A little farther on we pa.s.sed several motor cars filled with French officers; just behind them came a dozen Berliet trucks of a heavy military type, loaded with meat and ammunition. These are the times of motor war. The automobile has revolutionized the old method of food supply. The long, slow train of transport wagons, unwieldy and drawn by horses, has been replaced by swift motor trucks. The French army is unsurpa.s.sed in mechanical equipment. No effort has been spared to give the army the full benefit of technical and scientific improvements. This year, for the first time, the Paris motor omnibuses are serving as meat-delivery vans. With this innovation, the army can have fresh meat every morning, instead of the canned meats of other years. The supply stations can be, in safety, thirty miles from the front, and yet remain in effective communication with the troops. France is in grim earnest.

The army is ready and competent. The terrible lessons of the Franco-Prussian war of 1870 have been learned.

A French officer with whom we conversed on the subject of the French and German armies, spoke of the superiority of the French artillery over German guns in the recent Balkan war. He said that the French were counting upon their great advantage in this respect to offset the German superiority in numbers. Commenting on the wish of the Kaiser to visit Paris, he was quite sure that the Kaiser would never repeat the performance of his grandfather, Emperor William I, and arrive in Paris at the head of the German army.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood

_A miracle of Gothic splendor_]

Our lunch in Marmande reminded us of a banquet, but we were not yet French enough to do full justice to three kinds of meat. France is essentially a country of fields and gardens. How we looked forward to every _dejeuner_ and every _diner_ so bountifully spread with the famous products of her soil! The cuisine of these small towns would not suffer in comparison with the hotels of larger cities. One is served more generously for half the price, and the cooking is just as good.

A delightful succession of little foreign touches brightened the ride from Marmande,--the sluggish bullock carts, and vineyards interspersed with tobacco fields, small churches with bell cotes guarded by solemn, century-old cypress trees; or perhaps it was an old Gothic house or an ancient gateway with a piece of mediaeval wall still clinging to it. In one village we saw bizarre stores, where the doorway and window were one. This must be a survival of Roman times, because we had seen the same thing in Pompeii. We were quickly called back from antiquity, however, by the cement telegraph poles which lined the road for some miles. It was a surprise to see such evidence of progress in a region where the years leave so few traces of their march.

By this time the weather had become the chief topic of conversation. A storm was swiftly approaching. Tall cypress trees creaked and swayed in the wind; the dark clouds, nearly above us, shot out murky, ominous streamers, like the tentacles of a gigantic octopus; a few big drops fell; then the floodgates burst. The drenching downpour was so sudden that there was no time to put up the top of the car. A tall tree offered refuge, but soon each separate leaf had a tiny waterfall of its own.

Fortune did not entirely desert us, for a small farmhouse, near by, promised a more substantial shelter. It was just the kind of peasant's home that we had often seen from the roadside: an exterior of rustic quaintness, built of stone and rough timbers, and artistically framed in rustic vines and flowers. What would the interior look like? We knocked.

A barefooted peasant woman opened the door. She was surprised to see three dripping apparitions, apparently swept in by the rage of the elements, but her invitation to enter could not have been more cordial.

The "_salon_" served the purposes of kitchen, bedchamber, and dining room. There was no trace of carpet or rug on the cobble-stoned floor.

The heap of straw in the corner did not disclose whether it was for dog or goat. On the wall hung a cheap color-print of Napoleon. The hospitable "_a.s.seyez-vous_" called our attention to a single decrepit chair. There was not even a wooden table. The rain, pattering down the chimney, had almost extinguished the blaze in the small open fireplace.

Could anything have been more barren or forlorn! Judging from the appearance of our _hotesse_, the bathtub either did not exist or had long since ceased to figure prominently in the domestic life of the household. Two other peasant women of the same neglected appearance entered without knocking. One of them was barefooted; the other would have been if she had not worn heavy _sabots_. Both of them greeted us, but their dialect was unintelligible. The sun coming out we said good-by with all the polite French phrases at our command. The three peasant women stood in the doorway and waved their ragged ap.r.o.ns till we disappeared over the hill.

The bridge spanning the Dordogne into cheerful Bergerac showed a town busy with festal preparation for the coming of President Poincare. Pine branches were being wound around telephone poles; festoons of green decorated the houses; windows were bright with flags; the streets overhung with arches bearing inscriptions of welcome. We stopped at a tea shop which was also a _boulangerie_.

It was interesting to discover, from the local papers, that our route for the next two days was to be part of the itinerary selected by President Poincare for his tour through the French provinces.

This trip resulted from the president's desire to know his people better, to become acquainted with their local life, to visit their industries, and especially to attract the attention of the motor world to beautiful and interesting regions of France which had too long been neglected,--these slumberous small towns of the Dordogne, Limousin and Perigord, hidden from the broad travel track, rich in local traditions and peculiarities, wrapped in their old-world atmosphere, surrounded by exquisite landscapes with marvelous horizons. For these towns, the president's coming was a big event. Some of them recalled that since the days of Louis XI no ruler of the state had visited their village.

We were to see Perigueux, with its precious relics of Roman life and of the Middle Ages; Limoges, noted for its beautiful enamels and the center of the porcelain industry. It was this part of France, so little visited even by the French themselves, that President Poincare chose for his week of motoring. For him, as well as for us, it was to be a delightful voyage of discovery.

The twenty-nine miles to Perigueux proved a memorable motor experience.

Much of the way was among steep, tree-covered slopes. No one met us along the road.

It is surprising how far one can motor in France without seeing any trace of human life; areas of deserted country are so common; abandoned farmhouses appear so frequently. The reason lies not alone in the drift of population to the larger towns and cities, but in the fact that the French birth rate is failing to hold its own. France, so rich in other respects, is actually threatened by a decreasing population. In 1911 the number of deaths exceeded the number of births by 33,800. In the first third of the last century, when the death rate was much higher than now, there were six births to every death; in 1871 the ratio had fallen to two births to each death; in 1901 it was even. If we consider the number of births per 10,000 inhabitants during the decades of the last century, we find the series to be an invariably decreasing one--from 323 in 1800 to 222 in 1900. In 1870 Germany and France had each about 38,000,000.

Germany now has over 67,000,000, a gain of 27,000,000 over the present French population of 39,340,000. France is thus placed at a great disadvantage in the matter of national defense. If we a.s.sume the German army to be only 750,000 soldiers, there would be one soldier to every 89 inhabitants; France, to have the same army, would be obliged to have one soldier to every 52 or 53 inhabitants. The fact that the French soldiers will now be compelled to serve three years in the army, as compared with two years in Germany, shows how France is now paying the penalty for neglecting that vital national problem of population.

Our ride to Perigueux gave vivid emphasis to the above figures. There was little evidence of peasant life. One had the impression of roaming through a vast, uninhabited country.

From the top of a hill the town, and the valley of the Isle, stretched beneath us a lovely view; the windings of the river Isle, its bridges mirrored in the crimson flood. Wooded hills faded slowly into the blue depths of twilight. The graceful Byzantine _campanile_ and domes of St.

Front reminded us of the church of St. Marks in Venice. Europe has few more romantic corners. Descending the hill, we motored over the river and into the town, under arches of electric lights arranged in letters to spell words of greeting to the president.

The Grand Hotel du Commerce should have been torn down years ago. It was a good example of how poor a provincial hotel can be. Even the recommendation of the Touring Club of France could not make us forget the musty smells that filled rooms and corridors. We opened wide all the windows. After a few minutes, the fresh air revived us.

For a place that occupies so little s.p.a.ce in the pages of Baedeker, Perigueux is unique. Numerous remains from the different epochs of history may be found. The Roman period, the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, and modern times have all left their imprint. There is the ma.s.sive tower of Vesone, once part of a Gallo-Roman temple. The Chateau Barriere has one curious feature: a railroad runs through the deep moat of feudal times. We shall need all our superlatives to describe the Jardin des Arenes. Where else will you find a public garden laid out on the site of an ancient Roman amphitheater, keeping the same size, the same circular form, and even preserving some of the original arches to admit the modern public? A French journalist once wrote that "even without its bright sunlight, even without imagination, Perigueux remains one of the quaintest towns in the world and one of those places which the French people would visit in crowds if it were situated in another country." Viewed from a distance, the cathedral of St. Front makes a striking appearance; the five huge domes might have been transplanted from St. Sophia of Constantinople.

CHAPTER XII

PeRIGUEUX TO TOURS

From Perigueux we followed the Isle for some distance before turning to wind over the hills. It was a region of chestnut trees, the _marronniers_ for which the province is so celebrated. For miles the trees formed a stately hedge along both sides of the highway, and groves of them were in the near distance, their spreading branches reminding us of English oaks.

The ascent continued to Thiviers, a tiny village of the Dordogne. One of the _vieux citoyens_ pointed out the Hotel de France as the best place to lunch. "_On mange tres bien labas_," he said. The lunch was a _chef d'oeuvre_. We had never tasted such _poulet au ca.s.serole_ or such _cotelettes de mouton grillees_. The _lievre_ had a delicious _suc de viande_ which went well with the _pommes frites_. There was _vin a discretion_, and, besides, different kinds of _fromage_ and the French melons, golden and juicy and always the best part of the repast.

Nothing is more delightfully characteristic of these small towns like Thiviers than the delicacies peculiar to them. These little communities, so different from each other in local customs and mannerisms, are just as unique and original in their cooking. It was always interesting, when we had lunch or dinner in a new place, to scan the menu for some new dish that we had never tasted. Whenever the _garcon_ or _maitre de l'hotel_ pointed to an item on the menu and said, "_C'est une specialite de la maison_," then we knew that something good was coming. One never tires of these French delicacies. Our regret at leaving them behind was usually tempered by the consolation that something equally new and delicious was awaiting us in the next place _en route_. Each one of the following names recalls experiences that we shall not soon forget. These are simply samples. The list would be too long if we named them all; the _truites_ of Chambery; the mushroom patties of Pierrelatte; the _jambon_ of Bayonne; the _truffes_ of Perigueux; the _rillettes_ and _vins_ of Tours; the _miel du Gatinais_ of Orleans; the fried sole of Chartres and Dieppe. In Normandy, sweet cider was often placed on the table instead of the mild _vin du pays_. The cheese, _patisserie_, and fruits were good everywhere.

Another item, which we cannot overlook, never appeared on the menu and yet always flavored the whole repast. That was the geniality, the provincial hospitality, which greeted us in every little inn and hotel.

The welcome was just as hearty as the farewell. If there was some one dish that we especially liked, the _patronne_ was never satisfied till she was sure that we had been bountifully served. After so many experiences like these, it is easy to understand why the foreign motorist feels so much at home in France.

It was a splendid run to Limoges. The long grades were scarcely noticeable, the easy curves rarely making it necessary to check our speed. Donkey carts were fashionable, and _sabots_, as usual, in style.

There was always a shining river or green valley in sight. Haute-Vienne, arrayed in flags and evergreens, awaited the coming of the president.

Here, as all along the route, we saw the same joyful picture of festal preparations. The bridge over the river Vienne was like a green arbor.

Some of the worthy citizens of these communities were probably more familiar with town affairs than the current events of the outer world.

We read in a local journal of a shopkeeper who shouted a l.u.s.ty "_Vive Faillieres_," to greet the president's arrival. The mayor of one village threw himself in front of the presidential car, and threatened to commit suicide if the president did not make a speech, as he had done in a neighboring town. These petty munic.i.p.al jealousies gave us a picture of France in miniature. What country is more torn by faction! Internal dissension is the nation's peril.

The river kept us company until Limoges was in sight. The president had left the city only a few hours before our arrival. Decorations were still in their splendor. One _arc de triomphe_ bore the words "_Vive Poincare_." Another read, "_Nos fleurs et nos coeurs_." This popular ovation seems remarkable when we consider the strength of socialism in France, and the fact that Limoges is a socialistic center. The mayor, a socialist, refused to receive the president. The City Council was not present at the festivities of welcome. Munic.i.p.al buildings like the Hotel de Ville were not decorated. All this was in accordance with instructions received from the leaders of the socialistic party. It was even considered unsafe for the president to include Limoges in his itinerary. But the people, the wage earners, the various trade organizations, acted for themselves. Their spontaneous, enthusiastic greeting was all the more striking in contrast with the cold indifference of the city authorities. To be in an important French city at just this time, on the very day when the president was there, to see all the preparations for his welcome, to hear the people talk about him and praise him, made us feel that we had been close indeed to one of the great personalities of modern Europe. France has found her leader, a man of vast energy who understands his country's problems and is peculiarly fitted to solve them. His motor tour through the provinces was like a triumphal march. Everywhere he preached that gospel of unity which is the great need of the hour.

Thanks to a letter of introduction, we had the interesting privilege of visiting a porcelain factory and of seeing the different processes through which the product pa.s.ses from the shapeless lump of clay to the final touch of the artist's brush. The city reflects the artistic spirit of its inhabitants. One notices many attractive garden plots and window gardens, and the beauty of the flowers appears in their art. These artists can reproduce them in porcelain and enamel because first of all they have painted them in their hearts.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Copyright by Underwood & Underwood

_A convenient way to carry bread_]

After Limoges, came Tours as the goal of the day's run through the pastoral beauties of Limousin to the chateaux of Touraine. The air was crisp and clear. Two hours of easy running through the bright September sunshine brought us to the Palais Hotel in Poitiers before noon--Poitiers, the city of old Romanesque churches and older traditions, where are living so many of the _vieille n.o.blesse_ who would rather eat dry bread than make their sons work. The echoes of Parisian rush do not penetrate these quiet streets. The people drink _tilleul_ after lunch instead of coffee. The effect is to make them drowsy. In fact, we have seldom visited a place with such an atmosphere of slumber. After lunch the _patronne_ offered to show us some of the hotel rooms. Most of them were connected with a private _salle de bain_.

The price was so reasonable that we at once placed this hotel in a cla.s.s by itself. As before stated, bathrooms do not enter largely into the life of the French home or hotel. Even in cities like Tours, the public bathtub still makes its round from house to house once a week, or once a month as the case may be. An Englishman, who so often places cleanliness above G.o.dliness, is unable to understand this French indifference to the blessings of hot and cold water. In Lyons, the third largest city of France, there is a popular saying that only millionaires have the _salle de bain_ in their homes. These facts will help to explain why the Hotel Palais, with its many bathrooms, made such an impression on us. We regret that our snapshot of this hotel did not turn out well. We would have had it enlarged and framed.

From Poitiers to Tours one is on the famous Route Nationale No. 10, that remarkable highway which Napoleon built across France into Spain when his soldiers made the long march only to meet defeat in the Peninsular campaign. We had followed it from Bayonne to Biarritz and on to San Sebastian. To see this familiar sign again seemed like the greeting of an old friend. It looks like an army road, the trees are planted with such military precision. One could almost feel the measured step to martial music. This straight-away stretch for so many miles through the country suggested the great soldier himself. Like his strategy, there was no unnecessary swerving. It was the shortest practicable line to the enemy's battle front. These magnificent _routes nationales_ are the best ill.u.s.tration of the order and system that he gave to French life. We have often thought too much emphasis has been laid on the destructive side of Napoleon's career. He shook Europe, but Europe needed to be shaken. The divine-right-of-kings theory needed to be shattered. France needed to be centralized. If our motoring in that country had been limited to Route Nationale No. 10, this would have been enough to give us a new appreciation of Napoleon as a constructive force.

The afternoon's ride flew all too quickly. It was glorious, as evening approached, to watch the harvest moon growing brighter and larger on our right, while the sunset fires slowly changed from burning colors to dusky gray. Tours was in sight, Tours on the Loire, names that we had always linked with the chateaux of Touraine. A mult.i.tude of lights gleamed from the plain below. Descending the hill, we crossed the Loire to the Hotel Metropole.

Tours was not what we had antic.i.p.ated. One reads about the kings of France who resided here, from Louis IX to Francois I. Plundering Visigoths, ravaging Normans, Catholics and Huguenots, even the Germans in 1870, all in their turn a.s.sailed the unfortunate city. We looked for half-ruined palaces and vine-covered, crumbling walls. The reality spread a different picture. Aside from the streets and houses of mediaeval Tours, little remains of great historic interest. This large, busy industrial center produces so many articles that the list resembles a section from the new Tariff Act.

We enjoyed varying our chateaux excursions with rambles in the city.

There are old gabled houses in the Rue du Change, where the overhanging stories rest on brackets richly carved. One loses all sense of direction in some of these intricate streets. The cathedral compelled us to linger longer than we had intended. The ages have given such a warm, rich gray to the stones that the usual atmosphere of frozen grandeur was absent. Our interest in Gothic gla.s.s and mediaeval pillars was diverted by a wedding that was going on in the cathedral. One of the priests, who was a.s.sisting in the ceremonies, left his duties to offer us his services as guide; there is always a certain magnetic power to the American tip. Of course we climbed the Royal Staircase of the North Tower, even counting the number of steps. The fact that our numbers did not correspond is all that saves this part of our story from resembling a quotation from Baedeker. The panorama showed the city spread out in a plain between the Loire and the Cher. We grew to have an intimate feeling for these old cathedral towers. When returning along the Loire from our chateaux trips, it was always a beautiful sight to see them in the distance, clear-cut and luminous, or looking like majestic shadows in the haze of twilight.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _The road swept us along the bank of the Loire_ _Page 181_]

CHAPTER XIII

THE CHaTEAUX OF TOURAINE

Tours made a convenient headquarters for our explorations in Touraine, where along the banks of the Loire and the Indre were enacted the most important events in French history from Charles VII to Henry IV. Every one would be interested in an historical course having for subjects these Renaissance homes of France's gallantry and beauty. One lingers, and imagines the scenes of magnificent revel, the court life of kings and queens when the artistic and architectural glory of France was at its zenith.