It was easy to plan our one-day trips so as to include on the same circuit several of the most famous chateaux. The first day we motored to Azay-le-Rideau, Chinon, Rigny-Usse, and Langeais, in the order named.

The distances were short, perhaps one hundred and twenty-five kilometers in all, so that we could go leisurely and yet return to Tours before dark.

With this wonderful program before us, we crossed the Loire, and traversing a wooded country with areas of vineyards and gardens, came to Azay-sur-Indre. There were not even hints of a chateau, nothing but the aimless cobbled streets of the typical French town. We halted beside a long wall which holds back the encroaching village and betrays no sign of the surprise in store within. Any one about to see his first chateau would do well to visit Azay-le-Rideau, a veritable gem of Renaissance style. This graceful pile of white architecture, as seen to-day, belongs to the early part of the sixteenth century. Francois I built it. That patron of the _beaux arts_ has placed our twentieth century under lasting obligation. Every line is artistic. There is the picture of airy lightness in the turrets and carven chimneys that rise from the high sloping roofs of blue slate. In grat.i.tude for the preservation of this perfect work one forgets the ravages of the French Revolution. Pa.s.sing over a small bridge, we followed the _gardien_ through the sculptured doorway and up the grand staircase so often ascended by Francois and his Parisian favorites. We were permitted to see the ancient kitchen and old kitchen utensils of wrought iron. Paintings and Flemish tapestries adorned the billiard room. The king's bedroom has a fine specimen of rare mediaeval flooring. The ballroom, with its Gobelin tapestries, suggested the artistic luxury of the age. From nearly every window there were pleasing outlooks on a green woodland and on the sunny branch of the Indre, which surrounds the chateau on three sides. It was all a picture of peace. Azay-le-Rideau is a chateau of elegance, instead of defense. One could imagine it built by a king who had leisure to collect beautiful works of art and whose throne was not seriously threatened by invading armies.

Quite different from it is the chateau of Chinon, an immense ruined fortress built on a hill above the Vienne River. The walls are as impregnable as rocky cliffs. Chinon was the refuge of a king who had need of the strongest towers. Charles VII, still uncrowned, a.s.sembled here the States-General while the English were besieging Orleans. It was a time of despair. The French were divided, discouraged, helpless, their richest provinces overrun by English armies. At this lowest ebb of French history, a simple peasant girl came to Chinon. Only a solitary gable and chimneypiece remain of the Grande Salle du Trone where Jeanne d'Arc told the king of her visions from heaven and of mysterious voices commanding her to save the nation. We entered the tower, her rude quarters till she departed a few weeks later to lead the French troops to the victory of Orleans.

After lunch we motored through the gardens of Touraine to the magnificent chateau of Usse. The elegant grounds and surrounding woods formed an appropriate setting. Terraces descended to the wall below, where our view swept over a wide range of picturesque country, watered by the Indre. Much to our regret, we were not permitted to visit the chateau, which is now occupied by a prominent French family.

Langeais, a few miles away, gave us a more hospitable welcome. It is a superb stronghold upon the Loire, and has dark, frowning towers and a heavy drawbridge which looks very mediaeval. The widow of M. Siegfried, a Parisian millionaire, lives here part of the year with her daughter.

M. Siegfried, who bought the chateau, was interested in art as well as in ships. He lavished his wealth to furnish the different rooms with furniture and _objets d'art_ peculiar to the period. His will provides that after the wife's death the chateau is to belong to the Inst.i.tute of France, and that a sum equal to six thousand dollars is to be devoted to its upkeep. Other tourists had arrived. The _concierge_ conducted our party through the many different rooms, lavishly furnished and decorated in the period of Louis XI and Charles VIII. There were wide, open fireplaces. We were interested in the Grand Salon, where the marriage of Charles VIII and Anne of Brittany was celebrated in 1491.

The return to Tours led along the banks of the Loire. Rain was falling, a cold drizzle which the rising wind dashed in our faces. The wide sweeps of the river grew indistinct. There were few carts to check our homeward spurt through the darkening landscape. We were fortunate in having so comfortable a hostelry for a goal. The dinner, equal to the best French cuisine, proved a pleasant ending to a memorable day.

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

_The Chateau of Loches behind its imposing entrance_ _Page 187_]

The next morning ushered in one of those golden fall days that seemed made for "chateauing." The swift kilometers soon carried us to Loches, that impressive combination of state prison, Chateau Royal, and grim fortress overlooking the valley of the Indre. So many horrible memories are linked with the prisons of Loches that we almost hesitate to record our impressions. We have seen the dungeon cells of the Ducal Palace in Venice and the equally gruesome chambers of the Castle of Chillon, but the dungeons of Loches are the most fear-inspiring that we have ever penetrated. Perhaps a part of this impression was due to the _concierge_ who showed us the prisons where famous captives were incarcerated and tortured at the will of monarchs. There was one dark cell with a deep hole, purposely fashioned that the victims should stumble headlong to their fate. Our guide gave us a graphic description of this method of execution. In that gloomy hole, his sudden climax of "_Tres horrible_,"

would have made any one shiver. Some of these cells extend an interminable distance underground. It is not the most cheerful experience to descend deeper and deeper into this subterranean darkness, to see the daylight growing fainter, to hear the trickle of water from the cold rocks, and then to imagine the slow, frightful death of many a political captive. Louis XI, not satisfied with the capacity of the dungeon, built a great round tower, the Tour Neuve, where he imprisoned the rebellious barons whose lives could not be taken.

Some one has written of this amiable king that "his reign was a daily battle, carried on in the manner of savages, by astuteness and cruelty, without courtesy and without mercy." In the cell occupied by Ludovico Sforza, the Duke of Milan, may be seen the paintings, sun dial, and inscriptions with which he tried to ward off approaching madness. This prisoner is said to have died from the joy of regaining his liberty.

Louis XI was resourceful in his method of imprisonment. In a subterranean room of the Tour Neuve we were shown where the Cardinal Balue was suspended in a small cage. One reads that he "survived so much longer than might have been expected this extraordinary mixture of seclusion and exposure." Almost as horrible was the window cell in one of the torture chambers. The prisoner was confined on a narrow stone ledge between two rows of bars. There was barely s.p.a.ce to stand up or lie down. A handful of straw served for a bed. On the one side, he was exposed to the elements, and on the other, he viewed the torments of fellow prisoners.

We turned with relief to less hideous scenes, to the apartments of the Chateau Royal, occupied by the irresolute Charles VII, the terrible Louis XI, and their successors; to the tower, from the top of which we had a commanding view of the quaint, mediaeval town and the wandering Indre. Our guide did not forget to show us the tomb of Agnes Sorel, the beautiful mistress of Charles VII. Two little angels kneel at her head, while her feet rest on two couchant lambs, symbols of innocence. The monument would have made an appropriate resting place for a martyred saint.

From Loches, we motored through a deep forest to the chateau of Montresor, well protected on its rocky height by a double encircling wall, flanked with towers. Once within these formidable barriers, we were delighted with the pleasant grounds and green arbors above the valley of the Indrois. The building dates from the commencement of the sixteenth century, and was small enough to look more like a home than a palace. The _concierge_ spoke of a distinguished Polish family who occupied it part of the year. This was the first "home chateau" we had seen. Everything looked livable; there was warmth and coziness and refinement in the different rooms. We felt almost like intruders into this domestic atmosphere. Some of the paintings were by great artists.

One was Fleury's "The Ma.s.sacre of the Poles at Warsaw," on April 8, 1861. There were rare specimens of antique furniture, and, most interesting of all, the "Treasury of the Kings of Poland," consisting in part of the large gold dish and silver soup tureen presented to John Sobieski by the city of Vienna, and of the silver-gilt services of Sobieski and of Sigismond II, King of Poland. The chateau has a rich collection of works of art and souvenirs relating to the history of Poland.

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

_The Chateau of Chenonceaux_ _Page 191_]

The Hotel de France nearby spread before us a menu so good that we confiscated the _carte du jour_ as a souvenir.

Eagerly we looked forward to Chenonceaux, built on the Cher, most exquisite of the French chateaux and for centuries the rendezvous of wit and beauty. Motor cars lined the roadside by the gates of the park. Some of the visitors had driven in carriages from the nearest railway stations. We sauntered down an avenue of trees to a large garden, rather a formal piece of landscape work. The drawbridge offered access to the chateau. Francois I purchased it. Later, Henry II, ascending the throne, gave it to his mistress, Diane de Poitiers. The French women of that day had a big share in the shaping of history; the conversations of the boudoir were often more influential than state councils. Diane built a bridge which connected the castle with the other side of the river.

Twelve years later, the death of Henry II gave his widow, Catherine de'

Medici, a chance to relieve her embittered feelings. She forced Diane to exchange Chenonceaux for another chateau. Upon the bridge built by her rival, Catherine erected a long gallery, surmounted by a banqueting hall. This fairy-like structure is so strangely placed, one is reminded of a fantastic ship moored in the river. It is remarkable for its celebrated Renaissance architecture and for the absence of b.l.o.o.d.y traditions. "Blois is stained with the blood of Guise; Amboise was the scene of ma.s.sacre; Loches stands upon unnumbered dungeons; Chenonceaux alone has no bloodstain on its stones and no groan has ever risen from its vaults. Eight generations of kings took their pleasure there, and a long line of brilliant and beautiful women makes its history like a rope of pearls." Even the gloomy, plotting Catherine did nothing to disturb the peaceful records and gorgeous _fetes_ of Chenonceaux. In the "_chambre de Diane de Poitiers_" we saw a painting representing Catherine. Those cold, brooding eyes looked capable of anything, from the murder of the Duc de Guise to the ma.s.sacre of St. Bartholomew.

Two other chateaux of our itinerary still remained, Amboise and Blois, the latter perhaps the most famous of them all. We decided to visit these chateaux _en route_ down the valley of Loire to Orleans. The following morning we bade farewell to Tours. The road swept us along the left bank of the Loire, all aglitter in the September sunshine. What a wonderful stream it is, the longest river in France, with its basin embracing one fourth of that country! There is not a river in the world like it. One feels the breath of romance, the spell of historical a.s.sociations, the beauty of its curves sweeping through a smiling land.

"Perhaps no stream, in so short a portion of its course, has so much history to tell."[6] Along its banks flourished for three centuries the court of the Valois kings. There are vineyards, the remains of mediaeval forests, little villages that have scarcely changed in a hundred years, and splendid chateaux like those of Blois, Chaumont, Chambord, and Amboise, almost reflecting their towers in the water and rich in the wonders of the French Renaissance.

[6] _Old Touraine_, by T. A. Cook.

Of all the chateaux along the Loire, Amboise enjoys the finest situation. From across the river we could see this dark Gothic ma.s.s rising from its cliff-like walls to dominate the town and far-winding stream. The panorama from the high terrace is one of the indescribable views of France. The real treasure of Amboise is the exquisite Chapelle de Saint Hubert, due to Charles VIII. His artistic zeal was tragically interrupted. We saw the low doorway where, according to tradition, he struck his head and killed himself while hastening to play tennis. On the terrace is a bust of Leonardo da Vinci, who died here in 1519. The name of Catherine de' Medici is connected with a frightful scene that occurred in the courtyard. A Huguenot conspiracy to capture the youthful Francois II was discovered. The fierce Catherine not only witnessed the executions from a balcony, but insisted upon the company of her horrified daughter-in-law, Mary Stuart. Twelve hundred Huguenots were butchered. One writer[7] makes the following grim comment: "It was a long job, of course, to kill so many, and the company could hardly be expected to watch it all, but the n.o.ble victims were reserved for their special entertainment after dinner." Catherine seems to have had a peculiar fondness for these innocent and edifying spectacles. We descended the spiral roadway of the colossal tower up which Emperor Charles V rode on horseback when he visited Francois I. This inclined plane was so perfect and gradual that our motor car could have climbed it with ease.

[7] Sir Henry Norman, M. P., in "The Alpine Road of France," in _Scribner's Magazine_, February, 1914.

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

_The Chateau of Amboise on the Loire_]

Recrossing the Loire, we rode on to Blois for lunch at that famous hostelry, the Hotel d'Angleterre, close by the river's edge. To the chateau of Blois belongs historical preeminence. This great castle was the center of French history in the sixteenth century. Elaborate and imposing, Blois recalls the splendor of the age as well as its crimes.

Such fireplaces and such ceilings! The colors are crimson and gold. Amid this gloomy grandeur moved Catherine de' Medici. The memory of her presence alone is enough to make the air heavy with intrigue and murder, with all the pa.s.sions that inflamed the religious wars. Joining the usual tourist crowd, we visited her apartments, including the bedroom where she died in 1589, at the age of seventy, the most infamous of French queens. To us, the strangest fact in the life of this fierce, blood-loving queen is that she was permitted to die a natural death. In one of the chambers were curious secret cupboards where she may have concealed her jewels. The floor above suggested a terribly realistic picture of the a.s.sa.s.sination of the Duc de Guise, whose popularity and influence had aroused the jealousy of Catherine and Henry III. The _concierge_ explained all the tragic details. This was the _salle du conseil_, where, on the morning of the a.s.sa.s.sination, the duke was summoned by the queen to a council; that, the _cabinet neuf_, where the king remained while the fatal blows were being struck. And there, in the king's chamber, at the foot of the bed, the spot where the body lay when the king exclaimed, "He seems greater in death than in life."

CHAPTER XIV

ORLeANS TO DIEPPE

Leaving the chateaux country, we proceeded to Orleans in the lower part of the Loire valley, spending the night at the Hotel Saint Aignan. The general appearance of the city is prosperous and modern. The walls which once surrounded it have been turned into promenades. Everything in Orleans seems connected with Jeanne d'Arc. There is a bronze equestrian statue with bas-reliefs of the "Maid" who, clad in white armor, led her soldiers from victory to victory. We hope sometime to be present at the brilliant "Fete de Jeanne d'Arc," which is held every year on May 8, in commemoration of her raising the siege of Orleans in 1429. Small shops display postal cards representing scenes from her life. The Musee is filled with interesting souvenirs. In the cathedral, where the people worship her as a saint, we saw on the walls votive tablets bearing inscriptions of grat.i.tude to her for recovery from sickness. In the same street is the "Maison de Jeanne d'Arc" where she was received by the Duc d'Orleans during the eventful siege. That morning was filled with an interesting series of historical sidelights.

From the vineyards of Touraine to the wheat fields of Normandy; the change was complete. Like an endless white ribbon, the road stretched straight through the vast plain of La Beauce, the granary of France.

What far reaches of level fields! There were no telegraph poles, no hedges, no fences. We seemed to be moving through a strange solitude, empty of human face or habitation. The distant farmhouses and windmills were too much like specks on the horizon to seem real. There is, after all, no scenery to compare with the beauty of the lowlands, where every mood of heaven, every change of sky, is part of a wonderful picture. The weather, which was threatening when we left Orleans, now looked more and more like a storm. No shelter was in sight, nothing but the open country, the great dome of heaven, and the road ever narrowing ahead of us until its indistinct thread merged into a faint blur. Swift clouds took on a greenish, copper-colored hue, which deepened into black as they swirled toward us. Then the hailstones began to fall with a stinging force that increased with every movement. It was one of those furious hailstorms of northern France which are as characteristic of that region as the mistral is of the Midi. There were no mitigating influences. The wind was pitiless, untempered even by the shelter of a tree or barn. By stopping the car and crouching behind it, we secured a little protection from the biting blasts. The sun soon burst through the cloud barriers. We continued toward Chartres, stopping for a moment at a railway crossing to "kodak" a pa.s.sing freight train.

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

_The wheat fields of Normandy_]

The approach to Chartres was impressively picturesque. The double spires of its vast Gothic cathedral, growing more distinct, finally towered above the moat and the Porte Guillaume, the fourteenth-century gateway of the city. Our hotel, the Grand Monarque, gazed upon the turmoil of a village fair. The din was deafening. A merry-go-round added the blare of brazen music; several hand-organs were in discordant evidence. We mingled with the peasants around the small booths, and were almost enticed by a _jolie paysanne_ into buying a pair of small _sabots_. Our ride in the small motor car of the merry-go-round was the dizziest burst of speed on our whole trip.

Little Chartres is overshadowed by its mighty cathedral. All interest concentrates there. Many consider it the finest in France. Every one would agree that the interior is incomparable. Nowhere can we find a more sublime expression of Gothic art. Those who fashioned this "sacred rock-work set to music" belong to the great unknown; their names are buried somewhere back in the early part of the thirteenth century when the cathedral was built. At least, they have given us a picture of their times; such structures could not be erected now. Our age is attuned to a different key; there are too many distracting influences. Then, there were no popular theaters, and few books or forms of amus.e.m.e.nt. The church was the natural center of thought and life. Only the religious inspiration of a people naturally artistic could have created the immortal works which the cathedral builders have bequeathed.

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

_The Gothic cathedral at Chartres_ _Page 200_]

For a few miles outside of Chartres we were again on Route Nationale No.

10. The blue-and-white advertis.e.m.e.nts of various productions appeared close to the road signs. This is a common practice of the French advertisers, who wish to catch the eye of the _voyageur_. We had no idea there were so many different makes of _pneus_ and _chocolats_. In the roadside hamlets the French advertiser makes use of the sides of barns and the corners of houses, but there is very little landscape advertising. Being Americans, we were impressed by this absence of disfiguring advertis.e.m.e.nts along the countryside in Normandy and other parts of France. The "Bull Durham" herd, so often found in American meadows, would not thrive in French pastures. It would be taxed out of existence.

Hardly had we sat down to lunch in the Hotel du Grand Cerf of Nonancourt when there was a great shouting and beating of drums outside. A group of conscripts marched noisily by. They wore red, white, and blue c.o.c.kades, and neckties of the same color, in curious contrast to their simple peasant dress. In accordance with the provincial custom, it was a day of feasting to signalize their admission to the army. In two weeks they were to leave their homes to begin the long, tedious period of military service. A young _cuira.s.sier_ whom we met in Limoges, and who had just completed his first year of service in the cavalry, related interesting experiences of life in the French army. The discipline is severe. The German soldier is not subjected to a more rigorous training. The rising hour is 5 A.M. in the spring, and 4 A.M. in the summer. There are long, exhausting marches. As often as two or three times a week the recruits are awakened in the middle of the night to make a long march. Life is made to conform as closely as possible to the conditions of actual war.

A day's work of eighteen hours is not unusual. Naturally, this means hardship, but it also means good soldiers. The French army is very democratic. Rich and poor are treated alike. Both live together in the barracks. There are no privileges. Even if a recruit is wealthy, he is not allowed to keep a valet. Every man is his own domestic. The German army is not nearly so democratic. There, if the recruit has means, he can keep a servant and may live out of barracks in a comfortable apartment.

The conscripts whom we saw in Nonancourt were destined to anything but an easy, inactive life. For infantry as well as cavalry there is the same grueling routine. The three hours of drilling in the morning do not include gymnasium exercises for three-quarters of an hour. Such menial duties as peeling potatoes, or washing dishes and clothes, form part of the morning's work. The short noon respite is followed by three hours of military exercises. During this period of training the recruits receive only one cent a day, besides clothing, guns, and very simple fare. The term of service has recently been extended from two to three years, to offset the increases of the German army. The average age of enlistment is about eighteen years, an age when the American boy is entering college or laying the foundation for a business career. In comparison, the French boy is heavily handicapped. Even if his school days end at the age of sixteen, he can do little in business. The French business man does not think it worth while to prepare the boy for an important position, since his military service is so close at hand. France pays a terrible price for national security. The financial cost, burdensome though it is, is the smallest item. Frenchmen who have lived in the United States often speak of the great advantages enjoyed by the young American who can devote to his education or to his life work those three precious years which the French youth must give to the army.

Anatole France, the distinguished French writer, was among those who protested against the new military law. "This addition of a year to the conscription comes on us just when France is moving forward with a new energy, both in science and industry. It will be a grave blow to all our higher life. Medicine especially will be injured, for the medicine of the army is not the medicine of the civil state. French science requires the time of its young students, and that will be gravely curtailed. The demand for another army year from all young Frenchmen, imposed without any exemptions, will draw off the best from every field of life. It comes at a moment of great industrial development. It will check that development. It comes at a moment of expansion in our arts, especially in sculpture. It will be a heavy blow. Sculpture is not practiced on the battlefield."

We wonder if there is any help for Europe! How will it all end? So far as we can now foresee, the peace conference at The Hague, to have been held in 1915, has been indefinitely postponed. Instead of this gathering of the nations to establish some practical basis for limitation of armaments, there is the prospect of increased armaments. The burdens, already so crushing, are apparently only the prelude to what is coming.

England is the pacemaker on the sea. Mr. Winston Churchill, in his recent speech before the House of Commons, urged that the naval budget for 1915 be raised to over a quarter billion dollars. He said: "The naval estimates for the next year are the largest in British history, $257,750,000. The causes which might lead to a general war have not been removed. The world is arming as it never armed before. All attempts at arresting it have been ineffectual." Germany is more than ever a nation in arms. At the present rate of increase, her standing army in time of peace will soon number more than a million men. France, which less than a year ago pa.s.sed the Three Years' Service Bill, already faces the possible necessity of adding still another year to the term of military service.

Count Witte, the Russian statesman, has estimated that forty per cent of the total income of the great powers is absorbed by their armies and navies. He said: "Unless the great states which have set this hideous example agree to call a halt and to knit their subjects into a pacific, united Europe, war is the only issue I can perceive. And when I say war, I mean a conflict which will surpa.s.s in horror the most brutal armed conflicts known to human history, and entail distress more widespread and more terrible than living men can realize."

Russia is making sweeping military reforms. The disastrous war with j.a.pan taught valuable lessons. The reorganization of the army includes vast increases of men, and especially the improvement in facilities of transportation. The railroad network in process of construction on her western frontier will probably be completed in 1915. When the plans of the Czar are realized in 1917, Russia will have one of the most formidable armies in the world, a war machine with a fighting strength of over four million men.

"Throughout Austria-Hungary there is just now a feeling of considerable dread of Russia's ulterior motives in a number of measures, military and otherwise, that are being discussed in political circles here. Of greatest moment in that connection is a short but vigorous speech made by the Hungarian premier, Count Tisza, before the Parliament. It was delivered while advocating the new army increase bill (since adopted by a large majority), which raises considerably the annual quota of recruits. After bewailing the necessity of imposing new burdens on a nation impoverished and already staggering under its load, he termed the contemplated increase in the fighting strength of the army an absolute necessity. 'The shadows of a coming big war are thrown ahead, and the losing side will forfeit its national life, or at least expect a painful amputation,' he cried."

In every country where we motored there was scarcely an hour which did not bring the sound of drums, the sight of barracks, of soldiers drilling or on the march. Whether in Germany, Austria, Italy, or France, there were the same sights of preparation for war. The sacrifices of peace in 1914 are hardly less exhausting than were the sacrifices of war in 1813.