the highest
 
 1 82 Three Weeks in France 
 
 mission. It protected the church in the days of 
 assaults. We climbed to the top in a wind even 
 higher than the tower and were rewarded by a 
 grand view of the town and its outer and inner 
 fortifications. 
 
 The Touring Club de France, with unconscious 
 humor has placed a round table with a road map 
 of France on the topmost level of the tower. 
 Any motorist who happens to wander with his 
 car to this high tower would have no difficulty 
 in knowing just where he was. 
 
 The Porte de Narbonnaise is the other gate to 
 the city. Our walk terminated there. It is a double 
 gate with two portcullises and many machicola- 
 tions. Our guide in his efforts to explain to our 
 benighted intellects the operation of opening the 
 outer portcullis and letting in the invaders and 
 then dropping the gate and throwing things down 
 on them, danced back and forth and perspired 
 and fought a whole battle. B. understood him 
 the first time, but I was not sure, so at my request 
 he alternately besieged and defended us again, 
 almost throwing himself through a crack in his 
 effort to make his explanation clear.
 
 The Gorge of the Tarn 183 
 
 D 
 
 XIII 
 
 The Gorge of the Tarn 
 
 HERE were good views of the old city as 
 we pulled out for Beziers on our way 
 to the Cevennes regions for some more 
 of the remarkable natural scenery of 
 France. There were vineyards on every side 
 of us. Men and women were cultivating the 
 ground between the vines. Here and there the 
 plants were being sprayed, sometimes with sul- 
 phur, sometimes with a blue solution. 
 
 The long battle with the phylloxera, a vine 
 parasite, has been fought and won. America 
 has the unenviable distinction of having sent this 
 scourge to France. In i860, in seeking to en- 
 graft vines upon younger roots, hundreds of 
 thousands of plants were brought over from Cal- 
 ifornia. The roots of these plants were infested 
 with insects which multiplied rapidly and spread 
 all over Europe. They attack the leaf but their 
 principal damage is to the roots. In twenty-five 
 years they destroyed over a billion dollars worth 
 of vines, equal to Bismarck's war indemnity,
 
 184 Three Weeks in France 
 
 minus the bloodshed. Just whether a Frenchman 
 would prefer to shed his blood or his wine is an 
 open question. 
 
 It is gratifying to state that having furnished 
 the disease we also furnished the remedy. It 
 was discovered that the roots of the American 
 vines were hardy enough to resist the microscopic 
 pest and the homeopathic dictum "like cures like" 
 was vindicated. 
 
 "Plants Americains" are advertised in this re- 
 gion for their insect resisting powers. 
 
 Every station was filled with wine casks and 
 there were scores of tank-cars with huge tuns, 
 one or two to a car on every sidetrack. There 
 was a boom in the wine region. Prices were up 
 and wine was being rushed to the markets. The 
 tank cars resembled those of the Standard Oil 
 Company but smelled differently. 
 
 Thanks to a pure-wine law passed a few years 
 ago, the lower quality wines bring seven to eight 
 times the prices of five years ago. 
 
 At Narbonne we were within a few miles of 
 the Mediterranean. 
 
 Having an hour at Beziers before taking the 
 train to Millau we ate dinner at the station. We 
 were served by one of those waiters who know 
 what you want better than you do, one of those 
 suggesters. They always arouse antagonism in 
 my breast and often force me to eat something
 
 The Gorge of the Tarn 185 
 
 I dislike merely because they fail to suggest it. I 
 will turn down my favorite dish if its name is 
 whispered to me by one of this tribe. 
 
 This one at Beziers suggested one thing after 
 another and said, "Ah-no-no-no-no-no" at each 
 negative like a released ratchet. I ordered ham 
 and eggs. He was disappointed and evidently 
 disapproved. He brought me cold ham, and when 
 remonstrated with, swore there were no eggs on 
 the carte. He yielded when they were pointed 
 out indisputably legible even in the poor pen- 
 manship employed on continental bills of fare. 
 
 Beziers has over fifty thousand people and we 
 saw a little of it later in our trip but this time 
 we made use of our leisure in passing our order 
 over successive vetoes of the waiter 
 
 The town dates from Roman times when it had 
 a longer name and a shorter polling list than at 
 present. It was the center of Montfort's activi- 
 ties against the Albigensians. To-day it finds it 
 more profitable to be a center of the red wine and 
 brandy trade. 
 
 We went to Millau, headquarters of the kid 
 glove industry, in order to get an early start for 
 the source of the Tarn and a view of its Gorge 
 or Canon, as well as a sight of the Causses or 
 plateau region of France, a desert in the midst 
 of the most fertile country in the world. 
 
 It is a seventy-four mile ride to Millau and the
 
 1 86 Three Weeks in France 
 
 time allowed for the trip is five hours. As usual 
 we started late and arrived on time. Our car 
 was lighted before we started. We knew that 
 meant tunnels. Finding ourselves the sole oc- 
 cupants of a compartment, we made a couch of 
 one side by drawing the cushion up to form a 
 pillow. One of us lay down but not for long. 
 B. soon commenced to give her scenery gasp as 
 we passed rock formations rich with promises 
 later fulfilled when we reached the Causses. 
 
 Soon twilight dimmed the scene and we tried 
 to read by the miserable little oil lamp in the 
 roof. No use. We lingered at Bedarieux for 
 an hour and twenty-one minutes with nothing to 
 do except to stare at a deserted depot where even 
 the news-stand was locked up. We were late 
 into this village and pulled out of it fifteen min- 
 utes ahead of schedule, but no one seemed to 
 care. 
 
 The mountains here are terraced and culti- 
 vated as far up as there is a skin of earth over 
 the rocks ; above that they are battlemented with 
 strata standing on end. This is the region of 
 olives, almonds and figs; also of tunnels and via- 
 ducts. The grape vines were white with sul- 
 phur. A laughing peasant woman pointed her 
 bellows at a soldier on our train and fired a white 
 salute. 
 
 By pure accident we gazed out the left side
 
 The Gorge of the Tarn 187 
 
 of our car and behold, a new moon, with as 
 dainty a bow as Diana ever drew. We had only 
 a glimpse of it between hills and then it disap- 
 peared only to reappear and play peek-a-boo 
 with us, first from one side of the train and then 
 the other, and then straight ahead as we wormed 
 our way through the mountains. 
 
 We had intended to go by train from Millau 
 to Banassac-la-Canourgue and then return by 
 carriage and boat. Arriving at Millau, we went 
 to the Hotel du Commerce and tried to leave a 
 call for the early train and go to bed. They 
 convinced us, the hotel people, that it would be 
 wiser to take another hour of sleep and go by 
 carriage to La Malene. The cost was not much 
 more and we were willing to pay well for that 
 hour of sleep after eleven hours on a creeping 
 train. 
 
 But you should have heard them ! It was like 
 a grand opera fugue. It would start with a tenor 
 solo, the soprano would inject shrieks followed 
 by a rumbling obligato by the bass and contralto 
 mingled, after which the chorus would be ren- 
 dered by the full strength of the company, in- 
 cluding maidens, villagers, etc. Finally the tallest 
 pirate, the tenor, he of the long mustache and 
 liquid eyes, shouted to the basso to procure a 
 candle, and led us all into the parlor where a 
 map was hanging. Never has parlor so well
 
 Three Weeks in France 
 
 vindicated its etymological descent from parlez, 
 to talk. They parleyed for a few minutes after 
 we had surrendered, simply because of acquired 
 momentum. 
 
 They asked us who planned our trip and 
 showed very flattering surprise when assured 
 that B. did it. But how ? We pointed to Baede- 
 ker as our assistant. Then you should have heard 
 the full diapason of Gallic scorn. "Ah! Bay- 
 decker" with strong accent on the second syllable. 
 Baedeker did not make Millau the center of all 
 excursions but chose Banassac for some of them. 
 Hence the chorus ! We voted for Millau although 
 it cost a little more, because we preferred to 
 command our own time and ride in a carriage 
 rather than on a railroad train. 
 
 We had a good night's sleep. We might have 
 thought there were too many fleas had it been 
 our first night in France, but our cuticle has been 
 so marked off by flea explorers, followed by 
 claim-jumpers, that the Millau prospectors found 
 little but abandoned claims. 
 
 Fleas are everywhere, as might be expected 
 in a non-bathing country, and so numerous that 
 even the number carried away by us will hardly 
 make a dent in the invisible supply. I make this 
 single reference to a disagreeable subject and drop 
 it. You can insert this paragraph in every chap- 
 ter if realism appeals to you.
 
 The Gorge of the Tarn 189 
 
 One could spend weeks in this neighborhood 
 and find a new dream spot each day. Our pur- 
 pose is to mention just a few in a much neglected 
 locality, as a favor, not to the locality but to the 
 American tourist. Frenchmen know and love 
 the Cevennes and will not thank me for coaxing 
 Americans here. Once in awhile a lover of the 
 beautiful, like Robert Louis Stevenson, crosses 
 these mountains and illumines them with the 
 light of his genius, but so great is Stevenson's 
 power that people believe that the beauty is in 
 his pen and not in the subject. At any rate they 
 couple the Tarn with Modestine and forget that 
 the mule has been replaced by transportation 
 facilities which, bad as they are, are superior to 
 the burro. 
 
 Frenchmen visit such spots as Gavarnie and 
 the Causses and the Gorge of the Tarn in droves 
 but an American or an Englishman is a rarity. 
 Therefore, you need to learn French, but the trip 
 is worth even that effort. We saw no Americans 
 and only one English couple between Mont St. 
 Michel and Millau. 
 
 We drove for a mile or so under sycamore 
 shadows and then into the country, following 
 the Tarn. It was early morning. We started 
 at seven, and farmers were coming into town. 
 There were many loads of fagots and countless 
 old women. We stopped at Aguesac to mail a
 
 190 Three Weeks in France 
 
 post card, thereby giving the local postman some- 
 thing to puzzle over for several hours, we sus- 
 pect. Even in this remote village there were 
 soldiers. They were just making their toilets. 
 They looked every inch the soldier as they peered 
 over the stone wall but their red trousers neatly 
 folded and lying on top thereof made us glad 
 the wall was there. 
 
 We saw many bicycles, few automobiles and 
 no motor cycles. Once in awhile we passed a 
 diligence. 
 
 After Rozier the Causses begin. Rocks be- 
 come chateaux, hilltops change to castles and 
 the mountains are crowned with fortified towns, 
 all of nature's handiwork. Turrets, battlements 
 and machicolations are reproduced on a scale 
 that shames man's feeble efforts. 
 
 The Route Nationale is a triumph of road 
 building. Miles of it were blasted from the 
 mountain and the fragments built into a wall 
 on the opposite side. There are cables running 
 to the mountain tops and used for bringing wood 
 down to the valley. The road passes through 
 many doorways and short tunnels in the rock. 
 The green, foaming Tarn runs always beside it. 
 It was far below us but so clear that the fish were 
 plainly visible. 
 
 There are balanced rocks, chimneys, pulpits 
 and other curious formations sufficient to equip 
 a hundred Gardens of the Gods.
 
 DROMEDARY HOCK -OOKCJK OF TUK TARN
 
 The Gorge of the Tarn 191 
 
 At Pas de Souci the river left its bed and bored 
 into the rocks, almost disappearing from sight. 
 This is the point where our return boating trip 
 terminated. 
 
 Most of our drive to La Malene was divided 
 between admiring the mountains and looking 
 for Les Etroits (The Straits). Three times B. 
 found narrows that looked like they might be the 
 straits but were not. I told her that three of a 
 kind were better than a strait, but she kept hoping 
 to fill her hand. 
 
 The road continued to wind under rocks hun- 
 dreds of feet high, sometimes curving over us 
 like shells. Do not be disappointed if things do 
 not meet your expectations the first few miles. 
 Wait for the big show farther on. The road 
 is arcaded for hundreds of yards by leaning or 
 shelving rocks. We almost feared that the jar 
 made by our carriage would loosen some of them. 
 We consoled ourselves by the reflection that if 
 it did we would have a grander tomb that Na- 
 poleon or Grant, achieved with much less labor 
 and bloodshed. Still we were in no hurry for 
 that distinction. 
 
 The basic rock of the Gorge is red like that in 
 Colorado, topped by gray limestone. I remem- 
 ber how hard it was to explain the significance 
 of geology to me when a boy on the Kansas
 
 192 Three Weeks in France 
 
 prairies. The meaning of it all was clearer in 
 the presence of those dog-earecl leaves of nature's 
 turning. 
 
 Chameleons ran about on the sunny surfaces 
 of the rocks and nearly "bust themselves mak- 
 ing good," so varied was the coloring. 
 
 We grew hungry in the invigorating mountain 
 air. The question "Where do we eat?" had 
 not been answered — at least not in English. 
 Since seven o'clock nothing had passed our lips 
 but ejaculations and adjectives. We were glad 
 when we rounded the last curve and sighted the 
 chateau at La Malene. 
 
 Cakes and lemonade stayed our surging ap- 
 petites temporarily for we were not to lunch until 
 we reached Les Vignes on the return trip. 
 
 We were so fortunate as to make the acquaint- 
 ance of a director of this and several other hotels 
 who was making a supervisory visit to the prop- 
 erty. He told us much about the neighborhood 
 and to him we are indebted for the suggestion 
 that we visit the Grotto Dargilan. 
 
 In the boat with an expert navigator at each 
 end we floated down the crystal-like water of 
 the Tarn. The skill of our boatmen made shoot- 
 ing the rapids seem a simple operation as they 
 drew us out of danger with one thrust of their 
 long poles. The river is from two to twenty-six 
 feet deep and our boat floated on it like a leaf.
 
 The Gorge of the Tarn 193 
 
 It seemed to graze the larger rocks as suddenly 
 they started up from the bottom. Fishing is free 
 and abundant. Where the river flows through 
 private property it becomes private property, but 
 for most of its course it is open to the humblest 
 disciple of Walton. Big white fish darted out of 
 deep, dark pools, disturbed by our poles. They 
 doubtless mourned the days of the ancient regime 
 when fishing was not so common. 
 
 We entered the Strait, which at the point of 
 entry was a split strait owing to the low water. 
 Doubtless the fall rains will fill it. 
 
 The Amphitheatre, a little beyond, is enor- 
 mous. We did not catch the name of the next 
 cliff where, according to the legend, some one was 
 thrown down hard. Neither did we learn whether 
 he stayed down or formed a third party. 
 
 An immense crevasse on the left splits the 
 whole mountain from summit to base. These 
 grand scenes were emphasized and given their 
 due proportions by a farmhouse or tiny "mais- 
 onette" here and there clinging to the mountain 
 side like a swallow's nest. 
 
 Our boatmen were talkative and told us much, 
 from which we extracted considerable and un- 
 derstood some and remembered a little. At any 
 rate, they tried, which was more than our driver 
 did. He was like the fifth little pig on our once
 
 194 Three Weeks in France 
 
 rosy toes. He simply said, "Oui, oui, oui," all 
 the way home. 
 
 One ingenious farmer built a home by using 
 the natural cliffs and shelves for three walls and 
 the roof. All he had to do was to put up a 
 front. But that is all that lots of people do who 
 ostensibly own their own homes in America. 
 
 The boatmen pointed out "Louis XIV court- 
 ing a woman with a parasol" and "The Court of 
 the Monks" and "Bismarck in Helmet" and other 
 formations more or less living up to their names. 
 
 Then we killed a swimming snake. This was 
 done enthusiastically and adroitly by placing the 
 pole under him, tossing him onto the bank and 
 finishing him with a rock. 
 
 "The Mushroom" was formerly the "Arch of 
 Triumph" but the road builders needed part of 
 the space and gnawed away one leg of the arch. 
 The Dromedary needs to hump himself. He 
 scarcely looks the part. The Bunch of Asparagus 
 is better, but the Creamer and Sugar Bowl are 
 immense. 
 
 The Hermitage of St. Hilaire is now a chapel 
 perched so high up on the mountain side as to re- 
 semble a halfway house to heaven rather than a 
 place of worship. 
 
 We passed some more fairly difficult rapids 
 and then side-stepped Pas de Souci by making 
 a landing. We gladly and liberally tipped our
 
 TIIK MUSHROOM — GORGE OK THE TARN
 
 The Gorge of the Tarn 195 
 
 boatmen, for they had been companions rather 
 than servants. One of them aptly characterized 
 it as "un voyage des amis." 
 
 The carriage was waiting for us and we drove 
 to Les Vignes. We ate lunch under a walnut 
 tree to the music of locusts and the deep roar of 
 the Tarn. Our lunch had been ordered by tele- 
 phone from La Melene and was ready for us. 
 It was mostly grown on the premises, crawfish, 
 whitefish, eggs, ham, bologna, fruit, almonds and 
 cakes, all excellently prepared and seasoned with 
 our morning's rides in the carriage and boat. 
 
 Of the three windows on the end of the inn, 
 two are painted on the wall. Ventilation by sug- 
 gestion. The third is the attic window with a 
 pulley over it. Some day fire escapes will be 
 made obligatory in France and they will prob- 
 ably paint them on the buildings. 
 
 Our driver required an hour and a half to 
 bait and cool his horse, so we were late in start- 
 ing for Le Rozier. At the latter village we hired 
 another carriage for the Grotto Dargilan, one of 
 the finest in Europe. 
 
 The road leads up the valley of the Jonte be- 
 tween the Causse Noir and the Causse Mejean. 
 This was a less exciting drive than the other, 
 except for the musical bells on our horses. The 
 river was smaller and not so swift, and we were 
 sleepy.
 
 196 Three Weeks in France 
 
 From a small platform at the end of a shaky 
 walk one obtains a fine view of the Gorge. It is 
 a pocket edition of the Grand Canyon bound in 
 green. The road is not as well made as the Route 
 Nationale and lacks retaining walls for most 
 of its course. There are many sharp turns and 
 we recalled grimly Opie Read's story of the 
 stage driver who was asked if people went over 
 a certain cliff often. "Only once," was the reply. 
 We looked dozwi at terraced mountain sides. 
 One thing we noted with a blush. France has no 
 turnstiles guarding her great natural scenery. 
 She is freer than America in this respect. 
 
 After driving along this white, dusty road un- 
 til we resembled millers the driver pointed to 
 something suspended halfway between us and the 
 nearest fixed star and make a remark. "What?" 
 we yelled. "Oui, monsieur-dam," he said, "that 
 is the entrance to the Grotto." This apparently 
 profane title is the vernacular condensation of 
 "Monsieur et madame" and is used in all parts 
 of France by the serving classes. 
 
 Sure enough, that was it. We took individual 
 elevators in the shape of burros and started. B's 
 beast was in the lead. His name was Trumpeter 
 and his first name began with A. At least the 
 guide yelled "A-a-a Trompayter" all the way up 
 the zig-zag path. My mule was nameless, or at 
 least I will not tell you what I called him. No
 
 The Gorge of the Tarn 197 
 
 sidesaddles were furnished. We were half eaten 
 by flies. My mule had no bit in his mouth. My 
 idea of zero in recreation is to ride a willful 
 donkey with only a lead chain when that donkey 
 has an appetite for the grass on the extreme outer 
 edge of the path. The price agreed on for the 
 donkeys was one and a half francs each. Now 
 was it not reasonable to suppose that that meant 
 for the round trip? Who would be foolish 
 enough to hire a donkey for half the trip? As 
 well expect to dicker for the return trip on an 
 aeroplane. Nevertheless it cost us another franc 
 each for the ride down the mountain. 
 
 We arrived at the top and donned costumes 
 before entering the Grotto. These costumes 
 were of white duck and of no sex. We visited 
 one of the five rooms, the most beautiful and 
 most accessible one. It required a descent of 
 eighty feet into the mountain. The deepest room 
 is three hundred and fifty feet below the entrance. 
 Two names will suggest the appearance of the 
 principal chambers, the Church and the Mosque. 
 Stalactites and stalagmites range in size from 
 spaghetti to small cottages and in color, through 
 the entire prism. The grotto is lighted through- 
 out by electricity assisted in spots by candles and 
 strips of calcium. There are natural and arti- 
 ficial steps and iron railings wherever necessary. 
 The guide yelled at us, not because the acoustics
 
 198 Three Weeks in France 
 
 were bad but because we were foreigners. We 
 have done the same thing ourselves. The Grotto 
 deserves all the good that can be said of it, and 
 we advise every one to visit it in spite of its 
 inconveniences. 
 
 Grottoes are the slow growth of centuries, or 
 at least the stalactites and stalagmites are. King- 
 doms rise and fall, dynasties totter to their doom, 
 you could almost say tariffs are lowered while 
 an inch of this alabaster is being made. Even 
 government buildings are built more rapidly. I 
 can imagine no better position than that of super- 
 vising architect of a good grotto at a fair annual 
 salary during the progress of the work. 
 
 We returned under a new moon through star- 
 tled villages whose people were eating al fresco 
 and other things in the streets in front of their 
 houses. We lolled back in the carriage and 
 picked out fancied resemblances in the silhouettes 
 made by the rocks against the sky. 
 
 We reached the Grand Hotel du Rozier and sat 
 down at a small table adjoining a larger one 
 where ten or twelve young couples from Millau 
 were dining. They had come out in motor cars 
 and after dinner they danced. The tables were 
 out of doors and candles were placed thereon for 
 the convenience of the insects which otherwise 
 might not have found us. 
 
 Our commercial minds revolved the questions,
 
 TIIK STRAITS— GORGE OF TIIK TARN
 
 The Gorge of the Tarn 199 
 
 "Why is not the Grotto Dargilan better known? 
 Why is it not organized and systematized ? Why 
 are not better facilities provided for getting to 
 it?" 
 
 A two hours' ride on a dusty road, followed by 
 a climb on the back of an unguided mule dis- 
 courages any one but an enthusiast. No effort is 
 made to arouse your interest. The Grotto con- 
 verts you at once but that is after you are in it. 
 It is not assisted by any advance work whatever 
 nor by much co-operation on the ground. Only 
 pride and obstinacy kept us going up that hill. 
 Anticipation had little to do with it. 
 
 It is true that the Grotto is well lighted for a 
 grotto and equipped with steps and railings, but 
 you don your costumes in a boarded-off shanty 
 and the attendants are poorly dressed and 
 ignorant. 
 
 Grottoes at best are not abodes of comfort. 
 The roofs always leak. In Ireland it rains inside 
 a thatched cottage for a week after it stops out- 
 side. That is, it would if it ever stopped outside. 
 In a grotto you are splashed by drippings of rains 
 that fell before the reign of Louis XVI fell. The 
 sidewalks are sure to be wet and the air clammy. 
 
 You have only one comfort as you clamber 
 around twenty or a hundred meters below the 
 surface, and stumble over vermiform appendices
 
 200 Three Weeks in France 
 
 in the bowels of the earth: there is no danger of 
 fire. 
 
 Actuaries' statistics show that the fire loss in 
 grottoes is practically nothing. There are no 
 hand grenades on the stalactites and you are not 
 nervous when the attendant drops matches all 
 over the premises. 
 
 Dargilan has all the features of Han-sur-Lesse 
 in Belgium except running water and, as I said, 
 grottoes are not good for light housekeeping 
 anyhow. In place thereof, it has the most mar- 
 vellous formations, the most delicate traceries, 
 the greatest variety of colors and the most fas- 
 cinating translucencies imaginable. 
 
 But it has not a single descriptive booklet and 
 one must depend on totally inadequate post cards 
 to refresh one's memory. Grotto illustrations 
 are always disappointing and, strange to say, ar- 
 tistic and beauty-loving France is the home of the 
 least satisfying post cards of the most beautiful 
 scenery on the planet. 
 
 Usually France adorns everything she touches. 
 There was in our hotel dining room at Millau 
 a fresco painting of U. S. Grant and Andrew 
 Carnegie shooting ducks. The likenesses were un- 
 mistakable. The picture was a good one. It 
 was full of atmosphere — and ducks. Below the 
 picture were arranged some shelves with canned 
 goods on them. The significance escaped us for
 
 The Gorge of the Tarn 201 
 
 a moment. Then it flashed on us. The gentle- 
 men were shooting over their preserves. 
 
 France is the heaven of travelers. We have 
 not had a hard bed nor a poor meal in the entire 
 republic.
 
 202 Beziers, Cette and Nimes 
 
 XIV 
 
 Beziers, Cette and Nimes 
 
 nHERE were only five people in line at 
 the ticket window when we reached the 
 I depot but two were women and the 
 
 train pulled in before we bought our 
 tickets to Beziers. We might have used round 
 trip tickets to Millau. It was our first and only- 
 chance and we forgot it! 
 
 Tournemire is where you change cars for 
 Roquefort if you are curious to know what 
 cheese can do to a grotto. Most of the Roquefort 
 cheese is ripened in grottoes. All you need to do 
 is to get off the train at Roquefort and follow 
 your nose. 
 
 We passed a few wheatfields that were not 
 visible on our ride to Millau. The fields were 
 small and the sheaves looked like inlaid work. 
 Such a thing as aggregating sheaves into a shock 
 would be out of the question. They would scat- 
 ter out like jackstraws. 
 
 The lady who was the principal cause of our 
 delay at the Millau ticket office occupied part of
 
 Beziers, Cette and Nimes 203 
 
 our compartment in company with her son, a stal- 
 wart youth of seventeen, large enough for twenty- 
 one. He had not been in evidence during the 
 ticket buying episode. On the train, his mother 
 smoothed his locks and patted his hand in a way 
 that would have embarrassed an American boy 
 of his age and size. He seemed to like it. At one 
 of the stations she left him in the car while she 
 went into the buffet for a box of lunch. 
 
 This was not our only example of the puerility 
 of the French boy. We saw many a big boy in 
 his 'teens being caressed in public by his doting 
 mother. 
 
 It proved the truth of what we had read in 
 Max O'Rell's "Jacques Bonhomme" regarding 
 the ultra-supervision of the French youth of both 
 sexes, while his remarks regarding personal clean- 
 liness were similarly verified by observation. 
 
 O'Rell says that "the average French schoolboy 
 allows himself five minutes to wash, dress and get 
 out of the dormitory, giving himself a dry polish 
 'a la Squeers.' 
 
 "From this you will easily infer that a pint of 
 water goes a long way in a dormitory of French 
 boys. Never will an usher make a remark to a 
 French boy over twelve because he is dirty, not 
 even in the refectory. Provided he has a cravat 
 on, nobody will scold him for having a dirty 
 neck.
 
 204 Three Weeks in France 
 
 "He plays little, walks solemnly up and down 
 his grassless school yard, steals whiffs from a 
 cigarette hidden under his coat, promenades in 
 silent pairs on half holidays to the country, plays, 
 walks or sits on the grass in the presence of the 
 usher and files solemnly back to town. Result: 
 a little prig." 
 
 If there is any truth in the generally credited 
 tradition that the sons of ministers turn out badly, 
 it is not because they are the sons of ministers but 
 because they are super-supervised until they reach 
 what should be maturity and then told to use their 
 untrained, undeveloped, undisciplined senses. 
 The whole French nation, the educated portion, 
 is suffering from being kept in blinders until 
 twenty years old and then thrown, not into the 
 sunlight but into the calcium. 
 
 Continuing his keen analysis, O'Rell says: 
 "Good society is much alike everywhere — like 
 hotels. It is a question of more or less manners 
 in the former, of more or less fleas in the latter!" 
 
 (It is a joy to have Jacques Bonhomme at your 
 elbow. Things that are unsayable at first hand 
 give an air of erudition when quoted.) "If you 
 wish to study the manners of any people, take 
 third-class tickets. There is little or nothing to be 
 picked up in a first-class carriage." (Obviously 
 our sprightly commentator is confusing manners 
 with fleas.) "He (the Frenchman) is convinced
 
 Beziers, Cette and Nimes 205 
 
 that good wine was given to man by God to re- 
 joice his heart; and to spoil it by adding water to 
 it is in his eyes nothing short of a sin." (Jnst 
 why le bon Dieu gives us water is not so clear to 
 him, but evidently not for oblations nor ablutions. 
 Possibly it is to lay the dust of the perfect French 
 road or to nourish the root of the vine.) 
 
 "There is no country about which foreigners 
 talk so much and know so little as France. With 
 the exception of Mr. Hamerton's, I do not know 
 of any foreigner's writings on home life in France 
 that are worth the paper they are written on. 
 Looking at Paris and calling it France is the mis- 
 take which most of our would-be critics make." 
 
 Looking at Paris at all, and trying to write a 
 book afterwards is difficult, but the Frenchman, 
 like the Chicagoan, has in his literature and in his 
 press so emphasized his faults that he can hardly 
 dodge responsibility for the misconception by say- 
 ing with a shrug of his shoulders "But I am so 
 impulsive, so childlike, so filled wiz ze caprice, 
 such a mendacious liar, that I cannot be believed, 
 even when I plead guilty." 
 
 Another still more naive defense of French lit- 
 erature is that its pruriency, when prurient, is due 
 to the craving on the Frenchman's part to read of 
 things which he never has experienced or wit- 
 nessed. The very innocence of the French creates 
 a demand for sensational literature !
 
 206 Three Weeks in France 
 
 The unattached gentleman in our compartment 
 had a box lunch. He kept all the fragments and 
 empty bottles in the box, and put it under the seat, 
 explaining that there were men to clean up the 
 cars at every terminal, while to throw it out the 
 window would muss up the landscape. 
 
 The patriotism and love of harmony carried 
 into the smallest minutiae of life is further illus- 
 trated by the claim of O'Rell that "So strong is 
 the feeling for art, the eye for effect, in the 
 Frenchman that it would never occur to him to 
 turn out in his trap to go to the races in the stream 
 of carriages that flows through the Bois de Bou- 
 logne on race days. Even the small bourgeois 
 who takes a cab for the journey goes by another 
 route so as not to spoil the show." 
 
 We changed cars at Beziers and had three hours 
 in which to eat luncheon and walk about the town. 
 So we left our suit cases at the "consigne" and 
 walked through the Jardin des Poetes, stopping 
 occasionally for a picture. Finding that Number 
 12 had been shot off we sat on a bench under the 
 cool shade of the ever present sycamore and 
 changed films. 
 
 Past the Garden, we walked up the hot and 
 dusty Allee Paul Ricquet adorned with a statue 
 of that engineer-philanthropist whose benefaction 
 to the world took the form of the canal Midi con- 
 necting the Atlantic and the Mediterranean when
 
 A.M'IKXT STATCK XIMKS
 
 Beziers, Cette and Nimes 207 
 
 pieced out a bit by the Garonne. In utter disre- 
 gard of the fact that it could not have his name 
 emblazoned on it, he paid the entire expense of 
 construction, equivalent to about seven million 
 dollars in the money of to-day. This was done in 
 the seventeenth century. The canal is one hun- 
 dred and forty-eight miles long, thirty-three feet 
 wide at the bottom and six and a half feet deep. 
 
 Street sprinkling is rarely done in France. 
 Along this beautiful old boulevard a hand sprink- 
 ler was being pushed and it was intended to 
 moisten the inner promenade only. 
 
 Here is another paradox. These most cour- 
 teous people will hold the sidewalk and force a 
 woman to walk in the gutter, and will almost take 
 a note book out of your hand to read what you 
 are writing. 
 
 The Hotel Glacier looked particularly inviting 
 with the atmosphere of the street anything but 
 glacial, so we went into its cool garden and or- 
 dered lunch. 
 
 I had scarcely opened my Baedeker when the 
 waiter brought me a dish of ice for my glass of 
 water. Evidently there was no need for me to 
 wave a flag in order to proclaim my nationality. 
 
 After lunch we walked past closed doors with 
 big iron knockers and open portals hung with 
 beaded portieres, that being as far as Beziers has 
 progressed in the solution of the problem of keep-
 
 208 Three Weeks in France 
 
 ing out the flies. It is another surface sewer town 
 with all that is implied in that statement. Water 
 was running in all of the gutters. 
 
 We were looking for the cathedral of whose lo- 
 cation most of the inhabitants were ignorant. 
 Noting on the map that it was near Le Mairie or 
 City Hall, we changed our question and found 
 plenty of people who could help us. Evidently 
 Beziers is more political than religious. 
 
 The view of the valley from the front of the 
 cathedral repaid us amply for the difficulty ex- 
 perienced in finding it. 
 
 Two or three men were playing at some kind of 
 street bowling with stone balls. We saw the 
 game in progress in other towns but did not 
 fathom its processes. 
 
 It will pay you to visit the interior of the cathe- 
 dral for a look at its stained glass. The west 
 rose window is especially beautiful. 
 
 We walked back through the dustiest town of 
 our trip except Cette, which we visited on the 
 same day. There was more real-estate activity in 
 those two towns, more movement in really fine 
 real estate than in any other towns that we visited. 
 
 Leaving Beziers we soon sighted the blue Medi- 
 terranean on our right and all the way to Cette 
 our track ran in sight of the most beautiful large 
 body of water on earth. Scores of lateen sails 
 dotted the surface.
 
 Beziers, Cette and Nimes 209 
 
 Azcle our second stop, is an old town. She has 
 been robbed by Vandals, Visigoths, Saracens, 
 Franks and Crusaders. She got it coming and 
 going. 
 
 The ride was cool, thanks to the sea breeze. 
 On the left were miles of salt marshes with salt 
 works along their banks and white crystals bound- 
 ing every side. 
 
 There being nothing to see in Cette, we bar- 
 gained for a drive around the town. We picked 
 the youngest and most persistent of the drivers. 
 He had a mettlesome looking team. His first price 
 was three francs for an hour's ride, terminating 
 at the depot. We shrugged our shoulders and 
 spread our palms, speechless. He dropped to two 
 and we climbed in and told him to go ahead. As 
 soon as we spoke he tried to advance the price 
 but the market was closed. We drove up and 
 down the water front, past cafes, "Inglish" dance 
 halls and the usual lures for sailors. Then we 
 visited the clam market and the fish market. We 
 thought that nothing could smell worse than 
 the clams until we struck the fish and then we 
 apologized to the clams. 
 
 Cette is much more Italian than French in 
 appearance. It would be hard for a man igno- 
 rant of the language to determine the nationality 
 of any of the people of these Mediterranean 
 ports, whether French or Italian. Dark-eyed
 
 2 to Three Weeks in France 
 
 women, swarthy men and bewitching, dirty, half- 
 nude children crowd about you at every step. 
 
 The jolly impudence of the boy with vege- 
 tables who held up one hand as a signal to our 
 driver to wait until he pushed his cart across 
 the bridge was more Italian than French. 
 
 We paused at a beautiful spot on the seashore 
 with scores of sailboats like sand flies all over 
 the surface of the water. Our driver at once 
 commenced to dilate on the beauty of the Cor- 
 niche Road and to argue the merits of a long 
 drive. We told him we had not the time for it. 
 Then he started to drive out the Corniche Road 
 anyhow. Our perfect accent saved us. We 
 said "Return to the city instantly." He gave 
 his whip an angry crack, whirled his horses with 
 an entire disregard of the law of gravity and 
 how we did burn up that road on our way back 
 to town! 
 
 We said : "Drive to the Grand Hotel at 5 40. " 
 
 He said, "Yes, but that will be more than an 
 hour. You started at 4:30." 
 
 We said, "Very well. Go to the hotel at 5 :3c 
 We have smelled everything in this town any- 
 how." 
 
 Another whirl, and as I look back with my 
 mind's eye, I cannot see how we did it, but we 
 dashed up the narrow street to the hotel between
 
 Beziers, Cette and Nimes 211 
 
 a double row of curses not loud, but deep, with- 
 out injuring anyone. 
 
 Dinner would not be ready until six o'clock, 
 but bless you, that made no difference to the head 
 waiter. We were shown into the dining room 
 where in five minutes the opening course of an 
 excellent dinner was put before us. Was there 
 an extra charge? On the contrary, we were 
 not required to pay the full rate because a course 
 or two was missing. 
 
 In France, the hotel guest is a customer who 
 must be satisfied, not a humble petitioner await- 
 ing the pleasure of a potentate. A criticism is 
 investigated and always the attitude of respect- 
 ful service is maintained. It is not taken for 
 granted that fate has thrown you an unwilling 
 and transient victim into the power of the hotel 
 keeper to be kept in your subordinate sphere, 
 snubbed and charged the maximum for haughty 
 service grudgingly rendered. You are regarded 
 as a guest, a source of present profit and future 
 good-will, but always as the one whose wishes 
 must dominate. 
 
 After dinner we walked to the depot through 
 a dust storm that would have turned western 
 Kansas green — with envy. It was positively 
 blinding. 
 
 At the station, not finding a licensed porter, 
 we turned our claim checks over to a picturesque
 
 212 Three Weeks in France 
 
 brigand and he carried our suit cases as far as 
 the gate-man who told him that he must have a 
 ticket. We were embarrassed. Not he. He bor- 
 rowed a ticket from a friend, hustled us aboard 
 and returned the borrowed ticket in ample time 
 to permit his friend to catch the train. So human 
 were we, that we paid the rascal an extra tip 
 because he was to a degree outlawed. 
 
 This is the heart of the wine-growing district. 
 Four provinces of which Pau and Bordeaux are 
 centers produced from two hundred and fifty to 
 three hundred million dollars worth of wine last 
 year and present prospects are for a larger crop 
 at better prices this year. 
 
 That means that the wine growers will have 
 more money to spend than ever and they will 
 spend it, not like lords, nor like sailors, but like 
 wine growers. For when it comes to getting 
 nothing for something, a jack tar in from a six 
 months cruise is a Napoleon of Finance com- 
 pared to a wine grower who has sold his crop. 
 
 He gambles and loafs around his provincial 
 cafe, drinking, carousing, and singing. He fre- 
 quently visits Monte Carlo. But whatever he 
 does, he has nothing to show for an income of 
 five or ten thousand dollars by spring, except 
 some jewelry or furs for his wife, and some orna- 
 ments for the parlor mantel. He does not bank 
 his money but if he saves any, it is either con-
 
 Beziers, Cette and Nimes 213 
 
 cealed about the premises or invested in govern- 
 ment bonds. Modern banking is almost unknown 
 in France. 
 
 As long as the wine growers are willing to 
 borrow on growing crops at a good rate of in- 
 terest, the lenders see no use in encouraging sav- 
 ings banks. Paying bills by check is almost un- 
 known. 
 
 Another illustration of their short-sighted, 
 childish pride; they are wine growers and con- 
 sider it beneath them to raise any other crop or 
 to own or care for stock of any kind. Con- 
 sequently they will not even keep milk cows. 
 They buy milk, cream, butter, and cheese. You 
 can ride for miles through the vineyard regions 
 and never see a four-footed beast near a wine 
 growers house. 
 
 In 1907, two million people marched quietly 
 to Montpellier as a protest against the manu- 
 facture of adulterated wines. Their leader, a 
 wine grower, was permitted to present his argu- 
 ment before the Deputies in Paris and a law was 
 passed, a sort of pure-drink law, as a result. 
 
 I like to think of Montpellier as the headquar- 
 ters of fearless peasantry. For it was the home 
 of many Camisards and here it was. Stevenson 
 tells us, that a prophetess was hanged because 
 blood flowed from her eyes and nose, and she
 
 214 Three Weeks in France 
 
 declared she was weeping tears of blood for the 
 misfortunes of the Protestants. 
 
 The 19 10 riots were in the Champagne district 
 and were due to adulteration also, in a way. The 
 growers objected to the practice of bringing out- 
 side white wines into the district, treating them 
 and selling them as champagne. Many ware- 
 houses were burned and many vines destroyed. 
 
 You can build a warehouse in three months 
 but it requires three years to bring a vine to 
 fruitage, so the Champagne neighborhood still 
 feels the effects of the 19 10 riots. 
 
 These are the people who paid a large share of 
 the Franco-Prussian War indemnity. They 
 work about four months each year and reap a 
 harvest of five or ten thousand dollars from fifty 
 to a hundred acres of vines. Pointing out the 
 car window at the sea of green, reaching the 
 horizon in every direction our informant said: 
 "In three months, that will be money." 
 
 Is it any wonder that land hereabouts is almost 
 priceless and vineyards are largely in the same 
 families which bought or acquired them at the 
 time of the French Revolution? 
 
 For all that, the wine grower remains a peasant, 
 ignorant, unrefined, distrusting his neighbor and 
 distrusting the banks. 
 
 The Minister of the Interior is the big man 
 in the French Government. The President of
 
 [.A MA IS' i.\" < \\ i:i:kk NIMKS
 
 Beziers, Cette and Nimes 215 
 
 the Republic goes to the banquets, lays the corner 
 stones and kisses the babies, but the Minister of 
 the Interior appoints the Prefects of the eighty- 
 seven departments. 
 
 The patriotism of the French politician reaches 
 a height that sounds like an iridescent dream to 
 an American. There are in the present cabinet 
 three men who have been prime ministers and 
 are now willing to serve their country in subor- 
 dinate positions. 
 
 The President is elected by the Senate and 
 Chamber of Deputies for seven years. There 
 is no law against his re-election, but the practice 
 is to retire gracefully at the expiration of the 
 term. 
 
 If there are any Jews in southern France, to 
 quote William Dean Howells, they do not show 
 their noses. As a matter of fact there are thou- 
 sands of them, but they have lived here for over 
 seven centuries and are difficult to distinguish 
 from their Christian neighbors either by fea- 
 tures or accent. 
 
 On the contrary, the Jews of Paris and the 
 north came in with Napoleon and can easily be 
 known. As a rule their names are German rather 
 than French. 
 
 England is still severely critised by well-in- 
 formed Frenchmen for her treatment of Napo- 
 leon after Waterloo. The same Frenchmen ad-
 
 216 Three Weeks in France 
 
 mit that from Moscow on, Napoleon fought not 
 for France but for his own glory. But they 
 think that after Waterloo he was too sick a 
 man physically to have required the isolation of 
 St. Helena. 
 
 At Nimes, with a cupola over the "i," we found 
 an up-to-date hotel with an electric-lighted room 
 and a bathtub resembling a small natatorium. 
 The rates were American, but so were the sur- 
 roundings plus French service. The hotel em- 
 ploys an auto-bus to convey its guests to and 
 from the station. The Nimes' cornet band was 
 discoursing sweet music from the center of the 
 public square. This was mentioned as an in- 
 ducement but the manageress, seeing our faces 
 change, instantly said, "But it stops at ten sharp." 
 
 The whole town apparently was at the side- 
 walk cafes surrounding the square. They were 
 a well-dressed, orderly crowd and seemed to be 
 enjoying the music and the wine to the fullest 
 extent. 
 
 Baedeker speaks of Nimes as having 80,600 
 inhabitants "including about 20,000 Protestants." 
 This manner of listing Protestants is so much 
 like our "paupers, Chinamen and Indians, not 
 taxed" in the census at home that we at once 
 disliked it. 
 
 The town is full of antiquities. I will not 
 mention the name of the town with great fre-
 
 Beziers, Cette and Nimes 217 
 
 quency for fear of running out of "i" shades, 
 but you will remember where we are. 
 
 That is why we came here. We revel in an- 
 tiquities. Anything that has been dead for sev- 
 eral centuries is a safe subject for eulogy. You 
 can depend on it that anything adverse has died 
 down in that time. 
 
 Rome did a great deal for Nimes and when 
 Rome did anything for or to a community, she 
 did it well. She embellished the city with a 
 number of public buildings, many of which are 
 still standing. Some of them have stood more 
 than others. The Coliseum is an example of the 
 latter. Bull rights are now held there on Sun- 
 days in the summer time. If the spirits of those 
 who formerly staged the combats could survey 
 the scene to-day, with Christians in the seats ap- 
 plauding the slaughter of innocent cattle, they 
 might regret that they had not done their work 
 more thoroughly. 
 
 The Maison Carree is a beautiful Roman 
 temple that looks enough like a Stock Exchange 
 to make you feel for your watch. It has thirty 
 Corinthian columns, beautifully fluted and with 
 ornately carved capitals. The capitals should be 
 studied. The building was coincident with the 
 Christian religion and is considerably less 
 changed. It stands alone amid the debris of the 
 magnificent edifices which once surrounded it.
 
 218 Three Weeks in France 
 
 One is curious to know the name of the contrac- 
 tor. But what is the use? He is probably dead. 
 
 There are many other Roman remains here, 
 some of them in the magnificent Public Garden. 
 When Baedeker stars a Public Garden, you are 
 safe in assuming that it is a wonder, and' Baedeker 
 stars the Jardin de la Fontaine. If he had not 
 such a judicial temperament he would double 
 star it. It is worth it. 
 
 Jean Nicot who introduced tobacco into France 
 was born at Nimes in 1530. I would have said 
 "here" and saved that portico, but I did not want 
 you to think that Nicot was born in the Jardin. 
 Nicotine carried him off in 1610, a victim to its 
 lingering but fatal caresses at the age of eighty. 
 If he could revisit France to-day and see some 
 of the amber-tipped cigarette smokers walking the 
 streets he would probably say "I introduced to- 
 bacco into France — not cigarettes." 
 
 Guizot, the historian and Daudet the writer are 
 among those whom Nimes is proud to call her 
 sons. 
 
 There is a large Protestant cemetery on the 
 hillside, largely filled by Catholics, especially after 
 the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. That is, 
 the Catholics filled it with Protestants. 
 
 The Edict of Nantes was the sop thrown by 
 Henry of Navarre to his former co-religionists in 
 1598. It gave to Protestants liberty of conscience
 
 Beziers, Cette and Nimes 219 
 
 and liberty of worship in their own castles and 
 in towns where worship was already established. 
 Under it Protestants could hold office and teach 
 school. Certain towns were given to them in 
 guarantee and chambers equally divided between 
 Protestants and Catholics were to give judgments 
 in the parliaments of Paris, Toulouse, Grenoble 
 and Bordeaux in cases where Protestants were 
 parties. They were also allowed to assemble 
 every three years by representatives to present 
 complaints. All of this was revoked in 1685 by 
 his Most Christian Majesty, Louis XIV. 
 
 Hotel rates in France are low. Of course we 
 paid the top-notch but native commercial travelers 
 can get a room and three meals at most of the 
 first-class hotels for $1.70 a day while mem- 
 bers of the Road Club or Touring Club pay $1.80 
 for the same accommodations. We paid on an 
 average $2.40 a day each for corresponding 
 service. 
 
 Tickets to bull fights cost from sixty cents to 
 three dollars each. The amphitheatre is in front 
 of the Hotel Cheval Blanc right in the heart of 
 the city. Although we did not stop at that hotel, 
 nevertheless B. tackled the concierge thereof for 
 permission to photograph the amphitheatre or 
 Coliseum from an upper window, and obtained 
 it. If we never get to heaven, nine chances out 
 of ten, we will borrow a harp from some good-
 
 220 Three Weeks in France 
 
 natured angel and have it passed over the jasper 
 walls. 
 
 Inside the immense arena, with its seating ca- 
 pacity of twenty- four thousand they were put- 
 ting up a temporary stage with a few hundred 
 chairs in front of it. We inquired and found 
 that a vaudeville performance was to be given 
 that night. Shades of Xero ! No wonder the 
 old stone seats were in tiers ! 
 
 We had an opportunity to study the arrange- 
 ments of a first century place of amusement and 
 slaughter, including the royal box, the gladiators' 
 entrance and the hundreds of vomitoriums or 
 exits. 
 
 Inside the Maison Carree is an interesting 
 museum of ancient and modern antiquities. Per- 
 haps the greatest curiosities are some United 
 States gold pieces donated by wealthy New York- 
 ers. The name of the donor is prominently dis- 
 played beneath each coin. A real curiosity would 
 be an anonymous donation from the same source. 
 There is none. We donated a French coin of the 
 second Empire, value fifty centimes, but with- 
 held our name and the concierge placed it in his 
 private collection. 
 
 There is a twenty dollar gold piece given by 
 Senator Clark, of Helena, N. Y., from his scanty 
 store. I resisted a temptation to list the names 
 but most of them are in the Newport cables to
 
 Beziers, Cette and Nimes 221 
 
 the Paris edition of the New York Herald at least 
 once a week. It is a good thing that there are 
 other ways of getting into the newspapers than 
 by committing crimes. Else we fear that crime 
 would increase among our very best people. 
 
 There are many other exhibits in the museum, 
 including coins of all ages and countries. 
 
 We went past the statue of Antoninus Pius 
 who died in 161, a member of one of the first 
 families. The statue is a copy and was made in 
 1874. 
 
 We left our carriage at the Jardin gate and 
 walked to the Fountain, placed in the center of 
 the ancient ladies' baths. Louis XV embellished 
 this fountain in flamboyant style with cupids, 
 nymphs and others of the great unclothed. 
 
 The original marble of the old baths is in the 
 Louvre. Formerly a canopy supported by four 
 columns covered the space occupied by the foun- 
 tain and here was where the bathers gossiped as 
 they dried themselves. 
 
 The fountain is fed by a spring from the hill 
 above. One of the original columns is in the 
 temple of Diana to which we next wended our 
 way through a blinding sand storm. 
 
 Baedeker says this was probably a Nymphaeum, 
 which reminds us of Samuel Johnson's method of 
 defining a word by using less known words. We 
 hazard a guess, however, that the nymphs from
 
 222 Three Weeks in France 
 
 the baths came here for afternoon tea. They 
 were probably dryades. 
 
 Within it is a curious Byzantine bas relief of 
 the head of Christ, dating from the sixth century. 
 The roof of the temple is on three levels, thus 
 admitting the light (some) and excluding the 
 rain (a little). 
 
 We returned to the hotel in time to pay our 
 bill and catch the bus for the train. At the last 
 moment we inserted Remoulins in our schedule 
 in order to visit the Pont du Gard. This was 
 part of a twenty-five mile aqueduct built 19 B. C. 
 by Agrippa, son-in-law of Augustus Caesar. The 
 part now used as a bridge is 880 feet long and 
 160 feet high, resting on a triple tier of arches 
 diminishing as they ascend. There are six, 
 eleven and thirty-five arches respectively in each 
 tier. It was built entirely without cement except 
 in the bed of the canal on top, through which the 
 water was conveyed to Nimes. The structure 
 was damaged in the fifth century by barbarians. 
 It is pretty well initialed now by later barbarians. 
 It was restored in 1855-8 by that great restorer 
 Napoleon III. 
 
 Arriving at Remoulins we left our train to its 
 sole other occupant, the postman, and deposited 
 our baggage in the check room. Carriages for 
 the Pont.du Gard meet every train. It is a fifteen 
 minute ride and on July 19th was a very dusty
 
 Beziers, Cette and Nimes 223 
 
 one. Our driver went half a mile out of his way 
 to accommodate a non-paying friend, after which 
 we resumed our course to the bridge. 
 
 Our drive terminated at a wayside inn, where 
 in spite of heat, dust and weariness we were 
 obliged to walk another quarter of a mile to the 
 bridge, up hill all the way. We took a rather 
 steep path to the top. There is less climbing but 
 more walking if you cross the river by the lower 
 bridge and ascend the steps on the opposite side. 
 We thought it a stiff bit of Alpine work until 
 we started to explore a descensus Averni on the 
 other side of the bridge which was anything but 
 facilis. 
 
 First we must tell you that we encountered a 
 sergeant of Zouaves at the top of the bridge. He 
 was such a picture of a Chasseur d'Afrique that 
 we made bold to ask him if he would pose for us. 
 He would be enchanted but would madame in- 
 clude the baby also? Mystified, we acquiesced 
 and he disappeared in the bush with that dis- 
 tinctly paternal call that distinguishes the male 
 parent. Soon he reappeared with a smiling 
 mother and a fearless big-eyed infant. The 
 soldier took the child in his arms and the two 
 made a charming picture. Then the baby pro- 
 ceeded to work on his next tooth with the "big 
 sou" handed to him. He said what his fond 
 mother assured us was "merci" and as we left,
 
 224 Three Weeks in France 
 
 "bonjour," using the same sounds. However, 
 the mother understood him, God bless her, as no 
 one but mothers ever understand us. 
 
 Then came our descent ! We thought it a path 
 but it must have been the dry bed of some un- 
 usually reckless mountain brook. No goat, at 
 least no four-legged goat — had ever attempted 
 it, for there were no mangled remains at the 
 bottom. 
 
 After we had scraped along over loose rocks 
 and slippery leaves for several yards, holding on 
 by roots and branches, we concluded to return. 
 Rash conclusion ! To descend was difficult, to go 
 back was impossible. The path behind us had 
 closed as if by magic. Steps that had been three 
 feet down were six feet up. 
 
 We resolved to record names and address in 
 our journal and take a final plunge. Writing 
 thus in the first person robs the narrative of its 
 due amount of thrill, for you know that event- 
 ually we reached bottom, but the difficulties really 
 were formidable and the distance, one hundred 
 and sixty feet, too great for a comfortable drop. 
 Not only were there sticks and stones to break 
 our bones, but brambles to tear our only clothes. 
 But we emerged finally with eyes and outer integ- 
 ument intact. 
 
 We ate lunch under an arbor at the little inn. 
 Everything was home grown and delicious. We
 
 Beziers, Cette and Nimes 225 
 
 were entirely surrounded by hungry chickens 
 which ate off our hands and almost ate our hands 
 off, if we were slow in waiting on them. One 
 turkey, half -grown, rinding the floor service in- 
 adequate jumped upon the table and had to be 
 removed by the waitress. 
 
 A bull dog and a French poodle joined our 
 merry throng, coming in with the meat course. 
 A party of six wine growers on a fishing excur- 
 sion made merry at an adjoining table. Occa- 
 sionally my empty hand would hang down at my 
 side and in every instance it would receive an 
 admonitory peck from some hungry hen. Later 
 when chicken was served, we felt almost like we 
 were eating a member of the family.
 
 2j6 Marseilles 
 
 1 
 
 XV 
 
 Marseilles 
 
 j UR conveyance reached Remoulins forty 
 minutes ahead of train time but we 
 were not permitted to buy our tickets 
 to Marseilles until twenty minutes had 
 elapsed. 
 
 We passed through Beaucaire and crossed the 
 swift flowing Rhone to Tarascon on the opposite 
 bank. At the latter town, the track for Mar- 
 seilles crossed the other at right angles and we 
 changed cars. A multitude of signs made mis- 
 takes impossible. 
 
 The guide books mention Daudet and his ro- 
 mance of "The Prodigious Adventures of Tar- 
 tarin of Tarascon." France joins the rest of the 
 world in laughing at this typical braggart of 
 Southern France. Except to furnish a name for 
 the hero of Booth Tarkington's cameo delineation 
 of a brave French gentleman, Beaucaire does not 
 figure prominently in literature. 
 
 We skirted the Rhone all the way to Mar- 
 seilles, but not close enough to wet our skirts.
 
 Marseilles 227 
 
 After Rabele we went though a lot of scrubby- 
 looking prairie country with long sections of the 
 track protected from the mistral by closely 
 planted cypress trees. The mistral is the cold, 
 raw wind that sweeps down from the mountains 
 almost any time of the year, but in the winter it 
 brings snow in its trail. 
 
 Just before entering Marseilles, the railroad 
 passes through the longest tunnel in France, three 
 miles of un ventilated darkness. After emerging 
 we sighted the islands of Pomeguis, Ratonneau 
 and If, the latter Monte Cristo's island. 
 
 Steamboat excursions run from Marseilles out 
 to Isle d'lf, where gaping tourists are shown the 
 Chateau d'lf and Monte Cristo's cell, with as 
 much impressiveness as if he had really existed. 
 It is a wonderful tribute to the impressive real- 
 ism of Dumas. They even show you the place 
 where Monte Cristo's body struck the water. It 
 is still wet. Monte Cristo is much more of a 
 reality to most tourists than Mirabeau, who act- 
 ually was imprisoned there. 
 
 Marseilles has the most prominent harbor in 
 France. It is the principal port for Algeria and 
 excursions run over there two or three times a 
 week. 
 
 At the depot we landed in a queer jumble of 
 French, Turks and Italians. We auto-bussed to 
 a hotel on the harbor and just off the Cannebiere.
 
 22% Three Weeks in France 
 
 The Cannebiere is one of those unfortunate 
 streets that suffers from too much press agentry. 
 The Marseilles citizens say "If Paris had a Can- 
 nebiere it would be a little Marseilles." If it had 
 nothing more impressive than the Cannebiere it 
 would be a very little Marseilles. The boast 
 damages a street which if not dragged into the 
 limelight is a very fair avenue, not extremely 
 long, nor extraordinarily wide, nor very bril- 
 liantly illuminated, nor markedly gay, but a per- 
 fectly good street on which to walk or drive. 
 
 We motored down it, found our hotel and se- 
 cured a room with an iron-railed balcony and 
 there we sat with the busy city beneath us and 
 the Old Harbor in front filled with masts and 
 having the setting sun for a background. Boats 
 for the Chateau dTf with bunting flying were 
 ready for the morrow's excursions. Autos 
 honked past. The jangle of street car bells min- 
 gled with the rattle of cabs. Carts rumbled along 
 more slowly. Pedestrians used either sidewalk 
 or street as the mood struck them. An occas- 
 ional motor truck disputed the crossing with a 
 half-dozen triple tandem teams. Newsboys and 
 girls called their wares vigorously. Marseilles 
 is not an anti-noise city. 
 
 A huge transporter bridge swung lazily back 
 and forth across the harbor. Two soldiers 
 paused beneath us to light their cigarettes. A
 
 Marseilles 229 
 
 bearded priest in long black gown strolled leis- 
 urely across the street. France has broken the 
 hold of the church and some day will lessen the 
 drain of the army. When she does the imagina- 
 tion halts in its efforts to conceive her prosperity. 
 
 Marseilles is a big city with half a million 
 people and a history going back twenty-five hun- 
 dred years. It was not our intention to "see" it 
 at all. We planned to sample its bouillabaisse 
 at one of its celebrated restaurants, see an act or 
 two of vaudeville and have a good night's rest 
 before visiting the French Riviera. It was out 
 of season for bouillabaisse and the vaudeville 
 was a disappointment, but we slept nineteen to 
 the dozen. 
 
 Marseilles antedates Roman civilization. It 
 was a Greek settlement. Julius Caesar took it in 
 49 B. C. Christianity is said to have been intro- 
 duced here by Lazarus, brother of Mary and 
 Martha. 
 
 It was conquered by all the usual conquerors 
 in regular order: Visigoths, Franks and Sara- 
 cens. It did not become a part of France until a 
 few years before America was discovered and 
 was always rather independent in its attitude to- 
 wards the powers that sought to govern it. It 
 was loyal to Louis XVI when his troubles com- 
 menced, or rather, it was against the govern- 
 ment, whatever the government might be.
 
 230 Three Weeks in France 
 
 Its gang was conspicuous at the attack on the 
 Tuileries and sang de lTsle's "Marseillaise," 
 which, born an outcast, is now the French na- 
 tional air. 
 
 Algeria and the Suez Canal have each added 
 to the importance of Marseilles as a port. 
 
 The great engineer Vauban, who engineered 
 things for Louis XIV, built the big gray fort to 
 our right. On the other fort, the newer one, is 
 a plate bearing an inscription placed there in 
 1899 in memory of Marseilles' twenty-five hun- 
 dredth birthday. 
 
 We ate at the Restaurant Basso and Brigail- 
 lon, famed for its bouillabaisse, but alas it was 
 the closed season for bouillabaisse. They only 
 bite in cold weather. We were also told that arti- 
 chokes were bad form after July 15th. Later we 
 disproved this and found that they were not only 
 good form but excellent taste all through the 
 summer. 
 
 Every child whom we saw in Marseilles and 
 nearly every woman and a great many men had 
 beautiful eyes. But for the language we would 
 have sworn we were in Italy. 
 
 Our waiter was so efficient that we gave him 
 a liberal tip. To our disappointment he put it 
 in a tin box where it became part of the common 
 fund divided weekly. 
 
 Some details of a first class Marseilles restau-
 
 Marseilles 231 
 
 rant may interest you. We dined a la carte and 
 accepted the suggestions of our middle-aged 
 waiter both as to items and quantity. First he 
 brought us a fried sole, smoking hot, which he 
 skillfully dissected in front of us, removing the 
 bones, or you might say separating sole from 
 body, without leaving a bone with the fish or 
 very much fish with the bone. Then came an 
 excellent beefsteak which was apportioned with 
 proper recognition of the superior demands of 
 the masculine appetite. With this course were 
 fried potatoes, puffed like young dirigibles, and 
 peas seasoned as only a French cook can season 
 them. There was, of course, bread and butter 
 and salad, the latter wisely left in the waiter's 
 hands to prepare. 
 
 He wanted us to stop after the salad, but we 
 asked him for fruit, notwithstanding the warning 
 of traveled friends as to the price of peaches in 
 France. 
 
 A basket was brought heaped with plums, apri- 
 cots and peaches and left on the table to do its 
 deadly work. We limited ourselves to a peach, 
 a plum and an apricot, each a giant of its species 
 and of perfect color and flavor. Our total bill 
 was $1.76 figuring francs at twenty cents each, 
 which is about four per cent too high. This in- 
 cluded a charge for bread, butter and "covers." 
 Our waiter had figured on giving us a good din-
 
 232 Three Weeks in France 
 
 ner at four francs each. Our request for fruit 
 had added sixteen cents to the bill. This was in 
 one of the best restaurants in Marseilles. 
 
 Our walk down the Cannebiere after the 
 vaudeville was interesting but not exciting. The 
 street was well, but not brilliantly, lighted. The 
 advertising man had not come to the rescue of 
 the municipality in the matter of illumination as 
 on Broadway. The sidewalks were filled with 
 strollers. 
 
 Altogether the proverb regarding the Canne- 
 biere has little justification and only serves to 
 illustrate the good-natured egotism of the Pro- 
 vencal and to prove that bragging about the home 
 town is not exclusively a characteristic of a new 
 civilization. 
 
 Cabs are forty cents an hour. Taxis are not — 
 do not exist in Marseilles. Car fare is two cents 
 anywhere within the city and no transfers are 
 given. 
 
 We drove down to the transporter bridge and 
 were wafted across like so much small change in 
 a cash railway. The charge for carriage and 
 party was ten cents. 
 
 Our cab horse was formerly in the cavalry. 
 He paused at uncertain intervals. He did not 
 exactly balk, but went through a sort of time- 
 marking operation. His military habits cost us
 
 Marseilles 233 
 
 an extra franc and nearly caused us to miss our 
 train. 
 
 We had been delayed in leaving the hotel by a 
 Scotchman who was attempting to tell the French 
 lady in charge how to make porridge. Conse- 
 quently we were additionally embarrassed by the 
 maneuvres of the cab horse. As always, we 
 found that we had plenty of time and that our 
 hurry was more a matter of habit than necessity.
 
 234 Monte Carlo 
 
 XVI 
 
 Monte Carlo 
 
 H" ROM Marseilles to Monte Carlo the rail- 
 road goes between the mountains and 
 the sea, with the Corniche Road run- 
 ning like a white ribbon between us 
 and the Mediterranean. 
 
 This part of the country witnessed Napoleon's 
 start and finish. We passed Toulon where his 
 suggestion as to the disposition of the besieging 
 artillery led to the capture of the city and at- 
 tracted the favorable attention of the Convention. 
 
 Here also was his point of departure when he 
 set sail for Egypt, May 19, 1798. His star of 
 destiny was in the ascendant. He bade Josephine 
 good-bye "for two months." Five hundred sail 
 set forth on the Mediterranean with forty thou- 
 sand soldiers and ten thousand sailors. If the 
 enemy had stumbled onto this over-loaded fleet, 
 Napoleon's star would have set right there. His 
 ships were so crowded with men and artillery as 
 to make maneuvring impossible. Even a victory 
 would have ended his expedition. A smooth sea
 
 Monte Carlo 235 
 
 and complete immunity from attack were neces- 
 sary. It was a 100 to 1 shot and Napoleon ac- 
 cepted the odds. His confidence was contagious. 
 A squall on May 19 drove the English fleet into 
 the offing and it took Brittania until June 1 to 
 make repairs and resume her rule of the waves. 
 By that time Napoleon was twelve days on his 
 way. 
 
 Napoleon landed at St. Raphael, a little far- 
 ther along the coast, when he returned from 
 Egypt and hastened to Paris, maddened by jeal- 
 ousy, to investigate scandalous rumors affecting 
 Josephine repeated to him by his brothers. 
 
 Convinced of Josephine's loyalty, he did not 
 divorce her until satisfied that she would never 
 bear an heir to the throne. From their estrange- 
 ment dates his gradual downfall. 
 
 Fate played him a sorry trick, for his son by 
 Maria Louisa died at twenty-one, while a grand- 
 son of Josephine in the person of Napoleon III 
 sat on the throne of France for twenty years. 
 
 At St. Raphael, Napoleon disembarked for his 
 brief sojourn at Elba. Still farther along the 
 coast, near Golfe-Juan-Vallauris, a column marks 
 the spot where he landed on his return from 
 Elba. 
 
 Napoleon was everything from a vain, egotis- 
 tical demagogue to the greatest military leader 
 the world has ever known. He played on the
 
 236 Three Weeks in France 
 
 vanity of the French people and they gave all to 
 the man who confirmed their belief that they 
 were the greatest people on earth. 
 
 The French are courageous innovators. The 
 novelty of an idea invites rather than frightens 
 them. Having made a choice, that choice is right 
 because they made it, and they support it to the 
 death. 
 
 Thus they are often more consistent than wise, 
 as in the rejection of the Reformation and the 
 acceptance of the Napoleonic legende. 
 
 French virtues are therefore national while 
 her vices are largely individual. 
 
 They are supreme in the reign of pure intelli- 
 gence. They worship reason. Thus in '93 all 
 church holidays were done away with. The God- 
 dess of Reason was enthroned in Notre Dame. 
 
 The Revolution abolished anarchy in weights 
 and measures and established anarchy in politics 
 and religion. They instituted a decimal system 
 which lived and a calendar which died. They 
 divided the year into twelve months of thirty 
 days each with five festival days except in Leap 
 Year, when there were six. The months had 
 poetical names which, freely translated, mean 
 Vintage, Foggy, Hoarfrost, Snowy, Rainy, 
 Windy, Budding, Flowering, Pasture, Harvest, 
 Hot and Fruit. Each month had three decades. 
 There was a scheme to decimalize the hours and
 
 Monte Carlo 237 
 
 minutes but it was dropped. Probably if it had 
 succeeded, they would have tackled the heart- 
 beats. There were no Sundays, but in place 
 thereof, three holidays per month "for contem- 
 plation and commemoration of abstract ideas." 
 Napoleon restored Sunday and in 1805 the sen- 
 ate restored the old calendar in toto. 
 
 It is the national characteristic to act on what 
 we could consider mere theory, providing the 
 theory seems to them true. The Frenchmen dis- 
 sociates the proposition from the proponent. He 
 does not ask if Voltaire is a deist or if Darwin is 
 in conflict with Holy Writ. He treats the prop- 
 osition by itself. Is it true? If so, no matter 
 where it leads, he follows. 
 
 With us the man who sees quickly frequently 
 does not see clearly. He is agile rather than ac- 
 curate. He displays presence of mind rather 
 than quick-wittedness. He adapts himself 
 adroitly to an unforeseen circumstance whereas 
 a Frenchman would be more likely to foresee the 
 circumstance. 
 
 The "alert American" prides himself rather on 
 his abiiiLy quickly to correct a wrong "guess" 
 than on the accuracy of his first estimate. He 
 is "smart" rather than intelligent. 
 
 Brownell (French Traits) quotes an Italian 
 traveler: "The trouble with the French is that 
 they can leave nothing alone. They charge you
 
 238 Three Weeks in France 
 
 more for potatoes au naturel than for potatoes 
 served in any other way." 
 
 You pay for the self-control exercised, just as 
 Jerome K. Jerome says you pay for the things 
 left off a bonnet. 
 
 We stopped at none of the towns we have 
 named. Toulon was sacrificed for the Pont du 
 Gard at Remoulins. Neither did the villas at 
 Cannes or Nice lure us from our advance on 
 Monte Carlo, although they looked cool and in- 
 viting in the bright sunlight. 
 
 The Mediterranean is blue and green and much 
 of the coast is of a Colorado red. 
 
 Le Muy has a tower from which some Pro- 
 vencals shot de la Vega, the poet, whom they mis- 
 took for Charles V because of his sumptuous 
 dress : a warning to all poets. 
 
 Monte Carlo is situated in Monaco, the small- 
 est principality on the planet and the wickedest. 
 It once was a world power containing fifty-three 
 square miles, but in 1861 the reigning prince, not 
 caring to cultivate so much ground, sold all but 
 eight square miles to France. It is not clear why 
 he retained so much. Five acres would suffice 
 for the productive part of Monaco, which part 
 is the percentage in favor of the house. 
 
 This percentage pays all the taxes and in re- 
 turn for this immunity the citizens are not allowed 
 to play the games. No doubt many expatriate
 
 Monte Carlo 239 
 
 themselves in order to return and sit around the 
 tahles in the Casino. 
 
 In much the same way Lord Guinness, of Dub- 
 lin, refuses his brewery employes the right to 
 drink beer. Like the poor but proud colored 
 waiter in the cheap restaurant they can say, "Yes, 
 suh, ah wuk heah but ah don' eat heah." 
 
 Therefore there is an air of discontented pros- 
 perity among the soldiery of Monaco. Appar- 
 ently every male inhabitant is a soldier, fireman, 
 croupier or bouncer. 
 
 There are two towns in Monaco, Monaco 
 proper and Monte Carlo which is not. Alto- 
 gether fifteen thousand people live in the prin- 
 cipality. 
 
 Just why Monaco is permitted to exist is a 
 mystery. It is segregated vice with a vengeance 
 and immensely profitable. In fact, it is so remun- 
 erative that we commenced to ask ourselves how 
 the rake-off was spilt up among the powers. It 
 is all within French territory but it does not nec- 
 essarily follow that France is the sole partner in 
 the business. It is too rich a morsel to be held 
 so long by one small house without a "gentle- 
 men's agreement" of some sort and it would be 
 interesting to see the real books of Monte Carlo. 
 
 There are many tunnels on the road to Nice 
 and it is a very trying trip if you need to consult 
 maps or time tables. We went through Nice and
 
 240 Three Weeks in France 
 
 left our baggage at the Monte Carlo depot, re- 
 turning to Nice to sleep. It is only a forty min- 
 ute ride and our plan enabled us to catch an early 
 morning train to our next stop. 
 
 The hotel runners and cabbies at Monte Carlo 
 make the rest of the world seem dull and quiet. 
 Compared to these gentry, a Coney Island bally- 
 hoo is coy and shrinking. Apparently they be- 
 lieve that they must get quick action ahead of 
 the gaming tables. The average visitor to Monte 
 Carlo carries ready money and ready money ex- 
 cites a hotel runner. They were at our elbow 
 during every operation at the depot, when we 
 alighted, while we sought a porter, when we 
 handed our tickets to the gate man, when we left 
 our suit cases at the consigne. Every moment a 
 babel of hotel names filled the air, whispered in 
 our ears by the nearest, shouted at us by those on 
 the edge of the crowd and always running 
 through it as a sort of motif the words "Anglish 
 spoke." 
 
 We walked two or three blocks from the depot, 
 chartered a carriage after the usual bargaining 
 and drove along the lower road, watching the 
 Mediterranean at play. Like a huge cat it 
 would lie on its back and tease the shore with 
 curling breakers. Then it would dash and gnaw 
 at the sandy beach, driven back repeatedly, but
 
 Monte Carlo 241 
 
 always returning frothing and biting its way into 
 the land. 
 
 There is a fine bathing beach but only two or 
 three children with their nurses were availing 
 themselves of it. 
 
 The Mediterranean was striped with all the 
 colors, at least with all the water colors. Gray, 
 pale green, black, emerald, topaz, navy blue — all 
 listed as we saw them and not dug out of a paint 
 catalogue after reaching home — striped like a 
 French farm or a gigantic pousse cafe. 
 
 We drove about the town along climbing, curv- 
 ing streets, between immaculate white and ivory 
 villas with beautiful lawns where the owners 
 can gambol on the green without leaving their 
 own premises. Every part of the town is as clean 
 as a hound's tooth. The motto of Monaco might 
 well be "We clean everything in sight." 
 
 The Grand Casino is right in front of the depot 
 at the top of a long line of stairs, a sort of Scala 
 Maledicta, not to be ascended on your knees, but 
 frequently to be descended on your uppers. 
 There is an elevator for the weary. Everything 
 is made easy for the easy. Xo one needs to ask 
 for the Casino when alighting from the train. 
 It is right in front of you. 
 
 A fine orchestra was playing selections from 
 ancient classics and modern Hebrew as we sat 
 under the trees in the beautiful garden. The
 
 242 Three Weeks in France 
 
 usual high wind was blowing. Ultra fashionable 
 people strolled by trying to pass the time away 
 between games. The Casino is open from ten in 
 the morning until midnight. A uniformed at- 
 tendant assists occupants of carriages to alight 
 at the front door. It is the policy of the manage- 
 ment to relieve you of everything possible. 
 Everything is organized beautifully. The infer- 
 nal regions themselves can be no better sys- 
 tematized. If Monaco can avoid foreign wars 
 she ought to continue prosperous. Her army is 
 on a peace footing and her navy is tied to a stake 
 down in the harbor. And all the time as the gold 
 clinks and the plucked gulls slink back to the 
 depot the question keeps popping into my mind : 
 "How is the graft pro-rated?" 
 
 There were two sorts of games going when we 
 were there, five tables of roulette and one of 
 trente-et-quarante. The stakes at the former 
 range from one dollar to twelve hundred while at 
 the latter the range is from four to twenty-four 
 hundred dollars. 
 
 The soldiers or policemen or messenger boys 
 or whatever they are wear white cork helmets, 
 blue coats with silver buttons and white trousers. 
 They look like light opera naval lieutenors the 
 first month of the season. 
 
 There were hundreds of tame pigeons flying
 
 Monte Carlo 243 
 
 about the grounds, exempt like the native feath- 
 erless bipeds from being plucked. 
 
 To get into the Casino, you first present your 
 visiting card at the office and receive a ticket 
 admitting you for the day. You are required to 
 give your nationality and the name of your 
 hotel. Then you check your hat so as to leave 
 both hands free to pull in your winnings and enter 
 the palatial rooms. 
 
 "Palatial'' is an over-worked word but a weak 
 one. We saw no palaces in France that com- 
 pared with the Casino in modern conveniences 
 and comfort. 
 
 When we entered, all of the six tables were 
 crowded and a fringe of retail gamblers stood 
 back of the chairs. Evidently "the season" at 
 Monte Carlo is like the rainy season in Ireland 
 where a native assured us "it begins to rain about 
 the first of June and is purty well over by the 
 thirty-first of the following May." But in the 
 winter, we were told there were five rooms open 
 and twenty-five tables in full swing. 
 
 There were young men and old, richly dressed 
 and shabby women, people of all nations, ath- 
 letes, cripples and invalids. They had one thing 
 in common — an exhausted, depleted expression. 
 There is no gayety, no joy, in Monte Carlo. The 
 faces are stamped with the strain of one obses- 
 sing appetite, the passion for gambling.
 
 244 Three Weeks in France 
 
 We did not even know the rules of the games 
 and learned little by watching the players. We 
 asked a young Englishman to explain the sig- 
 nificance of the roulette "lay-out." He told us 
 the varying odds. I mention this to show how 
 ignorant we were and how innocent of any pre- 
 conceived "system." 
 
 I changed some gold and separated six five- 
 franc pieces — about the size of silver dollars — 
 from the rest of my money and agreed to limit 
 my plunge to six bets, win or lose. The bets cen- 
 tered around number 16. The first wager was 
 intended to cover the combination 16-17-18, the 
 odds eleven to one. The coin lit on Number 16 
 and before I could make my intention clear 
 "Rien ne va plus" was called and the money re- 
 mained on 16. Number 17 won and I lost. Had 
 the money landed where it was aimed, I would 
 have won eleven dollars. 
 
 This is much more fascinating in the doing 
 than in the telling, so I will hasten to add that 
 three more bets were lost. Then I tossed a dol- 
 lar toward the 16 square. Again I was misun- 
 derstood and the money rested on the intersec- 
 tion of 16, 17, 19 and 20. Nineteen won and I 
 was handed eight dollars that I did not intend 
 to win. This made a three dollar winning, net, 
 and I recklessly played the final wager on 16. 
 The little ivory ball spun around and around,
 
 Monte Carlo 245 
 
 slipped onto the inner disk, hesitated and fell into 
 16. Money, the equivalent of thirty-five dollars, 
 was pushed over to me and I quit. That is the 
 only part of the system that I can recommend 
 unreservedly. 
 
 We wandered out into the garden and bought 
 some post cards of an old woman whose booth 
 was back of the Casino. 
 
 "Do you play?" we asked her. 
 
 "It is not permitted to me," she said with a 
 sigh. 
 
 We planned to ride on the funicular railway 
 to La Turbie, a village at the top of the hill, 
 sixteen hundred feet above the town. The view 
 from there is superb and they serve you a good 
 meal, out of the tempter's reach. We bought 
 tickets and climbed into the car but a rain storm 
 came up and we were satisfied that the view 
 would be obscured so we returned to a cafe near 
 the Casino for dinner. 
 
 In the evening we again went into the gam- 
 bling rooms. It looked very much as it did in the 
 afternoon. The personnel had changed but not 
 the general facial appearance. It was as if a 
 slightly different group of people had stepped in 
 behind the same expressions. 
 
 There is a lot of good sculpture wasted on 
 the ceilings of the gambling rooms, for very few 
 people look up. 
 
 Almost every player has a system elaborately
 
 246 Three Weeks in France 
 
 worked out. The superstition that a system ex- 
 ists that can break the bank is the bulwark of 
 Monte Carlo's success. These system players 
 have pencil and paper in front of them and 
 record every winning number. When the psy- 
 chological moment arrives they place their bets 
 and if they win, the system is vindicated — tem- 
 porarily. If they lose, there must have been 
 an error in the calculations. The system cannot 
 be mistaken. 
 
 One- fourth of the players were women. At 
 intervals in the evening attendants passed wine 
 around free of charge to all in the rooms, 
 whether players or not. 
 
 About nine o'clock, the orchestra started to 
 play. We sat around and listened to the music 
 and studied the faces about us until it was time 
 to take the train to Nice. 
 
 At the depot, we were joined by others who 
 found it desirable to sleep at Nice. One moth- 
 erly looking lady of sixty passed us as we sat 
 and she was in an unusual predicament for a 
 lady of sixty. She had a bundle in one hand, an 
 umbrella and newspaper in the other and an un- 
 lighted cigarette in her mouth. She succeeded 
 in striking a match on the box and walked on 
 puffing in a very determined manner. 
 
 I am glad I do not smoke cigarettes. It is too 
 effeminate.
 
 The Goulets 247 
 
 XVII 
 
 The Goulets 
 
 mALF of Nice goes out of business in the 
 summer time. More than half of the 
 I hotels and pensions are closed. That 
 
 fact does not alter the clean loveliness 
 of its pink and creamy villas as they circle the 
 terraces above the bay, like strands of corals and 
 pearls. 
 
 At Cannes the train stood for ten minutes be- 
 side a trainload of long-horned, fawn-colored 
 cattle voicing their criticism of the railroad man- 
 agement and their displeasure at being trans- 
 ferred from Cannes to cans. 
 
 A good deal of France was storm-swept the 
 day we were at Monte Carlo. We had a high, 
 cold wind which we were assured was unpre- 
 cedented but we are so used to breaking meteoro- 
 logical records that we paid no attention to it. 
 The cold wave lasted long enough to get us out 
 of the southern part of France and we were 
 grateful for that.
 
 248 Three Weeks in France 
 
 At Marseilles we stopped for twenty-five min- 
 utes but that was not enough time for us to eat 
 lunch so we bought a box lunch and ate it on 
 the train. 
 
 Our compartment had seven of its eight places 
 taken and every one had a box lunch. Besides 
 ourselves there were three ladies, a child and a 
 young colored man who spoke French fluently 
 and English imperfectly. The two ladies took 
 up every inch of room in the racks with their 
 packages and we were obliged to find storage 
 under the seats for our baggage. 
 
 We again passed through Tarascon but this 
 time we did not change cars. We were crowded 
 worse after picking up the Paris passengers at 
 Tarascon. All places were taken and the corri- 
 dors were full. More passengers were admitted 
 than there were places, thus rudely shattering 
 another tradition of the Continent. Luckily 
 French trains are never in a hurry to start and 
 eventually every one was placed, some gentle- 
 men surrendering their seats and standing in the 
 corridor. 
 
 We looked out the car windows at Avignon, 
 the capital of the Roman hierarchy and resi- 
 dence of the popes in the fourteenth century. 
 The ancient palace of the popes is its star at- 
 traction. Here is the headquarters of the 
 Brotherhood founded by Frederic Mistral, the
 
 The Goulets 249 
 
 poet, whose purpose it was to revive the Pro- 
 vencal language and literature. And as we 
 mused over the labor this good man had ex- 
 pended from pure love of country, we bought the 
 morning paper and read that Frederic Mistral 
 was dying. A few days later he passed away 
 at the good old age of eighty-two. 
 
 Every depot was thronged with people and we 
 were puzzled at first but later recalled that it 
 was Sunday. The practice of seeing the Sunday 
 train pass through is not limited to rural com- 
 munities in the United States. 
 
 The town of Orange interested us because 
 it gave the name to the house of William the 
 Silent, and was subject thereto until the Peace 
 of Utrecht in 171 3 gave it and its small territory 
 to France, leaving only the title, Prince of 
 Orange, to the house of Nassau. 
 
 We arrived at Valence late and made a quick 
 change to the train for Romans. A porter ran 
 into the depot and bought tickets for us. If you 
 try to pass through an exit at a French depot 
 without a ticket you are required to pay first- 
 class fare from the terminal of the line. If you 
 ride in a higher class than your ticket calls for, 
 you are assessed the difference, if you are de- 
 tected in it, providing there is a vacant place in 
 the class in which you belong. A great many
 
 250 Three Weeks in France 
 
 people ride out of their class and are never found 
 out. 
 
 At Romans we changed to a tram for Pont- 
 en-Royans. There were only six first-class 
 places, all taken, so we sat in the unupholstered 
 second-class end of the car. The ride was a 
 rough one and it lasted two and a half hours. 
 
 The rural towns through which we passed 
 seemed given over to street bowling as a Sunday 
 recreation. 
 
 Our little train of one car went up over a ridge 
 and down into a green valley with here and 
 there a village. Some towns were of a consid- 
 erable size and all were in their Sunday garments 
 and well represented at the depots. 
 
 St. Jean-en-Royans is a busy looking place 
 whose only communication with the outside 
 world is by this little tramway. 
 
 It was twenty minutes after eight when we ar- 
 rived at Pont-en-Royans and the moon was shin- 
 ing brightly. The lights of the town were visible 
 and they were a mile from the depot. There 
 was no carriage in sight and no hotel porter. 
 Evidently the eight twenty train from Romans 
 was not a popular one. A little four and a half 
 foot man with a breath that would have done 
 credit to a six foot grenadier volunteered to 
 carry our suit cases. I lugged the carry-all and 
 B. led the march with the camera. We made
 
 ' i 
 
 TTXXEL IX THK GRAXDS COI'LIOTS
 
 The Goulets 251 
 
 several pauses to rest the little man, who was 
 growing visibly shorter under the weight of the 
 luggage until we feared his shoe strings would 
 get into his eyes. After twenty minutes our 
 rapidly vanishing porter commandeered a push 
 cart from a neighboring yard and for the rest 
 of the way we took things easy. 
 
 We had had nothing but a box lunch since our 
 early breakfast and it was nine o'clock when we 
 sat down to a good country dinner. 
 
 Pont-en-Royans looks like a hornet's nest plas- 
 tered against the cliff. The Hotel Bonnard 
 marked "unpretentious" by Baedeker is better 
 than some marked "good," except that it should 
 send a carriage to the evening tram. 
 
 We woke up after a comfortable night and 
 found a clear cool day just taking down its shut- 
 ters and getting ready for business. You can 
 take a diligence and see the Goulets at less ex- 
 pense but the exigencies of kodakery demand spe- 
 cial favors in the way of stops so we ordered a 
 carriage for the day. This, with two horses and 
 bells galore, cost us four dollars. 
 
 We drove up and up and up over a winding 
 road protected by walls at the turns only, past a 
 few tandem truck teams hauling big logs or tele- 
 graph poles into the town. There is not much 
 grain hereabouts. It is a grass country. Later 
 we could look down at our road zig-zagging for
 
 252 Three Weeks in France 
 
 miles below us where the landscape was like a 
 map drawn in many colors of green, while above 
 us towered seamed and riven rocks. 
 
 We passed through five tunnels into the Petits 
 Goulets and rode through it for an hour or more 
 before we reached the Grands Goulets. Then 
 came grander sights. We passed through 
 a chalky tunnel under white, overhanging rocks 
 into another and shorter tunnel. The air was 
 very cold in the shade but the sun was quite 
 warm. A rain coat felt comfortable on the ride. 
 Our progress was by short stages with many 
 stops for photographs and many tunnels. The 
 name "goulet" means the neck of a bottle and 
 is applied to the narrow entrance to a harbor. 
 It fits this cul-de-sac admirably. 
 
 There are miles of tilted strata where one gets 
 a faint conception of forces once at work and 
 now not dead but sleeping, that make the labors 
 of man seem very puny. Whole mountains are 
 tilted like fallen layer cake cooled too suddenly. 
 The fine road over which we drove is merely 
 nibbled from the rind. Here and there a grand 
 cascade roars down for a great distance. The 
 tunnels become almost continuous. 
 
 We emerged into a green valley with farms 
 or pastures wherever there are fifty feet square 
 of level ground. There were little caves and a
 
 The Goulets 253 
 
 tiny brook so clear that it magnified the pebbles 
 at the bottom. 
 
 The Valley of St. Martin leads to the little 
 town of St. Martin where we ate luncheon. A 
 funeral service was being held in the tiny old 
 church. The town was filled with farmers. 
 They had gathered to honor the memory of a 
 neighbor, a good man and a popular one. Two 
 or three hundred people streamed out of the lit- 
 tle church and into the graveyard behind it in 
 the wake of a coffin borne on the shoulders of 
 half a dozen men. Six mourning children 
 showed how much the father would be missed. 
 
 The cortege returned, some to the hotel but 
 most of them to the village pump, where they 
 loitered awhile and talked of the virtues of the 
 deceased in subdued voices. The priest removed 
 his robes of office and mixed with his parish- 
 ioners. It was evident that the Republic of 
 France when it put up that label on the church 
 "R. F. 1910" took over nothing but the building. 
 
 A touring party in an automobile honked 
 through the crowd, intending no irreverence but 
 grotesquely out of the picture. 
 
 It was too cool to eat in the garden so we 
 adjourned to the second floor dining room, made 
 splendid by a chandelier wrapped in tin foil. 
 
 The regular boarders took their places at the 
 large table and proceeded to discuss the funeral.
 
 254 Three Weeks in France 
 
 The man who dies in these rural communities is 
 a public benefactor. 
 
 Two dogs entered undeterred and trotted di- 
 rectly to us. Even a French dog detects our 
 accent and attempts to work us. It is but just 
 to add that all of the boarders handed occasional 
 bits to the dogs. Napkins were unblushingly 
 placed under chins. 
 
 The claims of equal rights for the sexes are al- 
 lowed in France except at the polling booth. The 
 fair sex is supplanting the unfair sex in every 
 line of endeavor. You frequently see cows 
 yoked up and hauling wagons, depriving honest 
 oxen of their legitimate means of livelihood. 
 
 The return ride was unexciting. There was 
 an hour of steady upgrade, not very steep but 
 affording an excuse for walking the horses. The 
 ride could be made in half the time without 
 hurting the team, but that would make it too brief 
 for the amount charged. 
 
 The drive through the lovely valley of the 
 Bourne was delightful. The road was good and 
 the views were grand, but not so impressive as 
 those in the Gorge of the Tarn or on the way 
 to Gavarnie. 
 
 Our departure from Pont-en-Royans was 
 more impressive than our entrance. We drove 
 down its clean, narrow street, responding to the 
 salutations -of its neat-looking citizens and with
 
 ['( iXT-KX-R( IYAXI
 
 The Goulets 255 
 
 prancing steeds and cracking whip, wound up and 
 around the hill to the depot. 
 
 There is a large tunnel in the mountains on 
 one side of the Bourne, tapping the source of the 
 Vercors and supplying electric power. This 
 proud, champing little stream is pointed into 
 large tubes and becomes simply a gigantic hose. 
 The holes made in the mountain side to permit 
 the discharge of debris from the tunnel look very 
 peculiar from the drive-way for there is nothing 
 leading to them except a very tenuous plank 
 walk from the adjacent holes. Until the mystery 
 is solved and you learn the inside facts, you 
 wonder how men ever reached the holes. 
 
 We chose first-class accommodations on our 
 return to Romans, largely because of the cush- 
 ions. At St. Nazaire we loaded three empty 
 casks which acted as if they were full, rolling 
 into the cars, upsetting men and delaying our 
 departure considerably. Below St. Nazaire we 
 had our first view in France of a steam thresher 
 at work. 
 
 When we reached Romans the tram first 
 backed into a freight yard and transferred its 
 more perishable burden, a work of a little more 
 than ten minutes, after which we were taken to 
 the depot. 
 
 We piled our baggage in the middle of the 
 street and I stood guard while B. searched for
 
 256 Three Weeks in France 
 
 a hotel porter. There were neither porters nor 
 carriages at the station, so she went to a near-by 
 hotel and presently a waiter emerged and assisted 
 us with our baggage to the neat but unpretentious 
 hotel where we found a good room. We thought 
 this preferable to hunting for a starred hotel in 
 a remote part of the town. 
 
 Carriages meet the regular trains but we came 
 from Pont-en-Royans on a tram between train- 
 times. 
 
 In Romans we spent the quietest morning of 
 our trip, largely because the real town is a mile 
 from the depot. At eight o'clock only a few 
 shops in our neighborhood were open, although 
 there are more than seventeen thousand people 
 here. We slept better, surrounded by the noises 
 of tram and railway than we did in some villages 
 so quiet that when a citizen a block away turned 
 over in bed we both sat up and asked, "What 
 was that?" 
 
 The Touvard is a comfortable hotel, and if 
 ever you are stranded overnight in Romans you 
 will be well taken care of there at a very slight 
 expense. 
 
 The usual statue is at the corner of the street. 
 This one is to the soldiers of the Dauphine at the 
 time of the Revolution. President Carnot laid 
 the cornerstone in i<
 
 Chambery 257 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Chambery 
 
 0URAL France does not seem to have 
 grappled with the fly problem at all. 
 "Frappez la mouche" has not yet be- 
 come a slogan. There are no screens 
 and not much sticky fly paper. Here and there 
 are narrow strips of gummed paper on which 
 only a skilled fly-aviator could make a landing. 
 You fight for your food inch by inch. The 
 journals see only the humorous phase of the 
 subject and publish cartoons regarding the 
 pests. A favorite toy represents a baby's face 
 with a fly on its nose. "The Fly" was one of 
 the prize pictures in the Salon of 19 12. The 
 French need some good American Board of 
 Health secretary to give them a scare. Evi- 
 dently they do not dream of their peril. 
 
 A Society for the Protection of the Young 
 Girl had women agents with badges on their 
 sleeves at many metropolitan depots visited by 
 us. At Rouen B. was ten feet ahead of me and 
 was almost protected without her knowledge or
 
 258 Three Weeks in France 
 
 my consent. I rescued her from her rescuer who 
 to this day has her suspicions of me, I have no 
 doubt. 
 
 Rural mail bags are small and made of flimsy 
 material. They look like laundry bags that have 
 grown suspicious and put on locks. 
 
 We found an unoccupied second-class com- 
 partment to Chambery and were happy. We 
 repeat and affirm that third-class compartments 
 in France are unspeakable. Half dressed sol- 
 diers and unwashed citizens spread themselves 
 over uncushioned benches or ooze out of car win- 
 dows. Some one is eating, drinking or smoking 
 all the time. 
 
 St. Marcellin on our left gives a glimpse of its 
 thirteenth century tower from the railroad and 
 its clean looking city pinned against the hillside. 
 Dauphiny is a mixture of vines, farms and 
 orchards. 
 
 Voreppe is a cement town with a huge moun- 
 tain back of it waiting to be chiseled down, 
 ground up and laid low in pavements to be trod- 
 den underfoot of men. Beyond these high 
 mountains lies Italy. 
 
 We stopped for twenty minutes at Grenoble, 
 a busy city, the first one of any importance to 
 open its gates to Napoleon on his return from 
 Elba in 181 5. It is a favorite summer resort 
 as well as a center of the cement industry.
 
 Chambery 259 
 
 At Brignoud a lovely cascade leaps down the 
 mountain side on the right. Then come snow- 
 clad mountains on the left, after which more 
 timid ranges hide their tops in clouds. 
 
 Almost every town in this region has a statue 
 of Bayard, le Chevalier sans peur et sans re- 
 proche. His birthplace, the Chateau Bayard is 
 just beyond Le Cheylas-la-Buissiere on the right. 
 This is likewise the birthplace of Chartreuse, the 
 famous cordial of the Carthusians, also sans 
 reproche. Since 1903 it has been manufac- 
 tured in Italy. In spite of persecution and expul- 
 sion these old fathers still keep the best of spirits. 
 
 At Chambery we left our luggage at the de- 
 pot and took carriage for Les Charmettes, the 
 home of Jean Jacques Rousseau and Madame de 
 Warens from 1736 to 1741. 
 
 Francis Gribble says in "Rousseau and the 
 Women Whom He Loved" that he has seen the 
 lease and it commenced in 1738. Rousseau in 
 his "Confessions" says 1736. Rousseau's gen- 
 eral reputation for truth and mendacity would 
 lead us to accept Gribble even without the lease. 
 
 Rousseau was born in Geneva in 171 2, grand- 
 son of a preacher and son of a clockmaker. He 
 was a political combination of preacher and 
 tinker, a man of genius in contrast to the tal- 
 ented encyclopedists. He was one of the for- 
 eigners who have greatly affected French his-
 
 260 Three Weeks in France 
 
 tory. He was sincere in his philosophy but un- 
 reliable in his facts. He would cheerfully lie 
 to support a truth in which he believed. He 
 studied Rousseau and founded his philosophy on 
 an introspective self-analysis. He was a queer 
 mixture of Swiss works in a French case. He 
 was a theist. He had to believe in God to ac- 
 count for Rousseau. Who but God could have 
 created Rousseau? 
 
 He was not orthodox nor bigoted. He was 
 Calvinist or Catholic as he found it convenient, 
 but never an atheist. He was a preacher of the 
 simple life, a lover of nature. He would have 
 been for the initiative, referendum and recall. 
 He believed that the people were to be trusted 
 until you trusted them with something: then re- 
 call them. He believed in pure democracy, in 
 popular assemblages. He thought that a people 
 which delegated its legislation was as unpatriotic 
 as one which employed mercenaries in war. To 
 him the ideal life would have been a perpetual 
 corner grocery with everyone advising and no 
 one permitted to execute, with a central stove 
 and equal rights to expectorate but with no one 
 allowed to stir up the fire. 
 
 We drove out on the Boulevard de la Colonne 
 past the famous and unique Elephant Fountain, 
 with a statue of General de Boigne, who ac- 
 quired a large fortune in India and bequeathed it
 
 I.KS CilAKMKTTIOS -CHAMHKRY
 
 Chambery 261 
 
 to the several benevolent institutions of his native 
 town. He died in 1830. 
 
 Our road goes up, up, up a narrow and wind- 
 ing way. The driver climbed down and walked 
 for half a mile. Then he signified that he would 
 go no farther. We remonstrated. We were 
 over two hundred yards from Les Charmettes 
 and the road was still ascending. We had been 
 so frequently cajoled or bluffed into walking 
 when we had paid for riding that we resolved to 
 fight it out right there. The driver said that he 
 could not turn his vehicle farther up the hill. I 
 promised to help him take it apart and put it 
 together again if necessary. Finally we com- 
 promised by permitting B. to stay in the carriage 
 while he led the horse and I walked beside him. 
 We found a wider turning space in front of Les 
 Charmettes than the one we had left. We said 
 "Aha!" and pointed to it. He said, "But yes, 
 m'sieti, it is for automobiles." 
 
 Within the house everything is interesting. 
 We were in the birthplace of a good deal of the 
 Declaration of Independence. We were shown 
 through the reception hall, dining room and par- 
 lor on the ground floor. 
 
 There is a door painted on the wall of the 
 dining room leading to nothing but embarrass- 
 ment if you try to take hold of the handle. This
 
 262 Three Weeks in France 
 
 is another instance of the practice of painting in 
 the necessary ventilation. 
 
 Upstairs we were admitted to the bedrooms 
 of Rousseau and of his benefactress Mme. de 
 Warens. At this time Rousseau was a Catholic. 
 Mme. de Warens' bedroom was filled with re- 
 ligious pictures, including one of the Magdalen. 
 Outside her door was a small chapel. It is evi- 
 dent that here Rousseau was in a severely re- 
 ligious atmosphere so far as externals were con- 
 cerned. Religious pictures and a crucifix depend 
 from the walls in his bedroom. His servant's 
 bunk is let into the wall above Rousseau's bed. 
 
 There are holes at the bottom of all the doors 
 for the ingress and egress of the family cat. 
 The steps leading to the upper floor are of stone, 
 the floors are of wood. 
 
 Outside in opposite corners of the front yard 
 two artists were making sketches of the house. 
 
 There is a beautiful view of the mountains 
 from the east windows and not far away is Switz- 
 erland, the land of his birth and a frequent 
 refuge in time of trouble. 
 
 Rousseau's life was just one refuge after an- 
 other. He had a wonderful power over women 
 and priests. 
 
 A too close study of the life at Les Charmettes, 
 which was shared by other admirers of Mme. de 
 Warens, rather shatters the romance. Perhaps
 
 Chambery 263 
 
 we had better leave details to Rousseau's biog- 
 raphers with the feeling that any reader of his 
 biography will be less easily perturbed than one 
 who peruses a travel book. 
 
 The lady artist in the front yard folded up 
 her easel and walked over to where the man was 
 sketching and knelt at his side. Husband and 
 wife perhaps or maybe kindred souls affected by 
 the environment. The old hall clock of Rous- 
 seau struck three, a reminder that three are a 
 crowd. We said farewell to Les Charmettes, 
 the dream spot, and returned to our dusty world. 
 
 We drove down the rue de Boigne with a few 
 arcades and past the statue to Joseph and Xavier 
 de Maistre. Then we loafed through the park 
 and watched some soldiers at target practice. 
 We photographed what is standing of the 
 Chateau and also the old carved wooden doors 
 of the cathedral. 
 
 Chambery is a good town and has covered 
 sewers and makes a feint at sprinkling its streets.
 
 264 Annecy 
 
 XIX 
 
 Annecy 
 
 0T the Chambery railway station a "com- 
 missionaire" took possession of our suit 
 I cases and placed them on a truck which 
 
 he pushed half the length of the depot 
 and turned us over to another porter. The first 
 man scoffed at the tip given him. It was not 
 large but as a matter of fact he owed us a little 
 for delaying our progress in order to share us 
 with another porter. 
 
 We made a long stop at Aix-les-Bains, a fash- 
 ionable and expensive watering place. It has 
 warm sulphur springs which were known and 
 used by the Romans, those indefatigable bathers. 
 The climate is delightful and the water when 
 coupled with regular hours and a restricted diet 
 has been known to do wonders for invalids. The 
 treatment is especially efficacious for rheumatism 
 and skin diseases. Drinking fountains supply 
 the water gratis to the public. 
 
 We jested merrily at the long stop we made
 
 Annecy 265 
 
 at Aix-les-Bains. I even went so far as to 
 suggest that we were being given time to take 
 a bath. Occasionally a train guard or a station 
 employe would shout something in our window 
 which we could not understand. We approved 
 the voices but criticised the phrasing. Altogether 
 we had a jolly time at Aix-les-Bains at the ex- 
 pense of the natives. 
 
 At Culoz we found that the long stop had been 
 to enable us to change cars for Annecy and that 
 those poor, overworked railroad employes had 
 been begging, urging and ordering all passengers 
 for Annecy to get aboard a train on another 
 track. 
 
 We rode back to Aix-les-Bains, madder but 
 wiser, and were charged nothing for our stu- 
 pidity. Our return ride gave us another oppor- 
 tunity to study placid Lac du Bourget which is 
 eleven miles long and almost five hundred feet 
 deep. It is a beautiful blue in color and as 
 smooth as a mirror. 
 
 Our mistake caused us to be an hour and a 
 half late into Annecy, but we were amply com- 
 pensated by having as traveling companions be- 
 tween Aix-les-Bains and Annecy a typical wine 
 grower and his wife. 
 
 Picture to yourself a woman with hands and 
 face burned brown by the sun, in a blue silk 
 dress of the best material, from the bottom of
 
 266 Three Weeks in France 
 
 which projected a pair of substantial feet encased 
 in low shoes. A timid glance showed above the 
 shoe tops blue stockings matching the dress. She 
 had four rings on one hand and five on the other, 
 one being a quintuply entwined snake extending 
 from knuckle to knuckle. Any of her rings must 
 have cost more than six manicure sets and she 
 needed at least six. Her finger nails were long 
 and in mourning. Her hair was frizzed in the 
 highest form of the art. She gave every evi- 
 dence of being the owner of easy money coupled 
 with ignorance of what to do with it. She had 
 a bracelet on each arm and a neck chain yards 
 long. She had so many breast pins and brooches 
 that when she sneezed she rattled. Part of her 
 equipment was gold, part of it was gilt. That any 
 of it was gold shows that human nature is not 
 utterly bad, for she doubtless had as little dis- 
 crimination between things that glistened as a 
 Fiji bride. Topping it all she carried furs on 
 this warm July day. 
 
 The male member of the party wore a cellu- 
 loid collar, a dark blue serge suit, no jewelry, 
 boots that had never been polished and an air of 
 uneasy suspicion. He was dimly conscious that 
 the beautiful being by his side offered too strong 
 a lure for our frail sex to withstand, and he 
 kept his eye on her all the time. 
 
 Annecy is very much like a Holland town. It
 
 AX ARCADKU STREET— ANXECY
 
 Annecy 267 
 
 has only been French since i860. It formerly 
 was a part of Sardinia. We walked out in the 
 evening and staked out several claims for the 
 next day's snapshotting. There are blocks of 
 arcades in addition to the pretty canals, and all of 
 these things add to the quaintness and attractive- 
 ness of the town. But it was so cold that we con- 
 cluded not to stay a second night in Annecy, but 
 to hasten to Chamonix, cutting out the lovely 
 steamboat ride on Lake Annecy. 
 
 In the morning we drove out into the old town 
 with its narrow streets, arcades and canals. A 
 barber shop displayed a sign announcing not only 
 Marcel waves but "Schampooings." A book 
 stall where we loafed awhile displayed a book 
 in French giving one hundred and fifty recipes 
 for American drinks. Nick Carter is widely 
 read by juvenile French. Thus does the newer 
 civilization corrupt the older. 
 
 We drove down to the shores of the beautiful 
 lake bounded by mist-clad hills, and almost re- 
 scinded our early leaving plans. Two steamers 
 were waiting their time of departure for a two 
 hours' trip around the lake and they looked very 
 inviting. 
 
 Southern France needs a new Baedeker. Cab 
 fares are nearly all a half franc higher per hour 
 than is given in the 1907 edition. This leads to 
 argument and a demand for "le tarif" invariably
 
 268 Three Weeks in France 
 
 vindicates the cabby. In Annecy the rate is sixty 
 cents per hour. The increased cost of living in 
 France has forced this advance in prices. 
 
 Rousseau was a chorister in the cathedral at 
 Annecy but found that he was a soloist by nature. 
 We photographed a group of washerwomen who 
 were comparing linen from the different hotels 
 and making pungent comments on the owners 
 of some of the garments they were beating up. 
 
 The old prison projects into the canal, increas- 
 ing the difficulty of escape and creating an un- 
 sanitary condition. A prisoner must know how 
 to swim if he wants to break jail in Annecy. 
 
 We were involuntarily reminded of the double 
 lynching from the Missouri river bridge, a legend 
 of early days. The first noose came untied and 
 the prisoner fell into the water, swam ashore and 
 escaped. As they were putting the rope around 
 the other man's neck he said, "For heaven's 
 sake, tie it right, boys. I can't swim a lick." 
 
 We drove past the home of Mme. de Warens 
 where Rousseau lived in 1729 before entering a 
 la Maitrise (Number 13 of the same street) 
 where he developed his taste for music. The 
 street is now called the rue J. J. Rousseau. Over 
 the door of Number 13 is a shrine. 
 
 There is a quaint old fountain in front of the 
 cathedral. There are lions at the base and the 
 central column rests on the backs of four tor-
 
 Annecy 269 
 
 toises. A modern touch was given the scene 
 on the morning of our visit by milliners trim- 
 ming hats on the sidewalk while their customers 
 sat around and waited for them. 
 
 The home of St. Francis de Sales is on the 
 rue du Paquier. His tomb is now in a new 
 chapel at the foot of the mountains. It was re- 
 moved in 191 1 because the law says that no ceme- 
 tery can be maintained within the limits of a 
 city. We approve of sanitary legislation but be- 
 lieve that any danger from infection from a corpse 
 that became a corpse in 1622 is so small that it can 
 be risked with impunity. 
 
 There is a fine bust of Sommellier in the Pub- 
 lic Garden. He was one of the engineers of the 
 Mt. Cenis tunnel. 
 
 We had a difficult time finding out whose monu- 
 ment decorated the entrance to a certain beauti- 
 ful avenue named after the same man. The 
 driver said it over a dozen times, growing more 
 emphatic and consequently more indistinct at 
 each recital. "You Jensu" was the nearest we 
 could come to it for awhile. Then he added "A 
 great writer." Suddenly it flashed on us. Eu- 
 gene Sue. We thought of the young woman in 
 the Tennessee mountains who was "most growed 
 befo' she knowed dam Yankee was two words." 
 
 We drove the length of Avenue Eugene Sue, 
 beautifully shaded, to where we had a good view
 
 270 Three Weeks in France 
 
 of his chateau, overlooking Lake Annecy from 
 the foot of a green hill. 
 
 Sue was one of a long and illustrious line of 
 physicians, lured from the scalpel by the call of 
 the pen. After the death of his father left him 
 rich he quitted the army and the practice of sur- 
 gery and devoted his life to literature. "The 
 Mysteries of Paris" and "The Wandering Jew" 
 are the best known of his many romances. 
 
 At the Coup d'etat of Napoleon III in 185 1 he 
 left France and came to the beautiful chateau 
 on the banks of Lake Annecy, which was then 
 in Sardinia. 
 
 Annecy is all green and silver with linden trees 
 and no more ornamental tree grows than the 
 linden. We drove through the court of the Hotel 
 de Ville into the splendidly arranged and highly 
 cultivated Public Gardens. 
 
 The theatre is beautifully located on the curv- 
 ing arm of one of Annecy's many canals. It is 
 closed in the summer except when a "troupe de 
 passage" comes along. 
 
 The little village at the end of the Avenue Eu- 
 gene Sue makes Catholic church bells for the 
 whole world. They claimed to have made recent 
 shipments to the United States. They should 
 make more musical chimes for Annecy. The 
 quarterly striking of a dismal clock throughout 
 our first long, cold, sleepless night in Annecy was 
 one of the factors which hastened our departure.
 
 
 
 % r^B Mpy / (MM > 
 
 ■ 1 Rife ■• 
 
 
 ^v "" < &&Hr'mmm1mi- 
 
 1 11 
 
 .. a^ ■ ... .* El ■ 

 
 Chamonix 271 
 
 
 
 XX 
 
 Chamonix 
 
 HE ticket agent said we would not 
 change cars before reaching Chamonix. 
 Warned by past experience we asked 
 the hotel porter, who assured us that 
 we must change at La Roche to a tram. The 
 porter was nearly right. The ticket agent was 
 entirely wrong. I mention this to illustrate the 
 amount of official misinformation that an indus- 
 trious and inquisitive traveler can pick up. 
 
 We ate luncheon in the diner and had an op- 
 portunity to confirm a suspicion that had been 
 crystallizing and taking form ever since we first 
 observed French people at their meals. Travel- 
 ers frequently err in describing something as a 
 regular practice which may never have occurred 
 before in a century. One day I was walking 
 down a busy Chicago street with an English 
 friend. An old time emigrant wagon towed by 
 oxen came slowly toward us. It was part of a 
 Wild West parade that had lost its bearings. My 
 English friend whipped out his note book and
 
 2J2 Three Weeks in France 
 
 said : "How interesting. I supposed that sort of 
 thing had been done away with." With that 
 lesson in mind I have sought a repetition of 
 anything bizarre or unusual before listing it as 
 a prevailing practice. But I feel that I am safe 
 in asserting that well dressed French men and 
 women at the table use their bread for a mop and 
 remove from their plates therewith every trace 
 of egg or gravy, eating the mop when the plate 
 is cleaned. 
 
 By the table d'hote method one waiter can 
 serve thirty-six people in a dining car. The 
 removal of used plates is simplified by the mop- 
 ping process above described. 
 
 We had snow-clad Alps all about us. At La 
 Roche we did not change cars, but the consensus 
 of opinion was that we would do so at Le Fayet. 
 
 Our train was partly filled with mountain 
 climbers, professional, amateur and imitation. 
 You can tell the first by their complexions, the 
 second by their alpenstocks, and the third by their 
 hats. 
 
 We were in Swiss France now just as we had 
 been in Italian France when on the Riviera. 
 Chalets, cliffs and waterfalls made the scene more 
 suggestive of William Tell than Napoleon. Great 
 citadels of natural rock were lifted high in the 
 air above the snow line, but too steep for the 
 snow to find permanent lodgment. Strata of
 
 Chamonix 273 
 
 granite were twisted in cooling like the remains 
 of some giant candy pull and then — 
 
 Mont Blanc ! 
 
 Unmistakable in its majesty and not percepti- 
 bly dwarfed even by the mass of clouds swath- 
 ing its summit. 
 
 At Le Fayet we did change to a tram and 
 after eighteen minutes started our climb to 
 Chamonix, in little wooden cars with narrow 
 wooden seats apparently veneered with marble. 
 The natives secured the shady seats while we 
 were doing some altogether useless and unneces- 
 sary chasing of our baggage up and down the 
 platform. 
 
 When our train arrived at Le Fayet the porter 
 ran alongside pushing a truck and accumulated 
 hand baggage as it was sloughed off the side of 
 the train. Gradually he acquired it all. He 
 needed no assistance from us but we hung around 
 all the same. Then he distributed the luggage 
 to its owners who had calmly seated themselves 
 in the tram, on the shady side, and awaited his 
 pleasure. There was absolutely no reason for 
 us to worry but unless we worried occasionally 
 we might as well be traveling in the United States. 
 
 The view of Mont Blanc is from the right side 
 and we were on the left. But Mont Blanc is 
 too large to be monopolized and we had a good 
 enough view. We crossed the rushing torrent
 
 274 Three Weeks in France 
 
 of the Arve, a part of which is diverted and led 
 more slowly down by means of a cement ditch, 
 and like a giant in chains it turns the wheels of 
 our trolley. The water is a dirty gray in color. 
 
 The glaciers come far down into the Valley 
 of Chamonix. At the bottom of the Glacier des 
 Bossons the blue ice peeps through the dirt and 
 rock. The side of our car took on the semblance 
 of a grotto with pointing figures for stalagmites. 
 
 At Chamonix a line of porters was awaiting 
 our train. Back of them in serried ranks stood 
 a row of hotel busses, all syndicated. There are 
 no individual hotel conveyances. Your porter 
 puts you into a syndicate bus and you settle your 
 fare with the hotel. 
 
 At the hotel, a musical voiced woman made us 
 a price of eight francs per day for a room. We 
 had hardly nodded our acceptance when a man 
 appeared and said the price was ten francs. We 
 said we had already entered into a mutually sat- 
 isfactory arrangement with mademoiselle. He 
 gave her a ten franc look but acquiesced in the 
 lower price. Later he tried unsuccessfully to re- 
 coup himself by adding three francs to our bill 
 for lights and service. 
 
 A notice in our room stated that each guest is 
 taxed four cents a day by the Committee of Em- 
 bellishment for a fund which is used for improve- 
 ments which will add to the comfort of visitors.
 
 XKARiXO CHAMOXIX
 
 Chamonix 275 
 
 The mere statement of the fact sounds cheeky 
 enough after you get home, but it is done with 
 so much aplomb that you accept it as a matter of 
 course, and commend their consideration in mak- 
 ing the charge so small. 
 
 It was nearly four o'clock when we concluded 
 our arrangements, not enough time in which to 
 visit the Mer de Glace, but too much daylight to 
 waste. We ordered a carriage and drove out to 
 the village of Argentiere, along a panorama of 
 loveliness on every side, the boiling Arve at our 
 feet and clouds and peaks above our heads. Back 
 of us, framing the scene, towered Mont Blanc. 
 We passed hundreds of pedestrians who were do- 
 ing the thing properly. A sign board pointed 
 the road to Paradis and coaxed a smile to our 
 faces by the further statement that it was "in- 
 terdit aux automobiles." It added a new attrac- 
 tion to Paradise and made us then and there re- 
 solve to lead better lives. 
 
 We passed the Mer de Glace, more like white 
 and green marble than ice. At four o'clock the 
 sun had set for the dark pines on the slopes to 
 our left. The road was smooth, the air was 
 clear and we had a good horse. What more could 
 mortal ask? 
 
 Far out in the country, a dry goods store on 
 wheels, a sort of van, convertible into a long
 
 2j6 Three Weeks in France 
 
 counter, displayed cheap wares to rural cus- 
 tomers. 
 
 The village of Argentiere is huddled near the 
 end of the glacier of the same name. So far, we 
 pride ourselves on the fact that not a single town 
 in this book has "nestled." We do not consider 
 a glacier as an object which invites nestling. 
 
 We had our binoculars and by their use could 
 discern that what we had taken for insects on 
 the side of the glacier were men wielding axes. 
 We hastily assumed that these were guides en- 
 gaged in cutting steps. Later we discovered our 
 error. The color of the glacier of Argentiere 
 is a pale bottle-green, shading into a mushy white, 
 flecked with just plain dirt. It is quite a walk 
 from the road to the glacier but we were shamed 
 by the army of pedestrians who had walked from 
 Chamonix and, tired as we were, we started. 
 We reached a point near enough the foot of the 
 glacier to discover that the men with axes were 
 cutting ice and shooting it down a chute over a 
 mile long to the railroad track where it was 
 loaded into cars for distribution to American 
 tourists on demand. 
 
 Then we paused. We could have walked all 
 the way and never felt it. But we thought that 
 to stand around those hard working men and 
 flaunt our holiday merriment in their faces would 
 be inconsiderate. So we returned to our car-
 
 Chamonix 277 
 
 riage, stopping at one or two inviting cafes to 
 sip lemonade. The walk back to the village was 
 shorter despite delays. We passed many old 
 ladies toiling along under large baskets of hay. 
 
 The little guide book on Chamonix becomes en- 
 thusiastic when it tells you of the "refreshing 
 breeze from the glaciers which deliciously fans 
 your face" and later changes to a more conserva- 
 tive tone when it says, "the delighted eye will rest 
 upon eternal ice and snow to which the rising sun 
 imparts incomparable purple hues; a sight which 
 once seen, will scarcely ever be forgotten." I 
 like that "scarcely ever." It indicates a con- 
 science potent, if belated, in the bosom of the 
 chronicler. 
 
 The ride to Chamonix along the cold waters 
 of the Arve was a delight. Whenever our road 
 crossed the stream it was if we had passed into a 
 refrigerator. Every householder along the way 
 was eating dinner under the trees in his yard. 
 
 Chamonix was "discovered" in 1741 by two 
 English travelers, Pocock and Windham. The 
 fact that the valley had a history dating from 
 the eleventh century did not embarrass these dis- 
 coverers. It was not on the map until they put 
 it there. 
 
 The Bishops of Geneva visited it in the fifteenth 
 century and St. Francis de Sales stayed forty- 
 eight hours in Chamonix in 1606, twenty- four
 
 278 Three Weeks in France 
 
 hours longer than our record, but we saw more 
 of it than he did. 
 
 Nevertheless in 1741 Pocock and Windham as- 
 sembled a small arsenal at Geneva and struck out 
 for Chamonix armed like a modern Englishman 
 when he visits Tombstone, Arizona. At Mer de 
 Glace they discovered that the supposed brigands 
 of Chamonix were merely guides and porters and 
 "by that time," in the language of Mark Twain, 
 "it was too late to shoot." 
 
 In 1760 the mountain climbers broke into the 
 game. It was not until 1786 that the summit of 
 Mont Blanc was reached by Jacques Balmat. 
 Now an average of two hundred tourists climb 
 to its top every season. There is a monument in 
 Chamonix to de Saussure, the physician-geologist 
 who in 1787 was dragged and pushed up Mont 
 Blanc by Balmat and seventeen assistant guides. 
 
 We asked that a fire be built in the grate in 
 our room in order to take off the chill. There 
 had not been a fire therein since April. As a 
 result the room filled with smoke and we had to 
 open door and windows to get rid of it. That 
 made the room colder than ever. Finally the 
 chimney warmed up and the smoke returned to 
 its proper channel. 
 
 It was very cozy sitting in front of a popping 
 wood fire writing post cards and talking over 
 our nearly finished trip.
 
 Chamonix 279 
 
 There were many German visitors at the hotels 
 and in the streets. Americans were not so nu- 
 merous and most of them betrayed by the most 
 fascinating of all accents that they were from 
 south of Mason and Dixon's line. The Germans 
 marched in parties and frequently wore uniform 
 hats. They were all vigorous walkers. The 
 Americans, principally women, seemed more in- 
 terested in buying and carrying off some proof 
 that they were really here than in sight-seeing or 
 mountain climbing. 
 
 The next morning the barometer pointed to 
 "Variable" and a heavy mist obscured the moun- 
 tains. Mont Blanc had become Mont Blank. The 
 sidewalks were wet. Nevertheless we bought 
 round trip tickets to Montenvers, the station for 
 the Mer de Glace. This famous glacier is a 
 mere icicle beside some of those in our own 
 country. It is only nine miles long but is noted 
 for its swift movement, that is, swift for a glacier. 
 In the summer and autumn it rushes into the val- 
 ley at the rate of two feet a month and frequently 
 a hotel waiter is overtaken and crushed. 
 
 The sun rewarded our faith by coming out 
 while we were at breakfast and our French-Ger- 
 man-English waitress thought it would be a 
 "tres schon clay." 
 
 It is not laziness but modesty which compels
 
 280 Three Weeks in France 
 
 rne to substitute the guide book for my feeble 
 pen for a description of the ride to Montenvers. 
 
 "The view over Chamonix now becomes ad- 
 mirable: The aspect of the valley of the 'Arve' 
 with its storied chalets, its many woods, its tor- 
 rents, changes and amplifies as you mount. The 
 view reaches its highest intensity when the last 
 viaduct with five arches (1852 metres) is crossed. 
 Finally after turning a sharp angle of the line 
 you suddenly perceive the prodigious 'Mer de 
 Glace' with its framework of celebrated peaks. 
 The crossing of the glacier is not, as before men- 
 tioned, connected with any danger, but a guide is 
 necessary." 
 
 Even though you may not need the guide his 
 need is so obvious and insistent that you employ 
 him. 
 
 His mission in life is to select the most difficult 
 path that a tenderfoot can tread. Without a 
 guide, a blind man with a stick could cross the 
 Sea of Ice dry shod. With a guide you require 
 an alpenstock and a pair of quarter hose. The 
 guide costs six francs and the quarter hose are 
 marked down to twenty cents. You draw the 
 hose on over your shoes and the guide draws you 
 on over slippery, steep and narrow paths, with 
 crevasses yawning at your feet. The wonder is 
 that they do not laugh at your feet, encased as 
 they are in yarn socks. After the first ten yards
 
 MEK !)!•: ('.LACK — CHAMONIX
 
 Chamonix 281 
 
 your feet commence to get wet and at the top of 
 the first fifty foot climb they begin to get cold 
 and you inquire anxiously for a short cut to the 
 moraine. The guide finds this easily and con- 
 ducts you back to Mother Earth whence you 
 gaze down at a procession of knowing ones who 
 are tramping sedately across the practically level 
 glacier. 
 
 Our guide did all the regular things except 
 to rope us — which he had already done when we 
 accepted his terms. He cut steps with his axe 
 and pulled us up them. He jumped across 
 crevasses two feet wide and ten feet deep. He lied 
 to us about the number of times he had climbed 
 Mont Blanc and finding us receptive, added a 
 couple of ascents of the Jungfrau to his conversa- 
 tion. He was a conscientious worker and earned 
 his six francs, together with one franc pourboire 
 which we added for the Jungfrau trips. He 
 promised to look us up when he comes to Chicago. 
 If he does we will sell him the Masonic Temple 
 and recover our seven francs. 
 
 The curtain of mist descended as our train 
 pulled out. There was no performance that after- 
 noon for those who came on the late train. They 
 had to be satisfied with the orchestra of cascades 
 and the moving pictures of clouds. Possibly the 
 clouds lifted. Clouds are as temperamental as
 
 282 Three Weeks in France 
 
 prima donnas and this is a region of sudden 
 changes. 
 
 The first tunnel as you descend is longer than 
 the second and makes a complete turn under 
 cover of the mountain. Consequently you should 
 draw your car curtains before entering it to 
 keep out the stifling gas from the engine. Its 
 length and its conformation make ventilation im- 
 possible. 
 
 When you emerge, the Valley of Chamonix 
 has been picked up and carried to the opposite 
 side of the track. At least, it seems to have been. 
 The landscape below is a relief map with patched 
 farms and toy villages. 
 
 We reached Chamonix five minutes ahead of 
 a mountain thunder storm. It rushed up the 
 valley with great speed. We ran up the street 
 with less rapidity but our time allowance enabled 
 us to beat the rain to the hotel. Within three 
 minutes it was pouring down and we sat at our 
 window and enjoyed the play of lightning and 
 the music of the thunder. 
 
 More people walk to the Mer de Glace than 
 ride. They think nothing of an all day jaunt 
 and rather look down on those who use the cog 
 and pinion railway. 
 
 The ascent of Mont Blanc requires two days. 
 The night is spent in a small hotel midway to the 
 top where the descending guests are threatened
 
 Chamonix 283 
 
 with sunstroke while those on their way up are 
 being treated for chilblains. The charge for 
 guides for the round trip is one hundred francs. 
 We concluded it was too steep. There are so 
 many less expensive ways for an awkward man 
 to commit suicide which do not involve mourners 
 in a half-century wait at the foot of a glacier 
 for the delivery of the body. 
 
 On leaving the Chamonix hotel we encountered 
 our first claim for "extras." The practice 
 seemed so generally to have been dropped in 
 France that we had grown careless and when 
 given the rate we had failed to ask if it included 
 light and service. If we had asked, no doubt we 
 would have been given the same shrug, the same 
 pained look and the identical "Certainement, 
 m'sieu, tout compris." 
 
 We knew we would be expected to pay for 
 the fire in our room. A fire in July is a legiti- 
 mate "extra." But we objected strenuously to 
 one franc for lights, especially since our electric 
 light was not on in the morning. We dressed by 
 the "Alpine glow" but did not feel we should 
 be charged for it. The clerk assured us that 
 the charge was universal in Chamonix, never- 
 theless if m'sieu objected — m'sieu did — and the 
 item was canceled. The tax of eight cents for 
 local improvements was included and paid. Trav- 
 elers submit to it because it is a trifle but can you
 
 284 Three Weeks in France 
 
 imagine an American resort taxing its patrons 
 and getting away with it ? 
 
 It rained as we were leaving Chamonix, our 
 third shower in three weeks. Not one, except 
 the rain at Monte Carlo, interfered with a single 
 plan. 
 
 There is hardly a stable in France. They have 
 all become garages, with the facility of a bar 
 room changing to a drug store when an American 
 community goes "dry." 
 
 There are many horses in use and we noticed 
 one unusual attention paid to work horses. When 
 blanketed the blanket is passed under as well as 
 over the animal.
 
 Lyons 285 
 
 XXI 
 
 Lyons 
 
 0~j T Le Fayet, we tried another experiment. 
 Our railroad tickets required us to 
 change cars at Bellegarde, a frontier 
 town on the Swiss border. This meant 
 an hour's delay in reaching Lyons. We took a 
 Geneva train changing at Annemasse and 
 awaited the outcome with interest. 
 
 At Annemasse we changed cars in a blinding 
 rain and with no porters in sight. Neither train 
 was protected by a shed and the people were 
 deadly deliberate in leaving the car which we 
 wished to enter. The French who were waiting 
 with us were impatient but silent, so I called out 
 to a man whose descent was delayed by a broken 
 umbrella "Vitement, monsieur, s'il vous plait." 
 The tone probably carried more conviction than 
 the accent and he hurried off while I received the 
 admiring thanks of my fellow travelers for my 
 bravery. 
 
 The buffet was only ten feet from our car. A 
 waiter was signaled and he crossed the interven-
 
 286 Three Weeks in France 
 
 ing space with a well packed lunch box which was 
 soon spread over our two laps. 
 
 At Bellegarde we changed cars again, thereby 
 partly vindicating the railroad ticket. It was 
 becoming a habit. An extra frill was added. Al- 
 though we had not consciously been out of France 
 we were passed through a custom house and our 
 luggage was opened and rummaged. 
 
 The local guide books refer to Chamonix as 
 being "neutral ground" but geographies and en- 
 cyclopaedias agree in placing it in France. We 
 sought a solution of the mystery of the customs 
 inspection at Bellegarde but our inquiries had no 
 other result than to arouse suspicion and make 
 the investigation more thorough. 
 
 It was after eleven o'clock when we reached 
 Lyons, the city of saints and silks. It is also 
 called the French Moscow because of its geo- 
 graphical situation at the junction of the Rhone 
 and Saone, whose names are pronounced so as to 
 rhyme. Lyons produces one-third of the world's 
 silk, but its output of saints is not in the same 
 ratio. Its first martyrs were killed in 177 on 
 Fourviere Hill. The basilica of Fourviere is 
 worth a visit. It is not quite as high as Mont 
 Blanc but much warmer in July. There is a 
 fine view of Mont Blanc from its summit. 
 
 The old Hotel Dieu or hospital was founded 
 in 542 by King Childebert. All hospitals in
 
 Lyons 287 
 
 France are supported by contributions and reve- 
 nues and pay taxes on donations and legacies. 
 
 Lyons still mourns the fact that she was the 
 innocent scene of the assassination of President 
 Carnot in 1894. He was killed when leaving 
 the Palais de la Bourse et du Commerce, the 
 Stock Exchange of Lyons. 
 
 Lyons is almost as old as Marseilles, but was 
 a sickly child. For the first five hundred years 
 she watched other cities pass her in the race and 
 said "No booms for me. A steady growth is 
 much better than a boom." Consequently she 
 could hardly stand alone until about 43 B. C. 
 
 Her name was changed to Commune Affran- 
 chie by the Convention and later there were or- 
 ders issued to wipe out the city altogether. 
 Robespierre's "removal" saved Lyons. 
 
 In the morning we ordered a carriage. The 
 usual advance per hour was added for our ac- 
 cent. We were firm, and we secured the carriage 
 at the legal rate but the driver was angry. We 
 asked to have the top lowered. He said he would 
 lower it at the first stop. W r e said, "Lower it 
 NOW." He did so but muttered things which 
 our French instructor had never thought neces- 
 sary to teach us. We drove to the Church of St. 
 Martin, paid him the single trip fare and dis- 
 missed him. We were crowded for time but
 
 288 Three Weeks in France 
 
 felt that we must have either honesty or courtesy. 
 We never demand both. 
 
 Within the church there were a few at prayer. 
 This always embarrasses us. We have not yet 
 mastered the correct tourist attitude toward na- 
 tive worshippers. We tiptoed about, located the 
 sixth century door, studied the restored mosaic 
 floor of the choir and wondered why Baedeker 
 starred it. 
 
 A tram leads to Place Bellecour, one of those 
 popular promenades so frequently encountered 
 in French cities, abundantly supplied with trees 
 but as bare of grass as a billiard table. A band 
 plays here during the summer evenings while the 
 people walk about, gossip, sit on the stone benches 
 or sip wine at the near-by cafes and look at the 
 equestrian statue of Louis XIV and thank heaven 
 his days are over. 
 
 One is apt to get an exaggerated idea of the 
 amount of drinking in France by seeing the 
 crowds at these sidewalk cafes. As a matter of 
 fact, a party can and frequently does spend a 
 whole evening and not over thirty cents at a 
 table. 
 
 There is a good view of Notre Dame de Four- 
 viere from the Place Bellecour. It makes a very 
 striking picture as it stands on its high hill over- 
 looking the city. It is easily recognized by its 
 Byzantine lines and the abundance of gilt fig-
 
 OLD <M.< i( 'K AT I.VOXS
 
 Lyons 289 
 
 ures on its towers. It is only sixteen years old 
 and hence is "bizarre." After a few centuries 
 have worn away its youthful gilt it will become 
 "an interesting example of nineteenth century 
 architecture." 
 
 Again on the tram and still breathing defiance 
 of cab drivers, we went west on the rue Bellecour, 
 across the river to the Cathedral of St. Jean. It 
 has some beautiful windows but its most inter- 
 esting exhibit is a clock of the sixteenth or seven- 
 teenth century which strikes five times a day, 
 not often enough for a clock and too often for a 
 brick-layers' union. 
 
 There are two processional crosses at the high 
 altar which have been in use since 1274. 
 
 We tried to photograph the clock. It required 
 a five minute exposure and the moment we placed 
 our camera, the hitherto deserted space in front 
 of us filled up. First a priest and then two women 
 manifested a sudden interest in horology. Then 
 some other bystanders discovered something in- 
 teresting about us. We outwaited them eventually 
 and secured a picture. 
 
 The Choristers' Building to the south of the 
 main entrance of the cathedral is time-gnawed 
 and interesting. 
 
 Lyons has a fine art gallery and museum oc- 
 cupying an old Benedictine monastery on the 
 Place des Terraux.
 
 290 Three Weeks in France 
 
 We walked across the Saone on the Pont du 
 Palais de Justice in front of the Palais de Jus- 
 tice for another view of Fourviere Hill with its 
 cathedral-crowned summit. We then snapped the 
 Palais with a foreground of washerwomen, chat- 
 tering, soaping, rubbing and rinsing in the river. 
 
 Another tram ride down the rue de la Re- 
 publique to the rue des Cordeliers and a short 
 walk took us to the Bourse, on the steps of which 
 President Carnot was assassinated. Then we 
 returned to the hotel via the rue de la Republique 
 in a street car whose two cent passengers are not 
 provided with seats. We have paid five cents for 
 the privilege of standing up in American street 
 cars so the incident lacked novelty. 
 
 The shopping district of Lyons showed well 
 groomed, handsome women, but no large stores. 
 Many goods were displayed on the sidewalks. 
 Bread was very much in evidence here as in all 
 France. It is carried nude through the streets 
 on the heads or in the hands of the buyers. One 
 form of loaf, shaped like a life preserver, is es- 
 pecially adapted to the head-carrying method. 
 It is never wrapped up. If you are finicky and 
 demand paper, a piece of paper large enough to 
 interpose between your hand and the loaf is given 
 you.
 
 The Forest of Fontainebleau 291 
 
 1 
 
 XXII 
 
 The Forest of Fontainebleau 
 
 UR hotel at Lyons was within two blocks 
 
 of the depot, so we dealt our final blow 
 
 to the cab drivers by walking to the 
 
 station accompanied by the concierge 
 
 who carried our bags to the turnstile where they 
 
 were taken in charge by a railroad porter. 
 
 The train pulled out across the Saone, through 
 a long, hot tunnel and past neat suburbs contrast- 
 ing strongly with the ragged edge of most Amer- 
 ican cities. 
 
 We passed a gang of railroad laborers one-half 
 of whom were stripped to the waist and burned 
 to a dark brown. There are miles of vineyards 
 between Lyons and Dijon where we ate luncheon 
 at the depot. 
 
 The buffet at Dijon deserves more than pass- 
 ing mention. It was the best railroad eating 
 house of our trip. Our seats were in full view 
 of the shining kitchen with the immaculate, fat 
 cook all in white and working in front of a
 
 2g2 Three Weeks in France 
 
 roaring wood fire. Everything was seasoned, 
 cooked and served to perfection. 
 
 Dijon was the capital of Burgundy when that 
 duchy was more powerful than France. Its 
 dukes were feared and respected more than some 
 kings in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. 
 Charles the Bold was the last to hold out against 
 the Kings of France but the family came back 
 in the person of Charles V after three genera- 
 tions. 
 
 Louis XI of France obtained possession of Bur- 
 gundy from Mary, daughter of Charles the Bold, 
 by a combination of begging, borrowing and 
 steam-rolling. Mary's tomb is in Bruges and is 
 a miracle of brass work as was also Louis XI. See 
 Quentin Durward for an easy way to learn more 
 of Charles V. 
 
 Dijon was Catholic during the religious wars 
 and offered stubborn resistance to Henry IV. 
 The Germans occupied it during the last two 
 months of 1870. 
 
 It disdains any architecture more modern than 
 the time of Louis XIV. Most of the churches 
 date from the eleventh century. 
 
 A lady writer who visited Dijon in 1868 noted 
 the absence of "fiacres." If she had said "car- 
 riages" it would have spoiled the page for her. 
 Oh, the detestable habit of using your Ollendorff 
 instead of your Lindley Murray to express an 
 idea or suppress it. The same class of writers
 
 The Forest of Fontainebleau 293 
 
 spell rue with a capital R — but alas! so does 
 Baedeker. But Baedeker is German and has a 
 weakness for French capitals. 
 
 The lugging in of foreign words and phrases 
 is especially prevalent among women who write 
 travel books, as if one tongue were not ample 
 for any book or any woman. The only time 
 I use French superfluously is when I want to 
 mention the Creator without swearing. Then 
 it is very handy. 
 
 Dijon was taken from the Germans by Gen- 
 eral Cremer and later held by Garibaldi. 
 
 We wanted to stop longer but only one day 
 of our three weeks remained and this belonged 
 to Fontainebleau. 
 
 We took a slow train to Fontainebleau. We 
 were ten hours in reaching it from Lyons. This 
 gave us ample time to debate the question, Re- 
 solved : That it would have been better to take 
 the Paris Express and return to Fontainebleau 
 by local train. 
 
 At Tonnerre we waited forty-five minutes 
 while the Paris Express went by us with a shriek 
 of triumph. This gave fresh impetus to the de- 
 bate. 
 
 A shower overtook us at Tonnerre which by 
 the time we reached Sens had become a soaking 
 rain. We unpacked rain coats, rubbers and um- 
 brellas. When we reached Fontainebleau, not
 
 294 Three Weeks in France 
 
 a drop of rain had fallen and the stars were shin- 
 ing. The drive from the depot to the village is 
 half a mile long. At the hotel we awakened a 
 sleepy maid who took a heavy suit case in each 
 hand and preceded us to a room. We were soon 
 asleep and dreaming a mixture of cathedrals, 
 chateaus and cascades. 
 
 Fontainebleau is a town of about 14,000 peo- 
 ple entirely surrounded by forest and tourists. 
 Its two attractions are the Wood and the Palace. 
 No matter what sort of a day it is, you can en- 
 joy yourself at Fontainebleau. If the sun shines 
 you can hie yourselves merrily to the Forest. If 
 it is cloudy, walk across the street to the most in- 
 teresting palace in France. 
 
 Francis I made it the splendid thing it is in 
 the sixteenth century and two hundred and 
 seventy-five years later Napoleon I came along 
 and stole all his thunder and replaced it with 
 plunder. Most of the living interest to-day cen- 
 ters in the places where Napoleon did things or 
 had things done to him. Here he first mentioned 
 the subject of divorce to Josephine in 1809. After 
 he had secured an heir for his empire he had no 
 empire for his heir. 
 
 Here Napoleon attempted suicide April 12, 
 1 81 4, before his first abdication. Flere he en- 
 tertained Pope Pius VII and later imprisoned 
 him. Napoleon restored religion to France after
 
 The Forest of Fontainebleau 295 
 
 the Revolution but like most restorers he re- 
 modeled it to his own tastes and purposes. 
 
 Here he drank the cup of expiation to its 
 dregs; here he said, "It is right; I receive what 
 I have deserved." 
 
 Francis I brought da Vinci and other great 
 artists from Italy to decorate the Palace. He 
 entertained Charles V here in 1539. Flow its 
 brilliancy must have contrasted with the gloomy 
 Escurial. 
 
 Here in 1685 was signed another important 
 paper, the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, by 
 which Louis XIV hoped to correct his moral aver- 
 age with one stroke of the pen. 
 
 Baedeker warns you to price everything in 
 advance. Nevertheless we found the rates at 
 the Cadran Bleu very reasonable and the serv- 
 ice satisfactory. Our breakfast was eaten in 
 a half garden, half dining room arrangement 
 which spoke eloquently of the erratic nature of 
 summer weather in the neighborhod of Paris. 
 
 Notwithstanding the clouds, we ordered a vic- 
 toria for a day in the Forest. The lady clerk at 
 the hotel shrugged her shoulders in disdain at the 
 barometer whose warning arrow was a trifle to 
 the left of Variable. With equal eloquence would 
 she have indicated its confirmation of her proph- 
 ecy if it had marked "Dry" on the circle. 
 
 The Forest is a tiny thing of 42,500 acres left
 
 296 Three Weeks in France 
 
 untilled that B. and I and a few thousand others 
 might wander about and picnic to our hearts' 
 content. It is the most beautiful bit of woods in 
 France. Further than that, deponent, with his 
 memory filled with the Wood at The Hague and 
 the Forest of Assen, doth not say. 
 
 The Seine hereabouts is wild and wanton, a 
 sparkling rural beauty and not the boat-carrying 
 drudge she is in Paris. 
 
 The Forest abounds in dry gorges, rocks and 
 shady nooks. A fire in 1897 destroyed acres of 
 trees. Now signs, beginning at the hotel, and 
 spreading all through the Forest warn visitors to 
 be careful with their matches. 
 
 At least that is my interpretation but I am 
 sometimes unreliable. I dropped a coin into a 
 box in a certain cathedral which I thought 
 would bring temporary relief to my friends in 
 purgatory only to discover when B. returned that 
 "les ames" meant "the souls" and not "the 
 friends." So my ten sous will be spent on a 
 lot of perfect strangers. 
 
 Our first stop was at the foot of the Tour 
 Denecourt, once a fort, and later the headquar- 
 ters of M. Denecourt, who spent his patrimony in 
 putting the Forest into shape. There is a medal- 
 lion of him at the top of the tower. The medallion 
 is almost covered by ivy. That is proper. He 
 would have loved the ivy more than the medallion.
 
 A ROAl» IX THE FORKKT OK K< >.\"l\\ I N KULKA 1*
 
 The Forest of Fontainebleau 297 
 
 There is a good view of the Eiffel Tower from 
 this point. 
 
 Our way lay over smooth roads, with dust laid 
 by rain which fell the night before after we were 
 safely in our hotel. The road curved in grand 
 avenues of old trees flanked by green carpets 
 marked into most entrancing patterns by sunlight 
 and shadow. 
 
 So far as eye or ear could determine we were 
 alone in the Forest of Fontainebleau. Not even 
 the note of a bird broke the silence. We inquired 
 the reason for the entire absence of birds and 
 were told that it was due to the lack of water. 
 There are no running streams and only a few 
 springs. The roots of the trees tap a subter- 
 ranean supply. The fallen leaves of centuries 
 have formed a lush mould of great depth in 
 which everything grows luxuriantly. 
 
 The Cross of Calvary occupies a prominent 
 point from which there is a good view of the vil- 
 lage of Fontainebleau in the heart of the Forest. 
 Here and there are brown scars in the green, 
 cicatrized after the big fires of the past. The 
 most recent fire was in 191 1. 
 
 We paused again for a view of the race course 
 and field of maneuver for cavalry beyond which 
 lie the Rocks of St. Germain. 
 
 Fontainebleau compared with the Park at
 
 298 Three Weeks in France 
 
 Versailles is the work of God placed alongside 
 that of Louis XIV. It is nature vs. art. 
 
 One of the rare springs in the Forest is near the 
 Rock which Trembles. This is part of a group 
 of rocks and has been made the headquarters of 
 a souvenir dealer. The spring was discovered in 
 1624 and the water is clear and cold. The trem- 
 bling rock is one of a group of boulders which 
 rests on the others by three slender points of con- 
 tact. It weighs many tons but is so delicately ad- 
 justed that a man can make it move by standing 
 on it. 
 
 We passed many famous old trees, with here 
 and there the prostrate trunk of some giant 
 which had fallen after a battle of centuries with 
 the elements. The oldest tree now standing is 
 over fourteen hundred years of age. 
 
 We started shopping for wooden nut crackers. 
 The first one offered us was marked twelve francs. 
 At the next stop, near Jupiter, a titan six and 
 a half metres around, the market broke to ten 
 francs and a half. Jupiter is twenty-five metres 
 high and is the largest and most impressive oak 
 in the forest. We felt that its proximity had af- 
 fected the price of nut crackers, and waited. 
 
 There was no booth near the Chene-charme', 
 or charmed oak, and hence there were no nut 
 crackers. Here are two trees, an elm and an
 
 The Forest of Fontainebleau 299 
 
 oak, in a centuries-long embrace which has 
 gradually hugged the bark from the latter. 
 
 Luncheon time found us near the Restaurant 
 Franchard. We had been warned to ascertain 
 prices before ordering. Either because of a scar- 
 city of food and water (both must be brought 
 from the village) or the scarcity of tourists, the 
 figures are nearly Alpine. You can almost pick 
 edelweiss from some of them. They have no 
 table d'hote and the carte du jour is silent on the 
 money question. We named over a simple 
 luncheon for two. The price was fourteen francs. 
 Fourteen francs would not buy much food in 
 New York but it is the price of four dinners in 
 France. We proceeded to eliminate until we 
 reached ten francs at which point our sharpened 
 appetites called a halt. The luncheon was well 
 worth the price. 
 
 Stevenson has tried to describe the charms of 
 the Forest and failed to satisfy himself, so why 
 need a humbler scribe make the attempt? We 
 can heartily endorse his statement that the For- 
 est, although of considerable extent is hardly 
 anywhere tedious. We like his reference to the 
 "cruising tourist" on the broad white Paris road. 
 He puts much in a sentence when he says that 
 Fontainebleau "is not a wilderness; it is rather 
 a preserve." 
 
 But like a wise painter, he does not attempt to
 
 300 Three Weeks in France 
 
 place a whole county on canvas, but selects pretty 
 spots here and there on which the searchlight of 
 his genius pauses with illuminating effect. 
 
 The spell of the Forest is indescribable. It 
 lies in its deep shadows, its silences, its hoary 
 trunks, half clothed in moss, its dark, dank soil 
 of leaves softer than the richest carpet, its per- 
 fect roads and its towering trees that are be- 
 littled by the term "monarchs," so proud and 
 lofty are their heads. 
 
 We tramped through the Gorge Franchard in 
 the wake of fifty American women, one discour- 
 aged looking man and a small boy to whom some 
 one with more heart than head had given a 
 cuckoo whistle. We walked under a broiling 
 sun past many curious boulder formations, one 
 of which was named by the possessor of a 
 good imagination, Napoleon's Hat. Chameleons 
 scampered for cover, disturbed by our invasion. 
 
 Our walk ended at the Fountain of Hermits, a 
 most disappointing finish to a prostrating walk, 
 for the water therein is not potable. It was dis- 
 covered in 1 169 and in 1192 there is on record a 
 letter from Brother William, third hermit of 
 Franchard to his superior, Stephen, in which 
 William says: "The water of your fountain is 
 neither beautiful to look at nor good to drink." 
 Apparently it has not improved with age.
 
 The Forest of Fontainebleau 301 
 
 Our horse having been feci and rested, into the 
 woods we plunged again past every form of 
 tree sculpture and arboreal contortion and delir- 
 ium imaginable; past miles of trunks as straight 
 as telegraph poles, with here and there a gnarled 
 and twisted giant writhing in the agonies of 
 vegetable rheumatism in its most acute form. 
 
 Then we paused for a moment at the portal of 
 a great cathedral boundless in extent, embodying 
 every form of column and arch and with the 
 sunlight sifting through windows, leaded by leaf 
 and branch into a thousand graceful outlines a 
 hundred feet above our heads. 
 
 A short walk took us to the Desert, a paradox- 
 ical quarter section in the heart of the woods 
 without a tree on it, nothing but rocks, sand 
 and bunch grass. It was hot in the Desert, cool 
 in the Forest. Most of the paving stone in Paris 
 comes from Fontainebleau, possibly from this 
 desert region. The only hotter pavement dis- 
 trict is the one where good intentions are used. 
 
 Another walk and a stiff climb brought us to 
 the Brigands' Cave. Here, of all places, we 
 found nut-crackers at six francs and a half at 
 a booth conducted by a degenerate son of a rob- 
 ber sire. Two or three hundred years ago sixty 
 brigands lived in this cave. To reach it we fol- 
 lowed mysterious red marks on the rocks suggest- 
 ing b-lud, up a path made easy by a network of
 
 302 Three Weeks in France 
 
 interlacing roots, to the mouth of a dark, dismal 
 cavern, traversible with the assistance of a small 
 boy and a candle. t A couple of lemonades re- 
 freshed us for our return trip, which was outlined 
 by blue marks on trees and rocks. 
 
 We drove to Barbizon past the medallion of 
 Millet and Rousseau, and almost missed it. It 
 sits well back from the road and is placed in the 
 natural rock, nearly hidden by trees and other 
 rocks. 
 
 The street of Barbizon is lined with dozens of 
 picturesque and tiny villas, many of which are the 
 homes of painters. The hotel where R. L. S. 
 wrote his notes on Fontainebleau proudly em- 
 blazons that fact on its sign board. We wonder 
 if it is still conducted as it was in his day. 
 
 "Siron's Inn, that excellent artists' barrack, 
 was managed upon easy principles. At any hour 
 of the day or night when you returned from 
 wandering in the forest you went to the billiard 
 room and helped yourself to liquors, or descended 
 to the cellar and returned laden with beer or 
 wine. The Sirons were all locked in slumber; 
 there was none to check your inroads ; only at the 
 week's end a computation was made; the gross 
 sum was divided, and a varying share set down 
 to every lodger's name under the rubric ; estrats. 
 The whole of your accommodations, set aside 
 that varying item of the estrats, cost you five
 
 The Forest of Fontainebleau 303 
 
 francs per day; your bill was never offered you 
 until you asked for it, and if you were out of 
 luck's way, you might depart for where you 
 pleased and leave it pending." 
 
 It is a question whether Millet or Siron was 
 the more potent magnet in drawing artists to Bar- 
 bizon. 
 
 The humble home of Millet contrasts strongly 
 with the sumptuous abode of Rousseau. 
 
 School was just letting out and a dozen beau- 
 tiful children, each an artist's model, came troop- 
 ing into the sunlight. 
 
 Leaving Barbizon we went through a pathless 
 wood out into a woodless path where for a mile 
 or more there was not a tree within fifty yards 
 of the road. 
 
 We followed the "broad, white causeway of the 
 Paris road; a road conceived for pageantry," 
 writes R. L. S., "and for triumphal marches, an 
 avenue for an army." 
 
 We passed the scene of the big fire of 1897 
 and found the Paris road a better avenue for an 
 army than for a carriage, for it was full of ruts 
 and sadly needed mending. 
 
 The Cross of the Grand Veneur is a famous 
 rendezvous for hunters. The Route of Louis 
 Philippe leads past the Tree of Louis Philippe. 
 It is one of the grandest avenues in the forest. 
 We left it by the Route of Gros Fouteau.
 
 304 Three Weeks in France 
 
 We wasted an hour tramping" through the 
 woods, searching for The Eagle's Nest. We left 
 the carriage with a vague idea that it was a 
 real nest or a rocky eyrie of some sort, or pos- 
 sibly a view point for surveying the surroundings. 
 Anyhow, it was one of the sights of Fontaine- 
 bleau, and we wanted to see it. It never occurred 
 to us that it was a magnificent group of trees with 
 a fancy name, so we walked a mile or so, mostly 
 up hill, past interesting boulders, watching for 
 blue marks on the trees and stones and accumulat- 
 ing a few on our persons. We admired many 
 groups of trees and may have seen the Nid de 
 l'Aigle but we were not looking for trees and our 
 walk was in that respect a failure. 
 
 On our way back to the carriage we heard sev- 
 eral halloos and when we reached him our driver 
 was quite perturbed by our long absence and 
 more disappointed than we were over the out- 
 come.
 
 The Palace of Fontainebleau 305 
 
 XXIII 
 
 The Palace of Fontainebleau 
 
 0WALK up the main street of Fon- 
 tainebleau on Sunday morning gave but 
 slight evidence of the day. The shops 
 were open or opening. Work was pro- 
 ceeding on a building in course of construc- 
 tion. That is, two men were pounding a chisel 
 held by a third, and gradually, very gradually, 
 cutting a steel girder in two. At the rate they 
 were progressing, an American contractor would 
 erect a story of a steel structure in less 
 time than they would take to amputate the end 
 of that girder. 
 
 Only the Market was closed. Its bright, clean 
 stalls looked as if they had never been used. A 
 great many neatly dressed women were on their 
 way to early service at the churches. Here and 
 there one of them stopped to look in at the tempt- 
 ing door of a dry goods store or milliner's shop. 
 A few carried loaves of bread or other breakfast 
 necessities. 
 
 A mournful statue of President Carnot erected
 
 306 Three Weeks in France 
 
 by popular subscription, depressed the neighbor- 
 hood of the rue Grande between our hotel and 
 the Hotel de Ville. 
 
 Our hotel, by the way, is an ancient structure, 
 as its name, the Blue Dial or Cadran Bleu would 
 suggest. No one knows the origin of the singular 
 appellation but the house claims an antiquity of 
 several centuries. It has one striking peculiarity : 
 Henry IV never slept there. 
 
 The Palace is across the street and a few doors 
 down. It was a delightful surprise to find any- 
 thing within walking distance. We went early 
 and loafed around the Cour du Cheval Blanc or 
 the Cour des Adieux, as it is sometimes called, 
 because it was the scene of Napoleon's heart- 
 rending farewell to the Old Guard, April 20, 
 1 81 4. Eleven months later he returned from 
 Elba and reviewed his troops on the same spot 
 before marching to Paris. He had an instinct 
 for the spectacular unequaled for almost a hun- 
 dred years. 
 
 We went around to the left of the main en- 
 trance, past the old gate and into the Palace 
 yard, then through two iron gates and into the 
 parterre, dating from Louis XIV. We strolled 
 down the Avenue de Maintenon, midway of 
 which we paused to photograph the Chateau 
 Maintenon. 
 
 Mme. de Maintenon was the flame of the later
 
 The Palace of Fontainebleau 307 
 
 years of Louis XIV. She appealed more to 
 his intellect than his passion. In 1682, when he 
 "reformed," la Valliere had been Sister Louise 
 for eight years and Mile, de Fontanges had been 
 dead a year. 
 
 Republics may require ages to polish up and 
 refine a "gentleman" but the time is much bet- 
 ter spent than in desiccating manhood until it 
 can admire and condone such a character as that 
 of Louis XIV. Coupled with his defiance of 
 everything but God, it was considered a virtue 
 that he would kneel humbly before an obscure 
 priest, thus proving the tyrant to be a coward at 
 heart, the slave of superstition. He was always 
 a religious hypocrite. He never missed mass even 
 if he had to tear himself from the arms of one 
 of his mistresses to attend. After his final ref- 
 ormation he did penance by paying more atten- 
 tion to his wife, Therese of Austria, his cousin 
 German. 
 
 Mine, de Maintenon was the widow of Scar- 
 ron, a paralyzed and crippled poet. After his 
 death she became the governess of la Valliere's 
 children. Louis was matrimonially ambidextrous. 
 Most of his marriages were left handed. Mme. 
 de Maintenon realized that there is a tide in 
 the passions of men which taken at its ebb leads 
 to reform. At this period, Louis was forty-four. 
 He had seen one mistress take the veil, a second
 
 308 Three Weeks in France 
 
 die in childbirth and a third, unhappiest fate of 
 all, grow old, and his neglected wife slip into 
 her grave. When they married the widow of 
 Scarron was fifty. Louis was forty-seven. He 
 loved her, she did not love him. He had done 
 too much for her to inspire love. 
 
 In 1794 his body with others was taken from 
 St. Denis and thrown into a pit. The lead of his 
 coffin was melted into bullets for Revolutionists. 
 
 We walked to the southern extremity of the 
 big pond in the Cour de la Fontaine and pho- 
 tographed the Chinese Museum. The park was 
 filling up with Sunday visitors from Paris. 
 
 A soldier with a hare lip gave us much in- 
 formation and we engaged him in a prolonged 
 conversation. We could not deny ourselves the 
 pleasure of listening to a Frenchman whose ac- 
 cent was worse than our own. From him we 
 learned that the rules of the park were enforced 
 rationally and that "Keep off the Grass" signs 
 did not forbid your stepping from the path to 
 find a better spot for your camera. 
 
 We went with a large crowd through the 
 rooms of the Palace, the best furnished royal 
 residence we have ever visited. Its especial pride 
 is in its tapestries, Gobelins and Flemish. They 
 rank second in the eyes of the public to one ex- 
 hibit only and that is Napoleon's hat which he 
 tossed into the ring once too often after Elba.
 
 The Palace of Fontainebleau 309 
 
 The hat is in his former apartments to which 
 has also been removed the cradle of his son, the 
 King of Rome. We wonder where the cradle of 
 Napoleon is and whether it still lulls to sleep an 
 occasional Corsican infant. 
 
 A large plan of Fontainebleau hangs on the 
 walls of his secretary's room. Our hearts went 
 out to that faithful secretary Bourrienne who 
 had to be at the elbow of this very excitable gen- 
 tleman every hour of the day and night. 
 
 Napoleon's bathroom is adorned with beauti- 
 fully painted mirrors brought from the apart- 
 ments of Marie Antoinette in the Petit Trianon 
 at Versailles. How different must have been 
 their reflections after their removal to Fontaine- 
 bleau. Splashed by the Corsican upstart who had 
 wiped out the Bourbon dynasty of a thousand 
 years and who sat on the throne of France by the 
 practically unanimous consent of the people! 
 
 The next room is the one in which Napoleon 
 signed his first abdication, the one that did not 
 take. The table on which this historical docu- 
 ment received his august signature would not 
 bring two dollars at a second hand store, dis- 
 sociated from its history. It is plain, small and 
 utterly disproportioned to its great purpose. And 
 yet dramatically, the effect is heightened by the 
 contrast. 
 
 Napoleon's study has a handsomely decorated
 
 310 Three Weeks in France 
 
 ceiling representing Law and Justice — up in the 
 air. We saw his much neglected bed, and in the 
 same room is a clock with a beautiful cameo be- 
 decked case which Pope Pius VII gave to him on 
 his, the Pope's, first visit to Fontainebleau. On 
 the second visit no presents were exchanged. 
 
 In the Council Chamber we particularly ad- 
 mired the tapestry of the furniture. In the center 
 of the room is a large table, whose top is made 
 from a single slab of wood. 
 
 The Throne Room is magnificent. The throne 
 is draped in royal blue with golden bees embroid- 
 ered on the cloth. The guide showed his ap- 
 preciation of our presence by saying "Busy bees" 
 in English. You will hear more of that guide 
 later on. The chandelier in this room is of rock 
 crystal. There are many glass chandeliers in the 
 palace but this is the only one of rock crystal. It 
 requires an expert to distinguish it from the 
 others. 
 
 Marie Antoinette's apartments formerly held 
 the cradle of the King of Rome which is now in 
 the bedroom of Napoleon. But there is still much 
 to attract the eye in Marie Antoinette's boudoir. 
 The furniture is upholstered in gold and blue with 
 a blue and white satin panel set in each chair, not 
 where it is sat in, but in the back. It resembles 
 Wedgewood pottery. 
 
 The library is over two hundred and fifty feet
 
 The Palace of Fontainebleau 311 
 
 long and contains thirty thousand volumes col- 
 lected by the two Napoleons. There you can 
 also find a facsimile of Napoleon's abdication. 
 The original is probably on exhibition in Berlin. 
 You can buy other facsimiles of this document 
 printed on post cards. 
 
 Henry IV built this part of the Palace. Napo- 
 leon restored it. He did not restore many things, 
 but he did the Palace. 
 
 From the windows of the large Reception 
 Rooms there is a view of the first chateau built 
 by Francis I. Then come more acres of Gobelins 
 and a room adorned with Flemish tapestry illus- 
 trating the myth of Psyche whose name in French 
 rhymes with Vichy. 
 
 In the rooms built by Francis I we again en- 
 countered herds of salamanders and dozens of 
 capital F's> Portraits of Henry IV and Louis 
 XIII, marvelously executed in tapestry, are 
 framed and hung on the walls, but the two mira- 
 cles of weaving are a pair of flower pieces in the 
 same room. 
 
 This being a busy day, with hundreds of sight- 
 seers roaming through the palace, the regular trip 
 ended in the Vestibule of Honor with its six beau- 
 tifully carved doors, two of which are of the time 
 of Louis XIII. When the doors are closed the 
 carvings blend into perfect designs and resemble 
 solid panels.
 
 312 Three Weeks in France 
 
 We were desperate. Our time was up and we 
 had not seen the apartments of the Pope. Our 
 guide was sorry but on account of the crowd it 
 was impossible to show those rooms. We ac- 
 quiesced in the reasonableness of the rule, ex- 
 plained how disappointed we were and told him 
 how far we had come. The Frenchmen were 
 handing him coppers and ten sou pieces. We 
 made a plunge and pressed two francs into his 
 hand. His fingers grasped the coins and his mind 
 grasped the situation simultaneously. His lips 
 formed the word "Wait," although no sound is- 
 sued therefrom. 
 
 We lingered at the top of the Horse-shoe Stairs 
 until our crowd had all gone. The door opened a 
 few inches, we stepped inside and were given a 
 private view of the closed apartments, including 
 the rooms which are associated with Napoleon's 
 most reckless act, the imprisonment of Pope Pius 
 VII, for over eighteen months. These latter are 
 hung with tapestry. The couch of His Holiness 
 is less ornate than the others in the palace and is 
 without hangings of any sort. The upholstery 
 of the chairs smacks more of Napoleon than of 
 the Pope for it is embroidered with soldiers of the 
 First Empire in their various costumes. 
 
 The next room is a veritable curiosity, for 
 Louis Philippe, that devotee of the soup tureen,
 
 The Palace of Fontainebleau 313 
 
 has decorated its walls with plates of all sorts. 
 Some of these are ornamented with American 
 scenes. One hundred and twenty-eight plates 
 were used in carrying out the royal whim, and 
 the effect would warm the heart of a restau- 
 rateur. 
 
 Fontainebleau is the most complete and inter- 
 esting palace I have ever seen. It links three 
 great rulers, Francis I, Henry IV and Napoleon. 
 Its furnishings have been marvelously preserved 
 from the violence which has rocked France so 
 tremendously in the past century and a quarter 
 and which centered in Paris and its environs. 
 The Tuileries and St. Cloud fell but Revolution- 
 ists, Communists and Prussians all passed over 
 Fontainebleau and left intact within it perfect 
 pictures of the reigns which have held court 
 within its walls. 
 
 It shows the handiwork of that great builder, 
 Francis I, although not at his best, but more en- 
 grossing than that is the nearness to which it 
 brings Napoleon, whose development and down- 
 fall it witnessed. 
 
 If you cannot visit both Fontainebleau and 
 Versailles, choose the former by all means. Ver- 
 sailles is a tomb. Fontainebleau lives. 
 
 The Chinese Museum standing beside the pal- 
 ace is worthy of a longer visit than we gave it.
 
 314 Three Weeks in France 
 
 It is more Siamese than Chinese. Its exhibits 
 are fascinating and unique. They will repay a 
 long and careful study. 
 
 You will hardly leave the park without paying 
 homage to the carp in the lake. The books do not 
 say whether or not they are German carp, but 
 if they are the French have taken them to their 
 hearts. No one comes to the border of the 
 lake without buying a few sous' worth of bread 
 to throw to them, enjoying the mad struggle of 
 the already overfed fish to capture the last 
 morsel. 
 
 We returned to the hotel dining room now 
 filled with holiday seekers, the majority having 
 come from Paris. Nothing was allowed to inter- 
 fere with our comfort and we climbed into the 
 bus for the Paris train, amidst the hearty fare- 
 wells of a small retinue of servants. Our train 
 was as usual very long, having sixteen coaches 
 and one baggage car. It moved slowly through 
 miles of the Forest of Fontainebleau and in a 
 few minutes whistled for Paris. 
 
 We closed our note book with a sigh. France, 
 linked to us by the strongest of ties, political 
 and historical, had more than realized our dream 
 of her great natural attractions. 
 
 Equipped as she is with excellent railroads, 
 comfortable hotels, magnificent scenery and cen-
 
 The Palace of Fontainebleau 315 
 
 ters of historical interest, she is a model host 
 that all the world might copy to great advantage 
 and profit. Whatever is worth doing, is, to 
 France, worth doing well. The entertainment 
 of travelers is worth doing. Therefore she does 
 it well. She has brought to bear on the subject 
 her intense attention to details and the result is 
 an almost perfect system of caring for the 
 stranger within her gates.
 
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