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Title: Chateau and Country Life in France
Author: Waddington, Mary Alsop King, -1923
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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available by the Bibliothèque nationale de France (BnF/Gallica) at




Author of _Letters Of A Diplomat's Wife_ and _Italian Letters of
a Diplomat's Wife_



[Illustration: A country wedding]





[Illustration: A fine old château.]



My first experience of country life in France, about thirty years ago,
was in a fine old château standing high in pretty, undulating, wooded
country close to the forest of Villers-Cotterets, and overlooking the
great plains of the Oise--big green fields stretching away to the
sky-line, broken occasionally by little clumps of wood, with steeples
rising out of the green, marking the villages and hamlets which, at
intervals, are scattered over the plains, and in the distance the blue
line of the forest. The château was a long, perfectly simple, white
stone building. When I first saw it, one bright November afternoon, I
said to my husband as we drove up, "What a charming old wooden house!"
which remark so astonished him that he could hardly explain that it
was all stone, and that no big houses (nor small, either) in France
were built of wood. I, having been born in a large white wooden house
in America, couldn't understand why he was so horrified at my
ignorance of French architecture. It was a fine old house, high in the
centre, with a lower wing on each side. There were three
drawing-rooms, a library, billiard-room, and dining-room on the ground
floor. The large drawing-room, where we always sat, ran straight
through the house, with glass doors opening out on the lawn on the
entrance side and on the other into a long gallery which ran almost
the whole length of the house. It was always filled with plants and
flowers, open in summer, with awnings to keep out the sun; shut in
winter with glass windows, and warmed by one of the three calorifères
of the house. In front of the gallery the lawn sloped down to the
wall, which separated the place from the highroad. A belt of fine
trees marked the path along the wall and shut out the road completely,
except in certain places where an opening had been made for the view.

We were a small party for such a big house: only the proprietor and
his wife (old people), my husband and myself. The life was very
simple, almost austere. The old people lived in the centre of the
château, W.[1] and I in one of the wings. It had been all fitted up
for us, and was a charming little house. W. had the ground-floor--a
bedroom, dressing-room, cabinet de travail, dining-room, and a small
room, half reception-room, half library, where he had a large
bookcase filled with books, which he gave away as prizes or to school
libraries. The choice of the books always interested me. They were
principally translations, English and American--Walter Scott,
Marryat, Fenimore Cooper, etc. The bedroom and cabinet de travail had
glass doors opening on the park. I had the same rooms upstairs,
giving one to my maid, for I was nervous at being so far away from
anyone. M. and Mme. A. and all the servants were at the other end of
the house, and there were no bells in our wing (nor anywhere else in
the house except in the dining-room). When I wanted a work-woman who
was sewing in the lingerie I had to go up a steep little winding
staircase, which connected our wing with the main building, and walk
the whole length of the gallery to the lingerie, which was at the
extreme end of the other wing. I was very fond of my rooms. The
bedroom and sitting-room opened on a balcony with a lovely view over
wood and park. When I sat there in the morning with my petit
déjeuner--cup of tea and roll--I could see all that went on in the
place. First the keeper would appear, a tall, handsome man, rather
the northern type, with fair hair and blue eyes, his gun always over
his shoulder, sacoche at his side, swinging along with the free,
vigorous step of a man accustomed to walk all day. Then Hubert, the
coachman, would come for orders, two little fox-terriers always
accompanying him, playing and barking, and rolling about on the
grass. Then the farmer's wife, driving herself in her gig, and
bringing cheese, butter, milk, and sometimes chickens when our
bassecour was getting low. A little later another lot would appear,
people from the village or canton, wanting to see their deputy and
have all manner of grievances redressed. It was curious sometimes to
make out, at the end of a long story, told in peasant dialect, with
many digressions, what particular service notre député was expected
to render. I was present sometimes at some of the conversations, and
was astounded at W.'s patience and comprehension of what was
wanted--I never understood half.

  [1] W. here and throughout this volume refers to Mme. Waddington's
  husband, M. William Waddington.

We generally had our day to ourselves. We rode almost every
morning--long, delicious gallops in the woods, the horses going easily
and lightly over the grass roads; and the days W. was away and
couldn't ride, I used to walk about the park and gardens. The kitchen
garden was enormous--almost a park in itself--and in the season I eat
pounds of white grapes, which ripened to a fine gold color on the
walls in the sun. We rarely saw M. and Mme. A. until twelve-o'clock

[Illustration: I loved to hear her play Beethoven and Handel.]

Sometimes when it was fine we would take a walk with the old people
after breakfast, but we generally spent our days apart. M. and Mme. A.
were charming people, intelligent, cultivated, reading everything and
keeping quite in touch with all the literary and Protestant world, but
they had lived for years entirely in the country, seeing few people,
and living for each other. The first evenings at the château made a
great impression upon me. We dined at 7:30, and always sat after
dinner in the big drawing-room. There was one lamp on a round table in
the middle of the room (all the corners shrouded in darkness). M. and
Mme. A. sat in two arm-chairs opposite to each other, Mme. A. with a
green shade in front of her. Her eyes were very bad; she could neither
read nor work. She had been a beautiful musician, and still played
occasionally, by heart, the classics. I loved to hear her play
Beethoven and Handel, such a delicate, old-fashioned touch. Music was
at once a bond of union. I often sang for her, and she liked
everything I sang--Italian stornelli, old-fashioned American negro
songs, and even the very light modern French chansonnette, when there
was any melody in them. There were two other arm-chairs at the table,
destined for W. and me. I will say W. never occupied his. He would sit
for about half an hour with M. A. and talk politics or local matters
with him, but after that he departed to his own quarters, and I
remained with the old people. I felt very strange at first, it was so
unlike anything I had ever seen, so different from my home life, where
we were a happy, noisy family, always one of the party, generally two,
at the piano, everybody laughing, talking, and enjoying life, and
always a troop of visitors, cousins innumerable and friends.

It was a curious atmosphere. I can't say dull exactly, for both M. and
Mme. A. were clever, and the discussions over books, politics, and
life generally, were interesting, but it was serious, no vitality,
nothing gay, no power of enjoyment. They had had a great grief in
their lives in the loss of an only daughter,[2] which had left
permanent traces. They were very kind and did their best to make me
feel at home, and after the first few evenings I didn't mind. M. A.
had always been in the habit of reading aloud to his wife for an hour
every evening after dinner--the paper, an article in one of the
reviews, anything she liked. I liked that, too, and as I felt more at
home used to discuss everything with M. A. He was quite horrified one
evening when I said I didn't like Molière, didn't believe anybody did
(particularly foreigners), unless they had been brought up to it.

  [2] W.'s first wife.

It really rather worried him. He proposed to read aloud part of the
principal plays, which he chose very carefully, and ended by making a
regular cours de Molière. He read charmingly, with much spirit,
bringing out every touch of humour and fancy, and I was obliged to say
I found it most interesting. We read all sorts of things besides
Molière--Lundis de Ste.-Beuve, Chateaubriand, some splendid pages on
the French Revolution, Taine, Guizot, Mme. de Staël, Lamartine, etc.,
and sometimes rather light memoirs of the Régence and the light ladies
of the eighteenth century, who apparently mixed up politics, religion,
literature, and lovers in the most simple style. These last readings
he always prepared beforehand, and I was often surprised at sudden
transitions and unfinished conversations which meant that he had
suppressed certain passages which he judged too improper for general

He read, one evening, a charming feuilleton of George Sand. It began:
"Le Baron avait causé politique toute la soirée," which conversation
apparently so exasperated the baronne and a young cousin that they
wandered out into the village, which they immediately set by the ears.
The cousin was an excellent mimic of all animals' noises. He barked so
loud and so viciously that he started all the dogs in the village, who
went nearly mad with excitement, and frightened the inhabitants out of
their wits. Every window was opened, the curé, the garde champêtre,
the school-master, all peering out anxiously into the night, and
asking what was happening. Was it tramps, or a travelling circus, or a
bear escaped from his showman, or perhaps a wolf? I have wished
sometimes since, when I have heard various barons talking politics,
that I, too, could wander out into the night and seek distraction

It was a serious life in the big château. There was no railway
anywhere near, and very little traffic on the highroad. After
nightfall a mantle of silence seemed to settle on the house and park
that absolute silence of great spaces where you almost hear your own
heart beat. W. went to Paris occasionally, and usually came back by
the last train, getting to the château at midnight. I always waited
for him upstairs in my little salon, and the silence was so oppressive
that the most ordinary noise--a branch blowing across a window-pane,
or a piece of charred wood falling on the hearth--sounded like a
cannon shot echoing through the long corridor. It was a relief when I
heard the trot of his big mare at the top of the hill, quite fifteen
minutes before he turned into the park gates. He has often told me how
long and still the evenings and nights were during the Franco-Prussian
War. He remained at the château all through the war with the old
people. After Sedan almost the whole Prussian army passed the château
on their way to Versailles and Paris. The big white house was seen
from a long distance, so, as soon as it was dark, all the wooden
shutters on the side of the highroad were shut, heavy curtains drawn,
and strict orders given to have as little light as possible. He was
sitting in his library one evening about dusk, waiting for the man to
bring his lamp and shut the shutters, having had a trying day with the
peasants, who were all frightened and nervous at the approach of the
Germans. He was quite absorbed in rather melancholy reflections when
he suddenly felt that someone was looking in at the window (the
library was on the ground-floor, with doors and windows opening on the
park). He rose quickly, going to the window, as he thought one of the
village people wanted to speak to him, and was confronted by a
Pickelhaube and a round German face flattened against the window-pane.
He opened the window at once, and the man poured forth a torrent of
German, which W. fortunately understood. While he was talking W. saw
forms, their muskets and helmets showing out quite distinctly in the
half-light, crossing the lawn and coming up some of the broad paths.
It was a disagreeable sight, which he was destined to see many times.

It was wonderful what exact information the Germans had. They knew all
the roads, all the villages and little hamlets, the big châteaux, and
most of the small mills and farms. There were still traces of the
German occupation when I went to that part of the country; on some of
the walls and houses marks in red paint--"4 Pferde, 12 Männer." They
generally wanted food and lodging, which they usually (not always)
paid for. Wherever they found horses they took them, but M. A. and W.
had sent all theirs away except one saddle-horse, which lived in a
stable in the woods near the house. In Normandy, near Rouen, at my
brother-in-law's place, they had German officers and soldiers
quartered for a long time. They instantly took possession of horses
and carriages, and my sister-in-law, toiling up a steep hill, would be
passed by her own carriage and horses filled with German officers.
However, on the whole, W. said, the Germans, as a victorious invading
army, behaved well, the officers always perfectly polite, and keeping
their men in good order. They had all sorts and kinds at the château.
They rarely remained long--used to appear at the gate in small bands
of four or five, with a sous-officier, who always asked to see either
the proprietor or someone in authority. He said how many men and
horses he wanted lodged and fed, and announced the arrival, a little
later, of several officers to dine and sleep. They were always
received by M. A. or W., and the same conversation took place every
time. They were told the servant would show them their rooms, and
their dinner would be served at any hour they wished. They replied
that they would have the honour of waiting upon the ladies of the
family as soon as they had made a little toilette and removed the dust
of the route, and that they would be very happy to dine with the
family at their habitual hour. They were then told that the ladies
didn't receive, and that the family dined alone. They were always
annoyed at that answer. As a rule they behaved well, but occasionally
there would be some rough specimens among the officers.

W. was coming home one day from his usual round just before nightfall,
when he heard loud voices and a great commotion in the hall--M. A. and
one or two German officers. The old man very quiet and dignified, the
Germans most insulting, with threats of taking him off to prison. W.
interfered at once, and learned from the irate officers what was the
cause of the quarrel. They had asked for champagne (with the usual
idea of foreigners that champagne flowed through all French châteaux),
and M. A. had said there was none in the house. They knew better, as
some of their men had seen champagne bottles in the cellar. W. said
there was certainly a mistake--there was none in the house. They again
became most insolent and threatening--said they would take them both
to prison. W. suggested, wouldn't it be better to go down the cellar
with him? Then they could see for themselves there was none.
Accordingly they all adjourned to the cellar and W. saw at once what
had misled them--a quantity of bottles of eau de Seidlitz, rather like
champagne bottles in shape. They pointed triumphantly to these and
asked what he meant by saying there was no champagne, and told their
men to carry off the bottles. W. said again it was not champagne--he
didn't believe they would like it. They were quite sure they had found
a prize, and all took copious draughts of the water--with disastrous
results, as they heard afterward from the servants.

Later, during the armistice and Prussian occupation, there were
soldiers quartered all around the château, and, of course, there were
many distressing scenes. All our little village of Louvry, near our
farm, had taken itself off to the woods. They were quite safe there,
as the Prussians never came into the woods on account of the
sharpshooters. W. said their camp was comfortable enough--they had all
their household utensils, beds, blankets, donkeys, and goats, and
could make fires in the clearing in the middle of the woods. They were
mostly women and children, only a very few old men and young boys
left. The poor things were terrified by the Germans and Bismarck, of
whom they had made themselves an extraordinary picture. "Monsieur sait
que Bismarck tue tous les enfants pour qu'il n'y ait plus de
Français." (Monsieur knows that Bismarck kills all the children so
that there shall be no more French.) The boys kept W. in a fever. They
had got some old guns, and were always hovering about on the edge of
the wood, trying to have a shot at a German. He was very uncomfortable
himself at one time during the armistice, for he was sending off
parties of recruits to join one of the big corps d'armée in the
neighbourhood, and they all passed at the château to get their money
and feuille de route, which was signed by him. He sent them off in
small bands of four or five, always through the woods, with a line to
various keepers and farmers along the route, who could be trusted, and
would help them to get on and find their way. Of course, if anyone of
them had been taken with W.'s signature and recommendation on him, the
Germans would have made short work of W., which he was quite aware of;
so every night for weeks his big black Irish horse Paddy was saddled
and tied to a certain tree in one of the narrow alleys of the big
park--the branches so thick and low that it was difficult to pass in
broad daylight, and at night impossible, except for him who knew every
inch of the ground. With five minutes' start, if the alarm had been
given, he could have got away into his own woods, where he knew no one
would follow him.

Hubert, the old coachman, used often to talk to me about all that
troubled time. When the weather was dark and stormy he used to stay
himself half the night, starting at every sound, and there are so many
sounds in the woods at night, all sorts of wild birds and little
animals that one never hears in the daytime--sometimes a rabbit would
dart out of a hole and whisk round a corner; sometimes a big buse
(sort of eagle) would fly out of a tree with great flapping of wings;
occasionally a wild-cat with bright-green eyes would come stealthily
along and then make a flying leap over the bushes. His nerves were so
unstrung that every noise seemed a danger, and he had visions of
Germans lying in ambush in the woods, waiting to pounce upon W. if he
should appear. He said Paddy was so wise, seemed to know that he must
be perfectly quiet, never kicked nor snorted.

It was impossible to realise those dreadful days when we were riding
and walking in the woods, so enchanting in the early summer, with
thousands of lilies of the valley and periwinkles growing wild, and a
beautiful blue flower, a sort of orchid. We used to turn all the
village children into the woods, and they picked enormous bunches of
lilies, which stood all over the château in china bowls. I loved the
wood life at all seasons. I often made the round with W. and his
keepers in the autumn when he was preparing a battue. The men were
very keen about the game, knew the tracks of all the animals, showing
me the long narrow rabbit tracks, running a long distance toward the
quarries, which were full of rabbit holes, and the little delicate
hoof-marks of the chevreuil (roe-deer) just where he had jumped across
the road. The wild boar was easy to trace--little twigs broken, and
ferns and leaves quite crushed, where he had passed. The wild boars
and stags never stayed very long in our woods--went through merely to
the forest of Villers-Cotterets--so it was most important to know the
exact moment of their passage, and there was great pride and
excitement when one was taken.

Another interesting moment was when the coupe de l'année was being
made. Parts of the woods were cut down regularly every year, certain
squares marked off. The first day's work was the marking of the big
trees along the alleys which were to remain--a broad red ring around
the trunks being very conspicuous. Then came the thinning of the
trees, cutting off the top branches, and that was really a curious
sight. The men climbed high into the tree, and then hung on to the
trunk with iron clamps on their feet, with points which stuck into the
bark, and apparently gave them a perfectly secure hold, but it looked
dangerous to see them swinging off from the trunk with a sort of axe
in their hands, cutting off the branches with a swift, sharp stroke.
When they finally attacked the big trees that were to come down it was
a much longer affair, and they made slow progress. They knew their
work well, the exact moment when the last blow had been given, and
they must spring aside to get out of the way when the tree fell with a
great crash.

There were usually two or three big battues in November for the
neighbouring farmers and small proprietors. The breakfast always took
place at the keeper's house. We had arranged one room as a
dining-room, and the keeper's wife was a very good cook; her omelette
au lard and civet de lièvre, classic dishes for a shooting breakfast,
were excellent. The repast always ended with a galette aux amandes
made by the chef of the château. I generally went down to the kennels
at the end of the day, and it was a pretty sight when the party
emerged from the woods, first the shooters, then a regiment of beaters
(men who track the game), the game cart with a donkey bringing up the
rear--the big game, chevreuil or boar, at the bottom of the cart, the
hares and rabbits hanging from the sides. The sportsmen all came back
to the keeper's lodge to have a drink before starting off on their
long drive home, and there was always a great discussion over the
entries in the game book and the number of pièces each man had killed.
It was a very difficult account to make, as every man counted many
more rabbits than the trackers had found, so they were obliged to make
an average of the game that had been brought in. When all the guests
had departed it was killing to hear the old keeper's criticisms.

[Illustration: There were all sorts and kinds.]

Another important function was a large breakfast to all the mayors,
conseillers d'arrondissement, and rich farmers of W.'s canton. That
always took place at the château, and Mme. A. and I appeared at table.
There were all sorts and kinds--some men in dress coats and white
gloves, some very rough specimens in corduroys and thick-nailed shoes,
having begun life as garçons de ferme (ploughboys). They were all
intelligent, well up in politics, and expressed themselves very well,
but I think, on the whole, they were pleased when Mme. A. and I
withdrew and they went into the gallery for their coffee and cigars.
Mme. A. was extraordinarily easy--talked to them all. They came in
exactly the same sort of equipage, a light, high, two-wheeled trap
with a hood, except the Mayor of La Ferté, our big town, who came in
his victoria.

I went often with W. to some of the big farms to see the
sheep-shearing and the dairies, and cheese made. The farmer's wife in
France is a very capable, hard-working woman--up early, seeing to
everything herself, and ruling all her carters and ploughboys with a
heavy hand. Once a week, on market day, she takes her cheeses to the
market town, driving herself in her high gig, and several times I have
seen some of them coming home with a cow tied to their wagon behind,
which they had bought at the market. They were always pleased to see
us, delighted to show anything we wanted to see, offered us
refreshment--bread and cheese, milk and wine--but never came to see me
at the château. I made the round of all the châteaux with Mme. A. to
make acquaintance with the neighbours. They were all rather far off,
but I loved the long drives, almost always through the forest, which
was quite beautiful in all seasons, changing like the sea. It was
delightful in midsummer, the branches of the big trees almost meeting
over our heads, making a perfect shade, and the long, straight, green
alleys stretching away before us, as far as we could see. When the
wood was a little less thick, the afternoon sun would make long
zigzags of light through the trees and trace curious patterns upon the
hard white road when we emerged occasionally for a few minutes from
the depths of the forest at a cross-road. It was perfectly still, but
summer stillness, when one hears the buzzing and fluttering wings of
small birds and insects, and is conscious of life around one.

The most beautiful time for the forest is, of course, in the autumn.
October and November are lovely months, with the changing foliage, the
red and yellow almost as vivid as in America, and always a foreground
of moss and brown ferns, which grow very thick and high all through
the forest. We used to drive sometimes over a thick carpet of red and
yellow leaves, hardly hearing the horses' hoofs or the noise of the
wheels, and when we turned our faces homeward toward the sunset there
was really a glory of colour in wood and sky. It was always curiously
lonely--we rarely met anything or anyone, occasionally a group of
wood-cutters or boys exercising dogs and horses from the
hunting-stables of Villers-Cotterets. At long intervals we would come
to a keeper's lodge, standing quite alone in the middle of the forest,
generally near a carrefour where several roads met. There was always a
small clearing--garden and kennels, and a perfectly comfortable house,
but it must be a lonely life for the women when their husbands are off
all day on their rounds. I asked one of them once, a pretty, smiling
young woman who always came out when the carriage passed, with three
or four children hanging to her skirts, if she was never afraid, being
alone with small children and no possibility of help, if any drunkards
or evilly disposed men came along. She said no--that tramps and
vagabonds never came into the heart of the forest, and always kept
clear of the keeper's house, as they never knew where he and his gun
might be. She said she had had one awful night with a sick child. She
was alone in the house with two other small children, almost babies,
while her husband had to walk several miles to get a doctor. The long
wait was terrible. I got to know all the keepers' wives on our side of
the forest quite well, and it was always a great interest to them when
we passed on horseback, so few women rode in that part of France in
those days.

Sometimes, when we were in the heart of the forest, a stag with
wide-spreading antlers would bound across the road; sometimes a pretty
roebuck would come to the edge of the wood and gallop quickly back as
we got near.

We had a nice couple at the lodge, an old cavalry soldier who had been
for years coachman at the château and who had married a Scotchwoman,
nurse of one of the children. It was curious to see the tall, gaunt
figure of the Scotchwoman, always dressed in a short linsey skirt,
loose jacket, and white cap, in the midst of the chattering, excitable
women of the village. She looked so unlike them. Our peasant women
wear, too, a short; thick skirt, loose jacket, and worsted or knit
stockings, but they all wear sabots and on their heads a turban made
of bright-coloured cotton; the older women, of course--the girls wear
nothing on their heads. They become bent and wrinkled very soon--old
women before their time--having worked always in the fields and
carried heavy burdens on their backs. The Scotchwoman kept much to
herself and rarely left the park. But all the women came to her with
their troubles. Nearly always the same story--the men spending their
earnings on drink and the poor mothers toiling and striving from dawn
till dark to give the little ones enough to eat. She was a strict
Protestant, very taciturn and reserved, quite the type of the old
Calvinist race who fought so hard against the "Scarlet Woman" when the
beautiful and unhappy Mary Stuart was reigning in Scotland and trying
to rule her wild subjects. I often went to see her and she would tell
me of her first days at the château, where everything was so different
from what she was accustomed to.

She didn't tell me what Mme. A. did--that she was a very handsome girl
and all the men of the establishment fell in love with her. There were
dramas of jealousy when she finally decided to marry the coachman. Our
chef had learned how to make various English cakes in London, and
whenever he made buns or a plum-pudding we used to take some to her.
She was a great reader, and we always kept the _Times_ for her, and
she and I sympathised with each other--two Anglo-Saxons married in

Some of the traditions of the château were quite charming. I was
sitting in the lodge one day talking to Mme. Antoine, when the baker
appeared with what seemed to me an extraordinary provision of bread. I
said, "Does he leave the bread for the whole village with you?" "It is
not for me, madame, it is for the traînards (tramps) who pass on the
road," and she explained that all the châteaux gave a piece of bread
and two sous to any wayfarer who asked for food. She cut the bread
into good thick slices, and showed me a wooden bowl on the chimney,
filled with two-sous pieces. While I was there two men appeared at the
big gates, which were always open in the day. They were strong young
fellows carrying their bundles, and a sort of pitchfork slung over
their shoulders. They looked weary and footsore, their shoes worn in
holes. They asked for something to drink and some tobacco, didn't care
very much for the water, which was all that Mme. Antoine had to give
them, but thanked her civilly enough for the bread and sous.

The park wall was a good vantage-ground to see all (and that wasn't
much) that went on on the highroad. The diligence to Meaux passed
twice a day, with a fine rattle of old wheels and chains, and cracking
of whips. It went down the steep hill well enough, but coming up was
quite another affair. All the passengers and the driver got out
always, and even then it was difficult to get the heavy, cumbersome
vehicle up the hill, in winter particularly, when the roads were muddy
and slippery. The driver knew us all well, and was much interested in
all that went on at the château. He often brought parcels, and
occasionally people from the village who wanted to see W.--sometimes a
blind piano-tuner who came from Villers-Cotterets. He was very kind to
the poor blind man, helped him down most carefully from the diligence,
and always brought him through the park gates to the lodge, where he
delivered him over to Antoine. It was curious to see the blind man at
work. Once he had been led through the rooms, he was quite at home,
found the pianos, fussed over the keys and the strings, exactly as if
he saw everything. He tuned all the pianos in the country, and was
much pleased to put his hands on one that wasn't fifty years old. I
had brought down my new Erard.

Sometimes a country wedding passed, and that was always a pretty
sight. A marriage is always an important affair in France in every
class of life. There are long discussions with all the members of the
two families. The curé, the notary, the patron (if the young man is a
workman), are all consulted, and there are as many negotiations and
agreements in the most humble families as in the grand monde of the
Faubourg St. Germain. Almost all French parents give a dot of some
kind to their children, and whatever the sum is, either five hundred
francs or two thousand, it is always scrupulously paid over to the
notary. The wedding-day is a long one. After the religious ceremony in
the church, all the wedding party--members of the two families and a
certain number of friends--adjourn to the hotel of the little town for
a breakfast, which is long and most abundant. Then comes the crowning
glory of the day--a country walk along the dusty highroad to some wood
or meadow where they can spend the whole afternoon. It is pretty to
see the little procession trudging along--the bride in all her wedding
garments, white dress, white shoes, wreath, and veil; the groom in a
dress coat, top-hat, white cravat and waistcoat, with a white ribbon
bow on his sleeve. Almost all the girls and young women are dressed in
white or light colours; the mothers and grandmothers (the whole family
turns out) in black with flowers in their bonnets. There is usually a
fiddler walking ahead making most remarkable sounds on his old cracked
instrument, and the younger members of the party take an occasional
gallop along the road. They are generally very gay; there is much
laughing, and from time to time a burst of song. It is always a
mystery to me how the bride keeps her dress and petticoat so clean,
but she does, with that extraordinary knack all Frenchwomen seem to
have of holding up their skirts. They passed often under the wall of
the château, for a favourite resting-place was in our woods at the
entrance of the allée verte, where it widens out a little; the moss
makes a beautiful soft carpet, and the big trees give perfect shade.
We heard sounds of merriment one day when we were passing and we
stopped to look on, from behind the bushes, where we couldn't be seen.
There was quite a party assembled. The fiddler was playing some sort
of country-dance and all the company, except the very old people, were
dancing and singing, some of the men indulging in most wonderful steps
and capers. The children were playing and running under the trees. One
stout man was asleep, stretched out full length on the side of the
road. I fancy his piquette, as they call the ordinary white wine of
the country, had been too much for him. The bride and groom were
strolling about a little apart from the others, quite happy and
lover-like, his arm around her waist, she blushing and giggling.

The gendarmes passed also very regularly. They always stopped and
talked, had a drink with Antoine, and gave all the local news--how
many braconniers (poachers) had been caught, how long they were to
stay in prison, how some of the farmers' sheep had disappeared, no one
knew how exactly--there were no more robbers. One day two of them
passed, dragging a man between them who had evidently been struggling
and fighting. His blouse was torn, and there was a great gash on his
face. We were wildly excited, of course. They told us he was an old
sinner, a poacher who had been in prison various times, but these last
days, not contented with setting traps for the rabbits, he had set
fire to some of the hay-stacks, and they had been hunting for him for
some time. He looked a rough customer, had an ugly scowl on his face.
One of the little hamlets near the château, on the canal, was a
perfect nest of poachers, and I had continual struggles with the
keepers when I gave clothes or blankets to the women and children.
They said some of the women were as bad as the men, and that I ought
not to encourage them to come up to the house and beg for food and
clothing; that they sold all the little jackets and petticoats we gave
them to the canal hands (also a bad lot) for brandy. I believe it was
true in some cases, but in the middle of winter, with snow on the
ground (we were hardly warm in the house with big fires everywhere), I
couldn't send away women with four or five children, all
insufficiently clothed and fed, most of them in cotton frocks with an
old worn knit shawl around their shoulders, legs and arms bare and
chapped, half frozen. Some of them lived in caverns or great holes in
the rocks, really like beasts. On the road to La Ferté there was a big
hole (there is no other word for it) in the bank where a whole family
lived. The man was always in prison for something, and his wife, a
tall, gaunt figure, with wild hair and eyes, spent most of her time in
the woods teaching her boys to set traps for the game. The curé told
us that one of the children was ill, and that there was literally
nothing in the house, so I took one of my cousins with me, and we
climbed up the bank, leaving the carriage with Hubert, the coachman,
expostulating seriously below. We came to a rickety old door which
practically consisted of two rotten planks nailed together. It was
ajar; clouds of black smoke poured out as we opened it, and it was
some time before we could see anything. We finally made out a heap of
filthy rags in one corner near a sort of fire made of charred pieces
of black peat. Two children, one a boy about twelve years old, was
lying on the heap of rags, coughing his heart out. He hardly raised
his head when we came in. Another child, a girl, some two years
younger, was lying beside him, both of them frightfully thin and
white; one saw nothing but great dark eyes in their faces. The mother
was crouched on the floor close to the children. She hardly moved at
first, and was really a terrifying object when she got up; half
savage, scarcely clothed--a short petticoat in holes and a ragged
bodice gaping open over her bare skin, no shoes or stockings; big
black eyes set deep in her head, and a quantity of unkempt black hair.
She looked enormous when she stood up, her head nearly touching the
roof. I didn't feel very comfortable, but we were two, and the
carriage and Hubert within call. The woman was civil enough when she
saw I had not come empty-handed. We took her some soup, bread, and
milk. The children pounced upon the bread like little wild animals.
The mother didn't touch anything while we were there--said she was
glad to have the milk for the boy. I never saw human beings living in
such utter filth and poverty. A crofter's cottage in Scotland, or an
Irish hovel with the pigs and children all living together, was a
palace compared to that awful hole. I remonstrated vigorously with W.
and the Mayor of La Ferté for allowing people to live in that way,
like beasts, upon the highroad, close to a perfectly prosperous
country town. However, they were vagrants, couldn't live anywhere, for
when we passed again, some days later, there was no one in the hole.
The door had fallen down, there was no smoke coming out, and the
neighbours told us the family had suddenly disappeared. The
authorities then took up the matter--the holes were filled up, and no
one was allowed to live in them. It really was too awful--like the
dwellers in caves of primeval days.

We didn't have many visits at the château, though we were so near
Paris (only about an hour and a half by the express), but the old
people had got accustomed to their quiet life, and visitors would have
worried them. Sometimes a Protestant pasteur would come down for two
days. We had a nice visit once from M. de Pressensé, father of the
present deputy, one of the most charming, cultivated men one could
imagine. He talked easily and naturally, using beautiful language. He
was most interesting when he told us about the Commune, and all the
horrors of that time in Paris. He was in the Tuileries when the mob
sacked and burned the palace; saw the femmes de la halle sitting on
the brocade and satin sofas, saying, "C'est nous les princesses
maintenant"; saw the entrance of the troops from Versailles, and the
quantity of innocent people shot who were merely standing looking on
at the barricades, having never had a gun in their hands. The only
thing I didn't like was his long extempore (to me familiar) prayers at
night. I believe it is a habit in some old-fashioned French Protestant
families to pray for each member of the family by name. I thought it
was bad enough when he prayed for the new ménage just beginning their
married life (that was us), that they might be spiritually guided to
do their best for each other and their respective families; but when
he proceeded to _name_ some others of the family who had strayed a
little from the straight and narrow path, hoping they would be brought
to see, by Divine grace, the error of their ways, I was horrified, and
could hardly refrain from expressing my opinion to the old people.
However, I was learning prudence, and when my opinion and judgment
were diametrically opposed to those of my new family (which happened
often) I kept them to myself. Sunday was strictly kept. There was no
Protestant church anywhere near. We had a service in the morning in M.
A.'s library. He read prayers and a short sermon, all the household
appearing, as most of the servants were Swiss and Protestants. In the
afternoon Mme. A. had all the village children at the château. She had
a small organ in one of the rooms in the wing of the dining-room,
taught them hymns and read them simple little stories. The curé was
rather anxious at first, having his little flock under such a
dangerous heretic influence, but he very soon realized what an
excellent thing it was for the children, and both he and the mothers
were much disappointed when anything happened to put off the lesson.
They didn't see much of the curé. He would pay one formal visit in the
course of the year, but there was never any intimacy.

We lived much for ourselves, and for a few months in the year it was a
rest and change from Paris, and the busy, agitated life, social and
political, that one always led there. I liked the space, too, the
great high, empty rooms, with no frivolous little tables and screens
or stuff on the walls, no photograph stands nor fancy vases for
flowers, no bibelot of any kind--large, heavy pieces of furniture
which were always found every morning in exactly the same place. Once
or twice, in later years, I tried to make a few changes, but it was
absolutely useless to contend with a wonderful old servant called
Ferdinand, who was over sixty years old, and had been brought up at
the château, had always remained there with the various owners, and
who knew every nook and corner of the house and everything that was in
it. It was years before I succeeded in talking to him. I used to meet
him sometimes on the stairs and corridors, always running, and
carrying two or three pails and brooms. If he could, he dived into any
open door when he saw me coming, and apparently never heard me when I
spoke, for he never answered. He was a marvellous servant, cleaned the
whole house, opened and shut all the windows night and morning (almost
work enough for one man), lit the calorifères, scrubbed and swept and
polished floors from early dawn until ten o'clock, when we left the
salon. He never lived with the other servants, cooked his own food at
his own hours in his room, and his only companion was a large black
cat, which always followed him about. He did W.'s service, and W. said
that they used to talk about all sorts of things, but I fancy master
and servant were equally reticent and understood each other without
many words.

I slipped one day on the very slippery wooden steps leading from W.'s
little study to the passage. Baby did the same, and got a nasty fall
on the stone flags, so I asked W. if he would ask Ferdinand to put a
strip of carpet on the steps (there were only four). W. gave the
order, but no carpet appeared. He repeated it rather curtly. The old
Ferdinand made no answer, but grumbled to himself over his broom that
it was perfectly foolish and useless to put down a piece of carpet,
that for sixty years people and children, and babies, had walked down
those steps and no one had ever thought of asking for carpets. W. had
really rather to apologize and explain that his wife was nervous and
unused to such highly polished floors. However, we became great
friends afterward, Ferdinand and I, and when he understood how fond I
was of the château, he didn't mind my deranging the furniture a
little. Two grand pianos were a great trial to him. I think he would
have liked to put one on top of the other.

[Illustration: Ferdinand.]

The library, quite at one end of the house, separated from the
drawing-room we always sat in by a second large salon, was a
delightful, quiet resort when any one wanted to read or write. There
were quantities of books, French, English, and German--the classics in
all three languages, and a fine collection of historical memoirs.



We didn't pay many visits; but sometimes, when the weather was fine
and there was no hunting, and W. gone upon an expedition to some
outlying village, Mme. A. and I would start off for one of the
neighbouring châteaux. We went one day to the château de C, where
there was a large family party assembled, four generations--the old
grandmother, her son and daughter, both married, the daughter's
daughter, also married, and her children. It was a pretty drive,
about an hour all through the forest. The house is quite modern, not
at all pretty, a square white building, with very few trees near it,
the lawn and one or two flower-beds not particularly well kept. The
grounds ran straight down to the Villers-Cotterets forest, where M.
M. has good shooting. The gates were open, the concierge said the
ladies were there. (They didn't have to be summoned by a bell. That
is one of the habits of this part of the country. There is almost
always a large bell at the stable or "communs," and when visitors
arrive and the family are out in the grounds, not too far off, they
are summoned by the bell. I was quite surprised one day at
Bourneville, when we were in the woods at some little distance from
the château, when we heard the bell, and my companion, a niece of
Mme. A., instantly turned back, saying, "That means there are visits;
we must go back.") We found all the ladies sitting working in a
corner salon with big windows opening on the park. The old
grandmother was knitting, but she was so straight and slight, with
bright black eyes, that it wouldn't have seemed at all strange to see
her bending over an embroidery frame like all the others. The other
three ladies were each seated at an embroidery frame in the
embrasures of the windows. I was much impressed, particularly with
the large pieces of work that they were undertaking, a portière,
covers for the billiard-table, bed, etc. It quite recalled what one
had always read of feudal France, when the seigneur would be off with
his retainers hunting or fighting, and the châtelaine, left alone in
the château, spent her time in her "bower" surrounded by her maidens,
all working at the wonderful tapestries one sees still in some of the
old churches and convents. I was never much given to work, but I made
a mental resolve that I, too, would set up a frame in one of the
drawing-rooms at home, and had visions of yards of pale-blue satin,
all covered with wonderful flowers and animals, unrolling themselves
under my skilful fingers--but I must confess that it remained a
vision. I never got further than little crochet petticoats, which
clothed every child in the village. To make the picture complete
there should have been a page in velvet cap and doublet, stretched on
the floor at the feet of his mistress, trying to distract her with
songs and ballads. The master of the house, M. M., was there, having
come in from shooting. He had been reading aloud to the
ladies--Alfred de Musset, I think. That part of the picture I could
never realize, as there is nothing W. loathes like reading aloud
except, perhaps, being read to.

They were very friendly and easy, showed us the downstairs part of the
house, and gave us goûter, not tea, wine and cake. The house looked
comfortable enough, nothing picturesque; a large square hall with
horns, whips, foxes' brushes, antlers, and all sorts of trophies of
the chase on the walls. They are sporting people; all ride. The
dining-room, a large bright room, was panelled with life-size
portraits of the family: M. and Mme. M. in hunting dress, green coats,
tricorne hats, _on_ their horses; the daughter of the house and one of
her brothers, rowing in a boat on a small lake; the eldest son in
shooting dress, corduroys, his gun slung over his shoulder, his dog by
his side. They were all very like.

[Illustration: "Merci, je vais bien."]

We strolled about the garden a little, and saw lots of pheasants
walking peacefully about at the edge of the woods. They made me
promise to come back one day with W., he to shoot and I to walk about
with the ladies. We saw the children of the fourth generation, and
left with the impression of a happy, simple family party. M. M. was a
conseiller général of the Aisne and a colleague of W.'s. They always
stayed at the same hotel (de la Hure) in Laon at the time of the
conseil général, and M. M. was much amused at first with W.'s baggage:
a large bath-tub, towels (for in small French provincial hotels towels
were microscopic and few in number), and a package of tea, which was
almost an unknown commodity in those days. None of our visitors ever
took any, and always excused themselves with the same phrase, "Merci,
je vais bien," evidently looking upon it as some strange and hurtful
medicine. That has all changed, like everything else. Now one finds
tea not only at all the châteaux, with brioches and toast, but even in
all the hotels, but I wouldn't guarantee what we get there as ever
having seen China or Ceylon, and it is still wiser to take chocolate
or coffee, which is almost always good. We had a lovely drive back.
The forest was beautiful in the waning light. As usual, we didn't meet
any vehicle of any kind, and were quite excited when we saw a carriage
approaching in the distance--however, it proved to be W. in his
dog-cart. We passed through one or two little villages quite lost in
the forest--always the same thing, one long, straggling street, with
nobody in it, a large farm at one end and very often the church at the
other. As it was late, the farm gates were all open, the cattle
inside, teams of white oxen drinking out of a large trough.

In a large farm near Boursonne there was much animation and
conversation. All the beasts were in, oxen, cows, horses, chickens,
and in one corner, a flock of geese. The poor little "goose girl," a
child about ten years old with bright-blue eyes and a pig-tail like
straw hanging down her back, was being scolded violently by the
farmer's wife, who was presiding in person over the rentrée of the
animals, for having brought her geese home on a run. They wouldn't
eat, and would certainly all be ill, and probably die before morning.
There is a pretty little old château at Boursonne; the park, however,
so shut in by high walls that one sees nothing in passing. W. had shot
there once or twice in former years, but it has changed hands very

[Illustration: Long pauses when nobody seemed to have anything to say.]

Sometimes we paid more humble visits, not to châteaux, but to the
principal people of the little country town near, from which we had
all our provisions. We went to see the doctor's wife, the notary's
wife, the mayor's wife, and the two schools--the asile or infant
school, and the more important school for bigger girls. The old doctor
was quite a character, had been for years in the country, knew
everybody and everybody's private history. He was the doctor of the
château, by the year, attended to everybody, masters and servants, and
received a regular salary, like a secretary. He didn't come very often
for us in his medical capacity, but he often dropped in at the end of
the day to have a talk with W. The first time I saw him W. presented
him to me, as un bon ami de la famille. I naturally put out my hand,
which so astonished and disconcerted him (he barely touched the tips
of my fingers) that I was rather bewildered. W. explained after he had
gone that in that class of life in France they never shook hands with
a lady, and that the poor man was very much embarrassed. He was very
useful to W. as a political agent, as he was kind to the poor people
and took small (or no) fees. They all loved him, and talked to him
quite freely. His women-kind were very shy and provincial. I think our
visits were a great trial to them. They always returned them most
punctiliously, and came in all their best clothes. When we went to see
them we generally found them in short black skirts, and when they were
no longer very young, with black caps, but they always had handsome
silk dresses, velvet cloaks, and hats with flowers and feathers when
they came to see us. Some of them took the cup of tea we offered, but
they didn't know what to do with it, and sat on the edge of their
chairs, looking quite miserable until we relieved them of the burden
of the tea-cup. Mme. A. was rather against the tea-table; she
preferred the old-fashioned tray handed around with wine and cakes,
but I persuaded her to try, and after a little while she acknowledged
that it was better to have the tea-table brought in. It made a
diversion; I got up to make the tea. Someone gave me a chair, someone
else handed the cups. It made a little movement, and was not so stiff
as when we all sat for over an hour on the same chairs making
conversation. It is terrible to have to make conversation, and
extraordinary how little one finds to say. We had always talked easily
enough at home, but then things came more naturally, and even the
violent family discussions were amusing, but my recollection of these
French provincial visits is something awful. Everybody so polite, so
stiff, and the long pauses when nobody seemed to have anything to say.
I of course was a novelty and a foreign element--they didn't quite
know what to do with me. Even to Mme. A., and I grew very fond of her,
and she was invariably charming to me, I was something different. We
had many talks on every possible subject during our long drives, and
also in the winter afternoons. At first I had my tea always upstairs
in my own little salon, which I loved with the curtains drawn, a
bright wood-fire burning, and all my books about; but when I found
that she sat alone in the big drawing-room, not able to occupy herself
in any way, I asked her if I might order my tea there, and there were
very few afternoons that I didn't sit with her when I was at home. She
talked often about her early married life--winters in Cannes and in
Paris, where they received a great deal, principally Protestants, and
I fancy she sometimes regretted the interchange of ideas and the
brilliant conversation she had been accustomed to, but she never said
it. She was never tired of hearing about my early days in America--our
family life--the extraordinary liberty of the young people, etc. We
often talked over the religious question, and though we were both
Protestants, we were as far apart almost as if one was a pagan.
Protestantism in France always has seemed to me such a rigid form of
worship, so little calculated to influence young people or draw them
to church. The plain, bare churches with white-washed walls, the long
sermons and extempore prayers, speaking so much of the anger of God
and the terrible punishments awaiting the sinner, the trials and
sorrows that must come to all. I often think of a sermon I heard
preached in one Protestant church, to the boys and girls who were
making their first communion--all little things, the girls in their
white frocks and long white veils, the boys with white waistcoats and
white ribbons on their arms, making such a pretty group as they sat on
the front benches listening hard to all the preacher said. I wondered
that the young, earnest faces didn't suggest something to him besides
the horrors of eternal punishment, the wickedness and temptations of
the world they were going to face, but his only idea seemed to be that
he must warn them of all the snares and temptations that were going to
beset their paths. Mme. A. couldn't understand my ideas when I said I
loved the Episcopal service--the prayers and litany I had always
heard, the Easter and Christmas hymns I had always sung, the carols,
the anthems, the great organ, the flowers at Easter, the greens at
Christmas. All that seemed to her to be a false sentiment appealing to
the senses and imagination. "But if it brings people to church, and
the beautiful music elevates them and raises their thoughts to higher
things--" "That is not religion; real religion means the prayer of St.
Chrysostom, 'Where two or three are gathered together in My name I
will grant their requests.'" "That is very well for really religious,
strong people who think out their religion and don't care for any
outward expression of it, but for weaker souls who want to be helped,
and who are helped by the beautiful music and the familiar prayers,
surely it is better to give them something that brings them to church
and makes them better men and women than to frighten them away with
such strict, uncompromising doctrines--" "No, that is only sentiment,
not real religious feeling." I don't think we ever understood each
other any better on that subject, and we discussed it so often.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mme. A., with whom I made my round of calls at the neighbouring
châteaux, was a charming companion. She had lived a great deal in
Paris, in the Protestant coterie, which was very intellectual and
cultivated. The salons of the Duchesse de Broglie, Mmes. de Staël,
d'Haussonvìlle, Guizot, were most interesting and recherchés, very
exclusive and very serious, but a centre for all political and
literary talk. I have often heard my husband say some of the best
talkers in society s'étaient formés dans ces salons, where, as young
men, they listened modestly to all the brilliant conversation going on
around them.

It was an exception when we found anyone at home when we called in the
neighbourhood, and when we did, it was evident that afternoon visits
were a rarity. We did get in one cold November afternoon, and our
visit was a sample of many others that we paid.

The door was opened by a footman struggling into his coat, with a
handful of faggots in his arms. He ushered us through several bare,
stiff, cold rooms (proportions handsome enough) to a smaller salon,
which the family usually occupied. Then he lighted a fire (which
consisted principally of smoke) and went to summon his mistress. The
living-room was just as bare and stiff as the others, no trace of
anything that looked like habitation or what we should consider
comfort--no books nor work nor flowers (that, however, is
comparatively recent in France). I remember quite well Mme.
Casimir-Périer telling me that when she went with her husband to St.
Petersburg about fifty years ago, one of the things that struck her
most in the Russian salons, was the quantity of green plants and cut
flowers--she had never seen them in France. There were often fine
pictures, tapestries, and furniture, all the chairs in a row against
the wall.

[Illustration: Then he lighted a fire.]

Our visits were always long, as most of the châteaux were at a certain
distance, and we were obliged to stay an hour and a half, sometimes
longer, to rest the horses. It was before the days of five-o'clock
tea. A tray was brought in with sweet wine (Malaga or Vin de Chypre)
and cakes (ladies'-fingers) which evidently had figured often before
on similar occasions. Conversation languished sometimes, though Mme.
A. was wonderful, talking so easily about everything. In the smaller
places, when people rarely went to Paris, it ran always in the same
grooves--the woods, the hunting (very good in the Villers-Cotterets
forest), the schoolmaster (so difficult to get proper books for the
children to read), the curé, and all local gossip, and as much about
the iniquities of the republic as could be said before the wife of a
republican senator. Wherever we went, even to the largest châteaux,
where the family went to Paris for the season, the talk was almost
entirely confined to France and French interests. Books, politics,
music, people, nothing existed apparently au-delà des frontières.
America was an unknown quantity. It was strange to see intelligent
people living in the world so curiously indifferent as to what went on
in other countries. At first I used to talk a little about America and
Rome, where I had lived many years and at such an interesting
time--the last days of Pio Nono and the transformation of the old
superstitious papal Rome to the capital of young Italy--but I soon
realized that it didn't interest any one, and by degrees I learned to
talk like all the rest.

I often think of one visit to a charming little Louis XV château
standing quite on the edge of the forest--just room enough for the
house, and the little hamlet at the gates; a magnificent view of the
forest, quite close to the lawn behind the château, and then sweeping
off, a dark-blue mass, as far as one could see. We were shown into a
large, high room, no carpet, no fire, some fine portraits, very little
furniture, all close against the wall, a round table in the middle
with something on it, I couldn't make out what at first. Neither
books, reviews, nor even a photographic album--the supreme resource of
provincial salons. When we got up to take leave I managed to get near
the table, and the _ornament_ was a large white plate with a piece of
fly-paper on it. The mistress of the house was shy and uncomfortable;
sent at once for her husband, and withdrew from the conversation as
soon as he appeared, leaving him to make all the "frais." We walked a
little around the park before leaving. It was really a lovely little
place, with its background of forest and the quiet, sleepy little
village in front; very lonely and far from everything, but with a
certain charm of its own. Two or three dogs were playing in the
court-yard, and one curious little animal who made a rush at the
strangers. I was rather taken aback, particularly when the master of
the house told me not to be afraid, it was only a marcassin (small
wild boar), who had been born on the place, and was as quiet as a
kitten. I did not think the great tusks and square, shaggy head looked
very pleasant, but the little thing was quiet enough, came and rubbed
itself against its master's legs and played quite happily with the
dogs. We heard afterward that they were obliged to kill it. It grew
fierce and unmanageable, and no one would come near the place.

       *       *       *       *       *

I took Henrietta with me sometimes when I had a distant visit to pay;
an hour and a half's drive alone on a country road where you never
meet anything was rather dull. We went one cold December afternoon to
call upon Mme. B., the widow of an old friend and colleague of W.'s.
We were in the open carriage, well wrapped up, and enjoyed the drive
immensely. The country looked beautiful in the bright winter sunshine,
the distant forest always in a blue mist, the trees with their
branches white with "givre" (hoarfrost), and patches of snow and ice
all over the fields.

For a wonder we didn't go through the forest--drove straight away from
it and had charming effects of colour upon some of the thatched
cottages in the villages we passed through; one or two had been mended
recently and the mixture of old brown, bright red and glistening white
was quite lovely.

We went almost entirely along the great plains, occasionally small
bits of wood and very fair hills as we got near our destination. The
villages always very scattered and almost deserted--when it is cold
everybody stays indoors--and of course there is no work to be done on
the farms when the ground is hard frozen. It is a difficult question
to know what to do with the men of all the small hamlets when the real
winter sets in; the big farms turn off many of their labourers, and as
it is a purely agricultural country all around us there is literally
nothing to do. My husband and several of the owners of large estates
gave work to many with their regular "coupe" of wood, but that only
lasts a short time, and the men who are willing to work but can find
nothing drift naturally into cafés and billiard saloons, where they
read cheap bad papers and talk politics of the wildest description.

We found our château very well situated on the top of a hill, a good
avenue leading up to the gate, a pretty little park with fine trees at
the back, the tower of the village church just visible through the
trees at the end of the central alley. It was hardly a château--half
manor, half farm. We drove into a large courtyard, or rather farmyard,
quite deserted; no one visible anywhere; the door of the house was
open, but there was no bell nor apparently any means of communicating
with any one. Hubert cracked his whip noisily several times without
any result--and we were just wondering what we should do (perhaps put
our cards under a stone on the steps) when a man appeared, said Mme.
B. was at home, but she was in the stable looking after a sick cow--he
would go and tell her we were there. In a few minutes she appeared
attired in a short, rusty-black skirt, sabots on her feet, and a black
woollen shawl over her head and shoulders. She seemed quite pleased to
see us--was not at all put out at being caught in such very simple
attire--begged us to come in and ushered us through a long, narrow
hall and several cold, comfortless rooms, the shutters not open and no
fire anywhere, into her bedroom. All the furniture--chairs, tables and
bed--was covered with linen. She explained that it was her "lessive"
(general wash) she had just made, that all the linen was _dry_, but
she had not had time to put it away. She called a maid and they
cleared off two chairs--she sat on the bed.

It was frightfully cold--we were thankful we had kept our wraps on.
She said she supposed we would like a fire after our long, cold drive,
and rang for a man to bring some wood. He (in his shirt sleeves)
appeared with two or three logs of wood and was preparing to make a
fire with them all, but she stopped him, said one log was enough, the
ladies were not going to stay long--so, naturally, we had no fire and
clouds of smoke. She was very talkative, never stopped--told us all
about her servants, her husband's political campaigns and how W. would
never have been named to the Conseil Général if M.B. hadn't done all
his work for him. She asked a great many questions, answering them all
herself; then said, "I don't offer you any tea, as I know you always
go back to have your tea at home, and I am quite sure you don't want
any wine."

There was such an evident reluctance to give us anything that I didn't
like to insist, and said we must really be going as we had a long
drive before us, though I should have liked something hot; tea, of
course, she knew nothing about, but even a glass of ordinary hot wine,
which they make very well in France, would have been acceptable.
Henrietta was furious; she was shivering with cold, her eyes smarting
with the smoke, and not at all interested in M.B.'s political career,
or Madame's servants, and said she would have been thankful to have
even a glass of vin de Chypre.

It was unfortunate, perhaps, that we had arrived during the "lessive";
that is always a most important function in France. In almost all the
big houses in the country (small ones, too) that is the way they do
their washing; once a month or once every three months, according to
the size of the establishment, the whole washing of the household is
done; all the linen: master's, servants', guests'; house is turned
out; the linen closets cleaned and aired! Every one looks busy and
energetic. It is quite a long affair--lasts three or four days. I
often went to see the performance when we made our "lessive" at the
château every month.

It always interested our English and American friends, as the washing
is never done in that way in either of their countries. It was very
convenient at our place as we had plenty of room. The "lavoir" stood
at the top of the steps leading into the kitchen gardens; there was a
large, square tank sunk in the ground, so that the women could kneel
to their work, then a little higher another of beautiful clear water,
all under cover. Just across the path there was a small house with a
blazing wood fire; in the middle an enormous tub where all the linen
was passed through wood ashes. There were four "lessiveuses"
(washerwomen), sturdy peasant women with very short skirts, sabots,
and turbans (made of blue and white checked calico) on their heads,
their strong red arms bared above the elbow. The Mère Michon, the
eldest of the four, directed everything and kept them well at work,
allowed very little talking; they generally chatter when they are
washing and very often quarrel. When they are washing at the public
"lavoir" in the village one hears their shrill voices from a great
distance. Our "lingère," Mme. Hubert, superintended the whole
operation; she was very keen about it and remonstrated vigorously when
they slapped the linen too hard sometimes with the little flat sticks,
like spades, they use. The linen all came out beautifully white and
smooth, hadn't the yellow look that all city-washed clothes have.

I think Mme. B. was very glad to get rid of us, and to begin folding
her linen and putting it back in the big wooden wardrobes, that one
sees everywhere in France. Some of the old Norman wardrobes, with
handsome brass locks and beautifully carved doors, are real works of
art--very difficult to get and very expensive. Fifty years ago the
peasant did not understand the value of such a "meuble" and parted
with it easily--but now, with railways everywhere and strangers and
bric-à-brac people always on the lookout for a really old piece of
furniture, they understand quite well that they possess a treasure and
exact its full value.

Our drive back was rather shorter, downhill almost all the way, the
horses going along at a good steady trot, knowing they were going

When we drew up at our own door Hubert remarked respectfully that he
thought it was the first time that Madame and Mademoiselle had ever
been received by a lady in sabots.

We wondered afterward if she had personally attended to the cow--in
the way of poulticing or rubbing it. She certainly didn't wash her
hands afterward, and it rather reminded me of one of Charles de
Bunsen's stories when he was Secretary of Legation at Turin. In the
summer they took a villa in the country just out of the town and had
frequent visitors to lunch or dinner. One day two of their friends,
Italians, had spent the whole day with them; had walked in the garden,
picked fruit and flowers, played with the child and the dogs and the
pony, and as they were coming back to the house for dinner, Charles
suggested that they might like to come up to his dressing-room and
wash their hands before dinner--to which one of them replied, "Grazie,
non mi sporco facilmente" (literal translation, "Thanks, I don't dirty
myself easily"), and declined the offer of soap and water.

       *       *       *       *       *

We paid two or three visits one year to the neighbouring châteaux, and
had one very pleasant afternoon at the Château de Pinon, belonging to
the Courval family. W. had known the late proprietor, the Vicomte de
Courval, very well. They had been colleagues of the Conseil Général of
the Aisne, were both very fond of the country and country life, and
used to have long talks in the evening, when the work of the day was
over, about plantation, cutting down trees, preservation of game, etc.
Without these talks, I think W. would have found the evenings at the
primitive little Hôtel de la Hure, at Laon, rather tedious.

The château is not very old and has no historic interest. It was built
by a Monsieur du Bois, Vicomte de Courval, at the end of the
seventeenth century. He lived at first in the old feudal château of
which nothing now remains. Already times were changing--the thick
walls, massive towers, high, narrow windows, almost slits, and deep
moat, which were necessary in the old troubled days, when all isolated
châteaux might be called upon, at any time, to defend themselves from
sudden attack, had given way to the larger and more spacious
residences of which Mansard, the famous architect of Louis XIV, has
left so many chefs d'oeuvre. It was to Mansard that M. de Courval
confided the task of building the château as it now stands, while the
no less famous Le Notre was charged to lay out the park and gardens.

It was an easy journey from B----ville to Pinon. An hour's drive through
our beautiful forest of Villers-Cotterets and another hour in the
train. We stopped at the little station of Anizy just outside the
gates of the park; a brougham was waiting for us and a very short
drive through a stately avenue brought us to the drawbridge and the
iron gates of the "Cour d'honneur." The house looked imposing; I had
an impression of a very high and very long façade with two towers
stretching out into the court-yard, which is very large, with fine old
trees and broad parterres of bright-coloured flowers on either side of
the steps. There was a wide moat of running water, the banks covered
with shrubs and flowers--the flowers were principally salvias and
chrysanthemums, as it was late in the season, but they made a warm bit
of colour. The house stands low, as do all houses surrounded by a
moat, but the park rises a little directly behind it and there is a
fine background of wood.

We drew up at a flight of broad, shallow steps; the doors were open.
There were three or four footmen in the ante-room. While we were
taking off our wraps Mme. de Courval appeared; she was short, stout,
dressed in black, with that terrible black cap which all widows wear
in France--so different from the white cap and soft white muslin
collar and cuffs we are accustomed to. She had a charming, easy manner
and looked very intelligent and capable. It seems she managed the
property extremely well, made the tour of the house, woods and garden
every day with her "régisseur." W. had the highest opinion of her
business capacity--said she knew the exact market value of everything
on the place--from an old tree that must be cut down for timber to the
cheeses the farmer's wife made and sold at the Soissons market.

She suggested that I should come upstairs to leave my heavy coat. We
went up a broad stone staircase, the walls covered with pictures and
engravings; one beautiful portrait of her daughter, the Marquise de
Chaponay, on horseback. There were handsome carved chests and china
vases on the landing, which opened on a splendid long gallery, very
high and light--bedrooms on one side, on the other big windows (ten or
twelve, I should think) looking over the park and gardens. She took me
to a large, comfortable room, bright wood fire blazing, and a pretty
little dressing-room opening out of it, furnished in a gay,
old-fashioned pattern of chintz. She said breakfast would be ready in
ten minutes--supposed I could find my way down, and left me to my own

I found the family assembled in the drawing-room; four women: Mme. de
Courval and her daughter, the Marquise de Chaponay, a tall handsome
woman, and two other ladies of a certain age; I did not catch their
names, but they looked like all the old ladies one always sees in a
country house in France. I should think they were cousins or habituées
of the château, as they each had their embroidery frame and one a
little dog. I am haunted by the embroidery frames--I am sure I shall
end my days in a black cap, bending over a frame making portières or a

We breakfasted in a large square dining-room running straight through
the house, windows on each side. The room was all in wood
panelling--light gray--the sun streaming in through the windows. Mme.
de Courval put W. on her right, me on her other side. We had an
excellent breakfast, which we appreciated after our early start. There
was handsome old silver on the table and sideboard, which is a rare
thing in France, as almost all the silver was melted during the
Revolution. Both Mme. de Courval and her daughter were very easy and
animated. The Marquise de Chaponay told me she had known W. for years,
that in the old days before he became such a busy man and so engrossed
in politics he used to read Alfred de Musset to her, in her atelier,
while she painted. She supposed he read now to me--which he certainly
never did--as he always told me he hated reading aloud. They talked
politics, of course, but their opinions were the classic Faubourg St.
Germain opinions: "A Republic totally unfitted for France and the
French"--"none of the gentlemen in France really Republican at heart"
(with evidently a few exceptions)--W.'s English blood and education
having, of course, influenced him.

As soon as breakfast was over one of the windows on the side of the
moat was opened and we all gave bread to the carp, handed to us by the
butler--small square pieces of bread in a straw basket. It was funny
to see the fish appear as soon as the window was opened--some of them
were enormous and very old. It seems they live to a great age; a
guardian of the Palace at Fontainebleau always shows one to tourists,
who is supposed to have been fed by the Emperor Napoleon. Those of
Pinon knew all about it, lifting their brown heads out of the water
and never missing their piece of bread.

We went back to the drawing-room for coffee, passing through the
billiard room, where there are some good pictures. A fine life-size
portrait of General Moreau (father of Mme. de Courval) in uniform, by
Gerard--near it a trophy of four flags--Austrian, Saxon, Bavarian, and
Hungarian--taken by the General; over the trophy three or four "lames
d'honneur" (presentation swords) with name and inscription. There are
also some pretty women's portraits in pastel--very delicate colours in
old-fashioned oval frames--quite charming.

The drawing-room was a very handsome room also panelled in light gray
carved wood; the furniture rather heavy and massive, curtains and
coverings of thick, bright flowered velvet, but it looked suitable in
that high old-fashioned room--light modern furniture would have been
out of place.

As soon as we had finished our coffee we went for a walk--not the two
old ladies, who settled down at once to their embroidery frames; one
of them showed me her work--really quite beautiful--a church ornament
of some kind, a painted Madonna on a ground of white satin; she was
covering the whole ground with heavy gold embroidery, so thick it
looked like mosaic.

The park is splendid, a real domain, all the paths and alleys
beautifully kept and every description of tree--M. de Courval was
always trying experiments with foreign trees and shrubs and apparently
most successfully. I think the park would have been charming in its
natural state, as there was a pretty little river running through the
grounds and some tangles of bushes and rocks that looked quite
wild--it might have been in the middle of the forest but everything
had been done to assist nature. There were a "pièce d'eau," cascades,
little bridges thrown over the river in picturesque spots, and on the
highest point a tower (donjon), which was most effective, looked quite
the old feudal towers of which so few remain now. They were used as
watch towers, as a sentinel posted on the top could see a great
distance over the plains and give warning of the approach of the
enemy. As the day was fine--no mist--we had a beautiful view from the
top, seeing plainly the great round tower of Coucy, the finest ruin in
France--the others made out quite well the towers of the Laon
Cathedral, but those I couldn't distinguish, seeing merely a dark spot
on the horizon which might have been a passing cloud.

Coming back we crossed the "Allée des Soupirs," which has its legend
like so many others in this country: It was called the "Allée des
Soupirs" on account of the tragedy that took place there. The owner of
the château at that time--a Comte de Lamothe--discovered his wife on
too intimate terms with his great friend and her cousin; they fought
in the Allée, and the Comte de Lamothe was killed by his friend. The
widow tried to brave it out and lived on for some time at the château;
but she was accursed and an evil spell on the place--everything went
wrong and the château finally burnt down. The place was then sold to
the de Courval family.

At the end of an hour the Marquise had had enough; I should not think
she was much of a walker; she was struggling along in high-heeled
shoes and proposed that she and I should return to the house and she
would show me her atelier. W. and Mme. de Courval continued their tour
of inspection which was to finish at the Home Farm, where she wanted
to show him some small Breton cows which had just arrived. The atelier
was a charming room; panelled like all the others in a light grey
wood. One hardly saw the walls, for they were covered with pictures,
engravings and a profusion of mirrors in gilt oval frames. It was
evidently a favourite haunt of the Marquise's: books, papers and
painting materials scattered about; the piano open and quantities of
music on the music-stand; miniatures, snuff-boxes and little
old-fashioned bibelots on all the tables, and an embroidery frame, of
course, in one of the windows, near it a basket filled with bright
coloured silks. The miniatures were, almost all, portraits of de
Courvals of every age and in every possible costume: shepherdesses,
court ladies of the time of Louis XV, La Belle Ferronnière with the
jewel on her forehead, men in armour with fine, strongly marked faces;
they must have been a handsome race. It is a pity there is no son to
carry on the name. One daughter-in-law had no children; the other one,
born an American, Mary Ray of New York, had only one daughter, the
present Princesse de Poix, to whom Pinon now belongs.

We played a little; four hands--the classics, of course. All French
women of that generation who played at all were brought up on strictly
classical music. She had a pretty, delicate, old-fashioned touch; her
playing reminded me of Madame A.'s.

When it was too dark to see any more we sat by the fire and talked
till the others came in. She asked a great deal about my new life in
Paris--feared I would find it stiff and dull after the easy happy
family life I had been accustomed to. I said it was very different, of
course, but there was much that was interesting, only I did not know
the people well enough yet to appreciate the stories they were always
telling about each other, also that I had made several "gaffes" quite
innocently. I told her one which amused her very much, though she
could not imagine how I ever could have said it. It was the first year
of my marriage; we were dining in an Orleanist house, almost all the
company Royalists and intimate friends of the Orléans Princes, and
three or four moderate, _very_ moderate Republicans like us. It was
the 20th of January and the women were all talking about a ball they
were going to the next night, 21st of January (anniversary of the
death of Louis XVI). They supposed they must wear mourning--such a
bore. Still, on account of the Comtesse de Paris and the Orléans
family generally, they thought they must do it--upon which I asked,
really very much astonished: "On account of the Orléans family? but
did not the Duc d'Orléans vote the King's execution?" There was an
awful silence and then M. Leon Say, one of the cleverest and most
delightful men of his time, remarked, with a twinkle in his eye: "Ma
foi; je crois que Mme. Waddington a raison." There was a sort of
nervous laugh and the conversation was changed. W. was much annoyed
with me, "a foreigner so recently married, throwing down the gauntlet
in that way." I assured him I had no purpose of any kind--I merely
said what I thought, which is evidently unwise.

Mme. de Chaponay said she was afraid I would find it very difficult
sometimes. French people--in society at least--were so excited against
the Republic, anti-religious feeling, etc. "It must be very painful
for you." "I don't think so; you see I am American, Republican and a
Protestant; my point of view must be very different from that of a
Frenchwoman and a Catholic." She was very charming, however;
intelligent, cultivated, speaking beautiful French with a pretty
carefully trained voice--English just as well; we spoke the two
languages going from one to the other without knowing why. I was quite
sorry when we were summoned to tea. The room looked so pretty in the
twilight, the light from the fire danced all over the pictures and
gilt frames of the mirrors, leaving the corners quite in shadow. The
curtains were not drawn and we saw the darkness creeping up over the
lawn; quite at the edge of the wood the band of white mist was rising,
which we love to see in our part of the country, as it always means a
fine day for the morrow.

We had a cheery tea. W. and Mme. de Courval had made a long "tournée,"
and W. quite approved of all the changes and new acquisitions she had
made, particularly the little Breton cows. We left rather hurriedly as
we had just time to catch our train.

Our last glimpse of the château as we looked back from the turn in the
avenue was charming; there were lights in almost all the windows,
which were reflected in the moat; the moon was rising over the woods
at the back, and every tower and cornice of the enormous pile stood
out sharply in the cold clear light.

       *       *       *       *       *

We didn't move often once we were settled in the château for the
autumn. It was very difficult to get W. away from his books and coins
and his woods; but occasionally a shooting party tempted him. We went
sometimes, about the Toussaint when the leaves were nearly fallen, to
stay with friends who had a fine château and estate about three hours
by rail from Paris, in the midst of the great plains of the Aube. The
first time we went, soon after my marriage, I was rather doubtful as
to how I should like it. I had never stayed in a French country house
and imagined it would be very stiff and formal; however, the
invitation was for three days--two days of shooting and one of
rest--and I thought that I could get through without being too

We arrived about 4.30 for tea; the journey from Paris was through just
the same uninteresting country one always sees when leaving by the
Gare de l'Est. I think it is the ugliest sortie of all Paris. As we
got near the château the Seine appeared, winding in and out of the
meadows in very leisurely fashion. We just saw the house from the
train, standing rather low. The station is at the park gates--in fact,
the railway and the canal run through the property. Two carriages were
waiting (we were not the only guests), and a covered cart for the
maids and baggage. A short drive through a fine avenue of big trees
skirting broad lawns brought us to the house, which looked very
imposing with its long façade and rows of lighted windows. We drove
through arcades covered with ivy into a very large court-yard, the
château stables and communs taking three sides. There was a pièce
d'eau at one end, a colombier at the other. There was no perron or
stately entrance; in one corner a covered porch, rather like what one
sees in England, shut in with glass door and windows and filled with
plants, a good many chrysanthemums, which made a great mass of colour.
The hall doors were wide open as the carriage drove up, Monsieur A.
and his wife waiting for us just inside, Mme. A. his mother, the
mistress of the château, at the door of the salon. We went into a
large, high hall, well lighted, a bright fire burning, plenty of
servants. It looked most cheerful and comfortable on a dark November
afternoon. We left our wraps in the hall, and went straight into the
drawing-room. I have been there so often since that I hardly remember
my first impression. It was a corner room, high ceiling, big windows,
and fine tapestries on the walls; some of them with a pink ground
(very unusual), and much envied and admired by all art collectors.
Mme. A. told me she found them all rolled up in a bundle in the garret
when she married. A tea-table was standing before the sofa, and
various people working and having their tea. We were not a large
party--Comte and Comtesse de B. (she a daughter of the house) and
three or four men, deputies and senators, all political. They counted
eight guns. We sat there about half an hour, then there was a general
move, and young Mme. A. showed us our rooms, which were most
comfortable, fires burning, lamps lighted. She told us dinner was at
7.30; the first bell would ring at seven. I was the only lady besides
the family. I told my maid to ask some of the others what their
mistresses were going to wear. She said ordinary evening dress, with
natural flowers in their hair, and that I would receive a small
bouquet, which I did, only as I never wear anything in my hair, I put
them on my corsage, which did just as well.

The dinner was pleasant, the dining-room a fine, large hall (had been
stables) with a fireplace at each end, and big windows giving on the
court-yard. It was so large that the dinner table (we were fourteen)
seemed lost in space. The talk was almost exclusively political and
amusing enough. All the men were, or had been, deputies, and every
possible question was discussed. Mme. A. was charming, very
intelligent, and animated, having lived all her life with clever
people, and having taken part in all the changes that France has gone
through in the last fifty years. She had been a widow for about two
years when I first stayed there, and it was pretty to see her children
with her. Her two sons, one married, the other a young officer, were
so respectful and fond of their mother, and her daughter perfectly
devoted to her.

The men all went off to smoke after coffee, and we women were left to
ourselves for quite a long time. The three ladies all had
work--knitting or crochet--and were making little garments,
brassieres, and petticoats for all the village children. They were
quite surprised that I had nothing and said they would teach me to
crochet. The evening was not very long after the men came back. Some
remained in the billiard-room, which opens out of the salon, and
played cochonnet, a favourite French game. We heard violent
discussions as to the placing of the balls, and some one asked for a
yard measure, to be quite sure the count was correct. Before we broke
up M. A. announced the programme for the next day. Breakfast for all
the men at eight o'clock in the dining-room, and an immediate start
for the woods; luncheon at the Pavilion d'Hiver at twelve in the
woods, the ladies invited to join the shooters and follow one or two
battues afterward. It was a clear, cold night, and there seemed every
prospect of a beautiful day for the battues.

The next morning was lovely. I went to my maid's room, just across the
corridor to see the motors start. All our rooms looked out on the
park, and on the other side of the corridor was a succession of small
rooms giving on the court-yard, which were always kept for the maids
and valets of the guests. It was an excellent arrangement, for in some
of the big châteaux, where the servants were at the top of the house,
or far off in another wing, communications were difficult. There were
two carriages and a sort of tapissière following with guns, servants,
and cartridges. I had a message from Mme. A. asking if I had slept
well, and sending me the paper; and a visit from Comtesse de B. who, I
think, was rather anxious about my garments. She had told me the night
before that the ploughed fields were something awful, and hoped I had
brought short skirts and thick boots. I think the sight of my short
Scotch homespun skirt and high boots reassured her. We started about
11.30 in an open carriage with plenty of furs and wraps. It wasn't
really very cold--just a nice nip in the air, and no wind. We drove
straight into the woods from the park. There is a beautiful green
alley which faces one just going out of the gate, but it was too steep
to mount in a carriage. The woods are very extensive, the roads not
too bad--considering the season, extremely well kept. Every now and
then through an opening in the trees we had a pretty view over the
plains. As we got near the pavilion we heard shots not very far
off--evidently the shooters were getting hungry and coming our way. It
was a pretty rustic scene as we arrived. The pavilion, a log house,
standing in a clearing, alleys branching off in every direction, a
horse and cart which had brought the provisions from the château tied
to one of the trees. It was shut in on three sides, wide open in
front, a bright fire burning and a most appetizing table spread. Just
outside another big fire was burning, the cook waiting for the first
sportsman to appear to begin his classic dishes, omelette au lard and
ragoât de mouton. I was rather hungry and asked for a piece of the
pain de ménage they had for the traqueurs (beaters). I like the brown
country bread so much better than the little rolls and crisp loaves
most people ask for in France. Besides our own breakfast there was an
enormous pot on the fire with what looked like an excellent
substantial soup for the men. In a few minutes the party arrived;
first the shooters, each man carrying his gun; then the game cart,
which looked very well garnished, an army of beaters bringing up the
rear. They made quite a picturesque group, all dressed in white. There
have been so many accidents in some of the big shoots, people
imprudently firing at something moving in the bushes, which proved to
be a man and not a roebuck, that M. A. dresses all his men in white.
The gentlemen were very cheerful, said they had had capital sport, and
were quite ready for their breakfast. We didn't linger very long at
table, as the days were shortening fast, and we wanted to follow some
of the battues. The beaters had their breakfast while we were having
ours--were all seated on the ground around a big kettle of soup, with
huge hunks of brown bread on their tin plates.

We started off with the shooters. Some walking, some driving, and had
one pretty battue of rabbits; after that two of pheasants, which were
most amusing. There were plenty of birds, and they came rocketing over
our heads in fine style. I found that Comtesse de B. was quite right
about the necessity for short skirts and thick boots. We stood on the
edge of a ploughed field, which we had to cross afterward on our way
home, and I didn't think it was possible to have such cakes of mud as
we had on our boots. We scraped off some with sticks, but our boots
were so heavy with what remained that the walk home was tiring.

Mme. A. was standing at the hall-door when we arrived, and requested
us not to come into the hall, but to go in by the lingerie entrance
and up the back stairs, so I fancy we hadn't got much dirt off. I had
a nice rest until 4.30, when I went down to the salon for tea. We had
all changed our outdoor garments and got into rather smart day dresses
(none of those ladies wore tea-gowns). The men appeared about five;
some of them came into the salon notwithstanding their muddy boots,
and then came the livre de chasse and the recapitulation of the game,
which is always most amusing. Everyman counted more pieces than his
beater had found.

The dinner and evening were pleasant, the guests changing a little.
Two of the original party went off before dinner, two others arrived,
one of them a Cabinet minister (Finances). He was very clever and
defended himself well when his policy was freely criticised. While we
women were alone after dinner, Mme. A. showed me how to make crochet
petticoats. She gave me a crochet-needle and some wool and had
wonderful patience, for it seemed a most arduous undertaking to me,
and all my rows were always crooked; however, I did learn, and have
made hundreds since. All the children in our village pull up their
little frocks and show me their crochet petticoats whenever we meet
them. They are delighted to have them, for those we make are of good
wool (not laine de bienfaisance, which is stiff and coarse), and last
much longer than those one buys.

The second day was quite different. There was no shooting. We were
left to our own devices until twelve o'clock breakfast. W. and I went
for a short stroll in the park. We met M. A., who took us over the
farm, all so well ordered and prosperous. After breakfast we had about
an hour of salon before starting for the regular tournée de
propriétaire through park and gardens. The three ladies--Mme. A., her
daughter, and daughter-in-law--had beautiful work. Mme. A. was making
portières for her daughter's room, a most elaborate pattern, reeds and
high plants, a very large piece of work; the other two had also very
complicated work--one a table-cover, velvet, heavily embroidered, the
other a church ornament (almost all the Frenchwomen of a certain monde
turn their wedding dresses, usually of white satin, into a priest's
vêtement). The Catholic priests have all sorts of vestments which they
wear on different occasions; purple in Lent, red on any martyr's fête,
white for all the fêtes of the Virgin. Some of the churches are very
rich with chasubles and altar-cloths trimmed with fine old lace, which
have been given to them. It looks funny sometimes to see a very
ordinary country curé, a farmer's son, with a heavy peasant face,
wearing one of those delicate white-satin chasubles.

Before starting to join the shooters at breakfast Mme. A. took me all
over the house. It is really a beautiful establishment, very large,
and most comfortable. Quantities of pictures and engravings, and
beautiful Empire furniture. There is quite a large chapel at the end
of the corridor on the ground-floor, where they have mass every
Sunday. The young couple have a charming installation, really a small
house, in one of the wings--bedrooms, dressing-rooms, boudoir, cabinet
de travail, and a separate entrance--so that M. A. can receive any one
who comes to see him on business without having them pass through the
château. Mme. A. has her rooms on the ground-floor at the other end of
the house. Her sitting-room with glass door opens into a winter garden
filled with plants, which gives on the park; her bedroom is on the
other side, looking on the court-yard; a large library next it, light
and space everywhere, plenty of servants, everything admirably

The evening mail goes out at 7.30, and every evening at seven exactly
the letter-carrier came down the corridor knocking at all the doors
and asking for letters. He had stamps, too, at least _French_ stamps.
I could never get a foreign stamp (twenty-five centimes)--had to put
one of fifteen and two of five when I had a foreign letter. I don't
really think there were any in the country. I don't believe they had a
foreign correspondent of any description. It was a thoroughly French
establishment of the best kind.

We walked about the small park and gardens in the afternoon. The
gardens are enormous; one can drive through them. Mme. A. drove in her
pony carriage. They still had some lovely late roses which filled me
with envy--ours were quite finished.

The next day was not quite so fine, gray and misty, but a good
shooting day, no wind. We joined the gentlemen for lunch in another
pavilion farther away and rather more open than the one of the other
day. However, we were warm enough with our coats on, a good fire
burning, and hot bricks for our feet. The battues (aux échelles) that
day were quite a new experience for me. I had never seen anything like
it. The shooters were placed in a semicircle, not very far apart. Each
man was provided with a high double ladder. The men stood on the top
(the women seated themselves on the rungs of the ladders and hung on
as well as they could). I went the first time with W., and he made me
so many recommendations that I was quite nervous. I mustn't sit too
high up or I would gêner him, as he was obliged to shoot down for the
rabbits; and I mustn't sit too near the ground, or I might get a shot
in the ankles from one of the other men. I can't say it was an
absolute pleasure. The seat (if seat it could be called) was anything
but comfortable, and the detonation of the gun just over my head was
decidedly trying; still it was a novelty, and if the other women could
stand it I could.

For the second battue I went with Comte de B. That was rather worse,
for he shot much oftener than W., and I was quite distracted with the
noise of the gun. We were nearer the other shooters, too, and I
fancied their aim was very near my ankles. It was a pretty view from
the top of the ladder. I climbed up when the battues were over. We
looked over the park and through the trees, quite bare and stripped of
their leaves, on the great plains, with hardly a break of wood or
hills, stretching away to the horizon. The ground was thickly carpeted
with red and yellow leaves, little columns of smoke rising at
intervals where people were burning weeds or rotten wood in the
fields; and just enough purple mist to poetize everything. B. is a
very careful shot. I was with him the first day at a rabbit battue
where we were placed rather near each other, and every man was asked
to keep quite to his own place and to shoot straight before him. After
one or two shots B. stepped back and gave his gun to his servant. I
asked what was the matter. He showed me the man next, evidently not
used to shooting, who was walking up and down, shooting in every
direction, and as fast as he could cram the cartridges into his gun.
So he stepped back into the alley and waited until the battue was

The party was much smaller that night at dinner. Every one went away
but W. and me. The talk was most interesting--all about the war, the
first days of the Assemblée Nationale at Bordeaux, and the famous
visit of the Comte de Chambord to Versailles, when the Maréchal de
MacMahon, President of the Republic, refused to see him. I told them
of my first evening visit to Mme. Thiers, the year I was married. Mme.
Thiers lived in a big gloomy house in the Place St. Georges, and
received every evening. M. Thiers, who was a great worker all his life
and a very early riser, always took a nap at the end of the day. The
ladies (Mlle. Dosne, a sister of Mme. Thiers, lived with them)
unfortunately had not that good habit. They took their little sleep
after dinner. We arrived there (it was a long way from us, we lived
near the Arc de l'Étoile) one evening a little before ten. There were
already four or five men, no ladies. We were shown into a large
drawing-room, M. Thiers standing with his back to the fireplace, the
centre of a group of black coats. He was very amiable, said I would
find Mme. Thiers in a small salon just at the end of the big one; told
W. to join their group, he had something to say to him, and I passed
on. I did find Mme. Thiers and Mlle. Dosne in the small salon at the
other end, both asleep, each in an arm-chair. I was really
embarrassed. They didn't hear me coming in, and were sleeping quite
happily and comfortably. I didn't like to go back to the other salon,
where there were only men, so I sat down on a sofa and looked about
me, and tried to feel as if it was quite a natural occurrence to be
invited to come in the evening and to find my hostess asleep. After a
few minutes I heard the swish of a satin dress coming down the big
salon and a lady appeared, very handsome and well dressed, whom I
didn't know at all. She evidently was accustomed to the state of
things; she looked about her smilingly, then came up to me, called me
by name, and introduced herself, Mme. A. the wife of an admiral whom I
often met afterward. She told me not to mind, there wasn't the
slightest intention of rudeness, that both ladies would wake up in a
few minutes quite unconscious of having really slept. We talked about
ten minutes, not lowering our voices particularly. Suddenly Mme.
Thiers opened her eyes, was wide awake at once--how quietly we must
have come in; she had only just closed her eyes for a moment, the
lights tired her, etc. Mlle. Dosne said the same thing, and then we
went on talking easily enough. Several more ladies came in, but only
two or three men. _They_ all remained in the farther room talking, or
rather listening, to M. Thiers. He was already a very old man, and
when he began to talk no one interrupted him; it was almost a
monologue. I went back several times to the Place St. Georges, but
took good care to go later, so that the ladies should have their nap
over. One of the young diplomat's wives had the same experience,
rather worse, for when the ladies woke up they didn't know her. She
was very shy, spent a wretched ten minutes before they woke, and was
too nervous to name herself. She was half crying when her husband came
to the rescue.

We left the next morning early, as W. had people coming to him in the
afternoon. I enjoyed my visit thoroughly, and told them afterward of
my misgivings and doubts as to how I should get along with strangers
for two or three days. I think they had rather the same feeling. They
were very old friends of my husband's, and though they received me
charmingly from the first, it brought a foreign and new element into
their circle.

       *       *       *       *       *

Another interesting old château, most picturesque, with towers, moat,
and drawbridge, is Lorrey-le-Bocage, belonging to the Comte de S. It
stands very well, in a broad moat--the water clear and rippling and
finishing in a pretty little stream that runs off through the meadows.
The place is beautifully kept--gardens, lawns, courts, in perfect
order. It has no particular _historic_ interest for the family, having
been bought by the parents of the present owner.

I was there, the first time, in very hot weather, the 14th of July
(the French National fête commemorating the fall of the Bastille). I
went for a stroll in the park the morning after I arrived, but I
collapsed under a big tree at once--hadn't the energy to move.
Everything looked so hot and not a breath of air anywhere. The moat
looked glazed--so absolutely still under the bright summer sun--big
flies were buzzing and skimming over the surface, and the flowers and
plants were drooping in their beds.

Inside it was delightful, the walls so thick that neither heat nor
cold could penetrate. The house is charming. The big drawing-room--where
we always sat--was a large, bright room with windows on each side and
lovely views over park and gardens; and all sorts of family portraits
and souvenirs dating from Louis XV to the Comte de Paris. The men of
the family--all ardent Royalists--have been, for generations,
distinguished as soldiers and statesmen.

One of them--a son of the famous Maréchal de S, brought up in the last
years of the reign of Louis XV--carried his youthful ardour and dreams
of liberty to America and took part, as did so many of the young
French nobles, in the great struggle for independence that was being
fought out on the other side of the Atlantic. Soon after his return to
France he was named Ambassador to Russia to the court of Catherine II,
and was supposed to have been very much in the good graces of that
very pleasure-loving sovereign. He accompanied her on her famous trip
to the Crimea, arranged for her by her minister and favourite,
Potemkin--when fairy villages, with happy populations singing and
dancing, sprang up in the road wherever she passed as if by
magic--quite dispelling her ideas of the poverty and oppression of
some of her subjects.

Among the portraits there is a miniature of the Empress Catherine. It
is a fine, strongly marked face. She wears a high fur cap--a sort of
military pelisse with lace jabots and diamond star. The son of the
Maréchal, also soldier and courtier, was aide-de-camp to Napoleon and
made almost all his campaigns with him. His description of the Russian
campaign and the retreat of the "Grande Armée" from Moscow is one of
the most graphic and interesting that has ever been written of those
awful days. His memoirs are quite charming. Childhood and early youth
passed in the country in all the agonies of the Terror--simply and
severely brought up in an atmosphere absolutely hostile to any
national or popular movement.

The young student, dreaming of a future and regeneration for France,
arrived one day in Paris, where an unwonted stir denoted that
something was going on. He heard and saw the young Republican General
Bonaparte addressing some regiments. He marked the proud bearing of
the men--even the recruits--and in an explosion of patriotism his
vocation was decided. He enlisted at once in the Republican ranks. It
was a terrible decision to confide to his family, and particularly to
his grandfather, the old Maréchal de S. a glorious veteran of many
campaigns and an ardent Royalist. His father approved, although it was
a terrible falling off from all the lessons and examples of his
family--but it was a difficult confession to make to the Maréchal. I
will give the scene in his own words (translated, of course--the
original is in French).

"I was obliged to return to Châlenoy to relate my 'coup-de-tête' to my
grandfather. I arrived early in the morning and approached his bed in
the most humble attitude. He said to me, very sharply, 'You have been
unfaithful to all the traditions of your ancestors--but it is done.
Remember that you have enlisted voluntarily in the Republican army;
serve it frankly and loyally, for your decision is made, you cannot
now go back on it.' Then seeing the tears running down my cheeks (he
too was moved), and taking my hand with the only one he had left, he
drew me to him and pressed me on his heart. Then giving me seventy
louis (it was all he had), he added, 'This will help you to complete
your equipment--go, and at least carry bravely and faithfully, under
the flag it has pleased you to choose, the name you bear and the
honour of your family.'"

The present Count, too, has played a part in politics in these
troublous times, when decisions were almost as hard to take, and one
was torn between the desire to do something for one's country and the
difficulty of detaching oneself from old traditions and memories.
People whose grandfathers have died on the scaffold can hardly be
expected to be enthusiastic about the Republic and the Marseillaise.
Yet if the nation wants the Republic, and every election accentuates
that opinion, it is very difficult to fight against the current.

When I first married, just after the Franco-Prussian War, there seemed
some chance of the moderate men, on both sides, joining in a common
effort against the radical movement, putting themselves at the head of
it and in that way directing and controlling--but very soon the
different sections in parliament defined themselves so sharply that
any sort of compromise was difficult. My host was named deputy,
immediately after the war, and though by instinct, training, and
association a Royalist and a personal friend of the Orléans family, he
was one of a small group of liberal-patriotic deputies who might have
supported loyally a moderate Republic had the other Republicans not
made their position untenable. There was an instinctive, unreasonable
distrust of any of the old families whose names and antecedents had
kept them apart from any republican movement.

We had pleasant afternoons in the big drawing-room. In the morning we
did what we liked. The Maîtresse de Maison never appeared in the
drawing-room till the twelve o'clock breakfast. I used to see her from
my window, coming and going--sometimes walking, when she was making
the round of the farm and garden, oftener in her little pony carriage
and occasionally in the automobile of her niece, who was staying in
the house. She occupied herself very much with all the village--old
people and children, everybody. After breakfast we used to sit
sometimes in the drawing-room--the two ladies working, the Comte de S.
reading his paper and telling us anything interesting he found there.
Both ladies had most artistic work--Mme. de S. a church ornament,
white satin ground with raised flowers and garlands, stretched, of
course, on the large embroidery frames they all use. Her niece,
Duchesse d'E., had quite another "installation" in one of the
windows--a table with all sorts of delicate little instruments. She
was book-binding--doing quite lovely things in imitation of the old
French binding. It was a work that required most delicate
manipulation, but she seemed to do it quite easily. I was rather
humiliated with my little knit petticoats--very hot work it is on a
blazing July day.



La Grange was looking its loveliest when I arrived the other day. It
was a bright, beautiful October afternoon and the first glimpse of the
château was most picturesque. It was all the more striking as the run
down from Paris was so ugly and commonplace. The suburbs of Paris
around the Gare de l'Est--the Plain of St. Denis and all the small
villages, with kitchen gardens, rows of green vegetables under glass
"cloches"--are anything but interesting. It was not until we got near
Gréty and alongside of Ferrières, the big Rothschild place, that we
seemed to be in the country. The broad green alleys of the park, with
the trees just changing a little, were quite charming. Our station was
Verneuil l'Etang, a quiet little country station dumped down in the
middle of the fields, and a drive of about fifty minutes brought us to
the château. The country is not at all pretty, always the same
thing--great cultivated fields stretching off on each side of the
road--every now and then a little wood or clump of trees. One does not
see the château from the high road.

We turned off sharply to the left and at the end of a long avenue saw
the house, half hidden by the trees. The entrance through a low
archway, flanked on each side by high round towers covered with ivy,
is most picturesque. The château is built around three sides of a
square court-yard, the other side looking straight over broad green
meadows ending in a background of wood. A moat runs almost all around
the house--a border of salvias making a belt of colour which is most
effective. We found the family--Marquis and Marquise de Lasteyrie and
their two sons--waiting at the hall door. The Marquis, great-grandson
of the General Marquis de Lafayette, is a type of the well-born,
courteous French gentleman (one of the most attractive types, to my
mind, that one can meet anywhere). There is something in perfectly
well-bred French people of a certain class that one never sees in any
other nationality. Such refinement and charm of manner--a great desire
to put every one at their ease and to please the person with whom they
are thrown for the moment. That, after all, is all one cares for in
the casual acquaintances one makes in society. From friends, of
course, we want something deeper and more lasting, but life is too
short to find out the depth and sterling qualities of the world in

The Marquise is an Englishwoman, a cousin of her husband, their common
ancestor being the Duke of Leinster; clever, cultivated, hospitable,
and very large minded, which has helped her very much in her married
life in France during our troubled epoch, when religious questions and
political discussions do so much to embitter personal relations. The
two sons are young and gay, doing the honours of their home simply and
with no pose of any kind. There were two English couples staying in
the house.

We had tea in the dining-room downstairs--a large room with panels and
chimney-piece of dark carved wood. Two portraits of men in armour
stand out well from the dark background. There is such a wealth of
pictures, engravings, and tapestries all over the house that one
cannot take it all in at first. The two drawing-rooms on the first
floor are large and comfortable, running straight through the house;
the end room in the tower--a round room with windows on all sides--quite
charming. The contrast between the modern--English--comforts (low,
wide chairs, writing-table, rugs, cushions, and centre-table covered
with books in all languages, a very rare thing in a French château,
picture papers, photographs, etc.) and the straight-backed,
spindle-legged old furniture and stiff, old-fashioned ladies and
gentlemen, looking down from their heavy gold frames, is very
attractive. There is none of the formality and look of not being lived
in which one sees in so many French salons, and yet it is not at all
modern. One never loses for a moment the feeling of being in an old

It was so pretty looking out of my bedroom window this morning. It was
a bright, beautiful autumn day, the grass still quite green. Some of
the trees changing a little, the yellow leaves quite golden in the
sun. There are many American trees in the park--a splendid Virginia
Creeper, and a Gloire de Dijon rose-bush, still full of bloom, were
sprawling over the old gray walls. Animals of all kinds were walking
about the court-yard; some swans and a lame duck, which had wandered
up from the moat, standing on the edge and looking about with much
interest; a lively little fox-terrier, making frantic dashes at
nothing; one of the sons starting for a shoot with gaiters and
game-bag, and his gun over his shoulder, his dog at his heels
expectant and eager. Some of the guests were strolling about and from
almost all the windows--wide open to let in the warm morning
sun--there came cheerful greetings.

I went for a walk around the house before breakfast. There are five
large round towers covered with ivy--the walls extraordinarily
thick--the narrow little slits for shooting with arrows and the round
holes for cannon balls tell their own story of rough feudal life. On
one side of the castle there is a large hole in the wall, made by a
cannon ball sent by Turenne. He was passing one day and asked to whom
the château belonged. On hearing that the owner was the Maréchal de la
Feuillade, one of his political adversaries, he sent a cannon ball as
a souvenir of his passage, and the gap has never been filled up.

I went all over the house later with the Marquis de Lasteyrie. Of
course, what interested me most was Lafayette's private
apartments--bedroom and library--the latter left precisely as it was
during Lafayette's lifetime; bookcases filled with his books in their
old-fashioned bindings, running straight around the walls and a
collection of manuscripts and autograph letters from kings and queens
of France and most of the celebrities of the days of the Valois--among
them several letters from Catherine de Medicis, Henry IV, and la Reine
Margot. One curious one from Queen Margot in which she explains to the
Vicomte de Chabot (ancestor of my host) that she was very much
preoccupied in looking out for a wife for him with a fine dot, but
that it was always difficult to find a rich heiress for a poor

There are also autographs of more modern days, among which is a letter
from an English prince to the Vicomte de Chabot (grandfather of the
Marquis de Lasteyrie), saying that he loses no time in telling him of
the birth of a very fine little girl. He certainly never realized when
he wrote that letter what would be the future of his baby daughter.
The writer was the Duke of Kent--the fine little girl, Queen Victoria.

In a deep window-seat in one corner, overlooking the farm, is the
writing-table of Lafayette. In the drawers are preserved several books
of accounts, many of the items being in his handwriting. Also his
leather arm-chair (which was exhibited at the Chicago World's Fair),
and a horn or speaking-trumpet through which he gave his orders to the
farm hands from the window. The library opened into his bedroom--now
the boudoir of the Marquise de Lasteyrie--with a fine view over moat
and meadow. In this room there have been many changes, but the old
doors of carved oak still remain.

There are many interesting family portraits--one of the father of
Lafayette, killed at Minden, leaving his young son to be brought up by
two aunts, whose portraits are on either side of the fireplace.

It is curious to see the two portraits of the same epoch so absolutely
unlike. Mme. de Chavagnac, an old lady, very simply dressed, almost
Puritanical, with a white muslin fichu over her plain black silk
dress--the other, Mademoiselle de Lafayette, in the court dress of the
time of Louis XVI, pearls and roses in the high, powdered coiffure and
a bunch of orange flowers on one shoulder, to indicate that she was
not a married woman.

There were pictures and souvenirs of all the Orléans family--the
Lasteyries having been always faithful and devoted friends of those
unfortunate princes; a charming engraving of the Comte de Paris, a
noble looking boy in all the bravery of white satin and feathers--the
original picture is in the possession of the Duc de Chartres. It was
sad to realize when one looked at the little prince with his bright
eyes and proud bearing, that the end of his life would be so
melancholy--exile and death in a foreign land.

There are all sorts of interesting pictures and engravings scattered
about the house in the numberless corridors and anterooms. One most
interesting and very rare print represents a review at Potsdam held by
Frederick the Great. Two conspicuous figures are the young Marquis de
Lafayette in powdered wig and black silk ribbon, and the English
General Lord Cornwallis, destined to meet as adversaries many years
later during the American Revolution. There are many family pictures
on the great stone staircase, both French and English, the Marquis de
Lasteyrie, on the maternal side, being a great-grandson of the Duke of
Leinster. Some of the English portraits are very charming, quite
different from the French pictures.

In the centre panel is the well-known portrait of Lafayette by Ary
Scheffer--not in uniform--no trace of the dashing young soldier; a
middle-aged man in a long fur coat, hat and stick in his hand;
looking, as one can imagine he did when he settled down, after his
brilliant and eventful career, to the simple patriarchal life at La
Grange, surrounded by devoted children, grandchildren, and friends.

We were interrupted long before I had seen all the interesting part of
the house and its contents, as it was time to start for La Houssaye,
where all the party were expected at tea. We went off in three
carriages--quite like a "noce," as the Marquise remarked. The drive
(about an hour) was not particularly interesting. We were in the heart
of the great agricultural district and drove through kilometres of
planted fields--no hills and few woods.

We came rather suddenly on the château, which stands low, like all
châteaux surrounded by moats, turning directly from the little village
into the park, which is beautifully laid out with fine old trees. We
had glimpses of a lovely garden as we drove up to the house, and of
two old towers--one round and one square. The château stands well--a
very broad moat, almost a river, running straight around the house and
gardens. We crossed the drawbridge, which always gives me a sensation
of old feudal times and recalls the days of my childhood when I used
to sit under the sickle-pear tree at "Cherry Lawn" reading Scott's
"Marmion"--"Up drawbridge, grooms--what, Warder, ho! Let the
portcullis fall!" wondering what a "portcullis" was, and if I should
ever see one or even a château-fort.

La Houssaye is an old castle built in the eleventh century, but has
passed through many vicissitudes. All that remains of the original
building are the towers and the foundations. It was restored in the
sixteenth century and has since remained unchanged. During the French
Revolution the family of the actual proprietor installed themselves in
one of the towers and lived there many long weary weeks, never daring
to venture out, show any lights, or give any sign of life--in daily
terror of being discovered and dragged to Paris before the dreaded
revolutionary tribunals. Later it was given, by Napoleon, to the
Marshall Augereau, who died there. It has since been in the family of
the present proprietor, Monsieur de Mimont, who married an American,
Miss Forbes.

The rain, which had been threatening all the afternoon, came down in
torrents just as we crossed the drawbridge, much to the disappointment
of our host and hostess, who were anxious to show us their garden,
which is famous in all the countryside. However, in spite of the
driving rain, we caught glimpses through the windows of splendid
parterres of salvias and cannas, making great spots of colour in a
beautiful bit of smooth green lawn. In old days the château was much
bigger, stretching out to the towers. Each successive proprietor has
diminished the buildings, and the present château, at the back, stands
some little distance from the moat, the vacant space being now
transformed into their beautiful gardens.

We only saw the ground-floor of the house, which is most comfortable.
We left our wraps in the large square hall and passed through one
drawing-room and a small library into another, which is charming--a
corner room looking on the gardens--the walls, panels of light gray
wood, prettily carved with wreaths and flowers.

We had tea in the dining-room on the other side of the hall; a curious
room, rather, with red brick walls and two old narrow doors of carved
oak. The tea--most abundant--was very acceptable after our long damp
drive. One dish was rather a surprise--American waffles--not often to
be found, I imagine, in an old French feudal castle, but Madame de
Mimont's nationality explained it. I was very sorry not to see the
park which is beautifully laid out, but the rain was falling straight
down as hard as it could--almost making waves in the moat, and a
curtain of mist cut off the end of the park.

Our dinner and evening at La Grange were delightful. The dining-room
is particularly charming at night. The flowers on the table, this
evening, were red, and the lights from the handsome silver candélabres
made a brilliant spot of warmth and colour against the dark panelled
walls--just shining on the armour of the fine Ormond portraits hanging
on each side of the fireplace. The talk was always easy and pleasant.

One of the guests, the naval attache to the British Embassy to France,
had been "en mission" at Madrid at the time of the Spanish Royal
marriage. The balcony of the English Embassy overlooked the spot where
the bomb was thrown. In eighty-five seconds from the time they heard
the detonation (in the first second they thought it was a salute), the
Ambassador, followed by his suite, was at the door of the royal
carriage. He said the young sovereigns looked very pale but calm; the
king, perhaps, more agitated than the Queen.

We finished the evening with music and dumb crambo--that particularly
English form of amusement, which I have never seen well done except by
English people. It always fills me with astonishment whenever I see
it. It is so at variance with the English character. They are usually
so very shy and self-conscious. One would never believe they could
throw themselves into this really childish game with so much entrain.
The performance is simple enough. Some of the company retire from the
drawing-room; those who remain choose a word--chair, hat, cat, etc.
This evening the word was "mat." We told the two actors--Mrs. P. and
the son of the house--they must act (nothing spoken) a word which
rhymed with _hat_. I will say they found it very quickly, but some of
their attempts were funny enough--really very cleverly done. It amused
me perfectly, though I must frankly confess I should have been
incapable of either acting or guessing the word. The only one I made
out was fat, when they both came in so stuffed out with pillows and
bolsters as to be almost unrecognizable. The two dogs--a beautiful
little fox-terrier and a fine collie--went nearly mad, barking and
yapping every time the couple appeared--their excitement reaching a
climax when the actors came in and stretched themselves out on each
side of the door, having finally divined the word mat. The dogs made
such frantic dashes at them that M. and Mme. de Lasteyrie had to carry
them off bodily.

The next morning I went for a walk with M. de Lasteyrie. We strolled
up and down the "Allée des Soupirs," so called in remembrance of one
of the early chatelaines who trailed her mourning robes and widow's
veil over the fallen leaves, bemoaning her solitude until a favoured
suitor appeared on the scene and carried her away to his distant
home--but the Allée still retains its name.

The park is small, but very well laid out. Many of the memoirs of the
time speak of walks and talks with Lafayette under the beautiful

During the last years of Lafayette's life, La Grange was a
cosmopolitan centre. Distinguished people from all countries came
there, anxious to see the great champion of liberty; among them many
Americans, who always found a gracious, cordial welcome; one silent
guest--a most curious episode which I will give in the words of the
Marquis de Lasteyrie:

"One American, however, in Lafayette's own time, came on a lonely
pilgrimage to La Grange; he was greeted with respect, but of that
greeting he took no heed. He was a silent guest, nor has he left any
record of his impressions; in fact, he was dead before starting on his
journey. He arrived quite simply one fine autumn morning, in his
coffin, accompanied by a letter which said: 'William Summerville,
having the greatest admiration for the General Lafayette, begs he will
bury him in his land at La Grange.' This, being against the law, could
not be done, but Lafayette bought the whole of the small cemetery of
the neighbouring village and laid the traveller from over the sea to
rest in his ground indeed, though not under one of the many American
trees at La Grange itself, of which the enthusiastic wanderer had
probably dreamed."

They told me many interesting things, too long to write, about the
last years of Lafayette's life spent principally at La Grange. A
charming account of that time and the lavish hospitality of the
château is given by Lady Morgan, in her well-known "Diary." Some of
her descriptions are most amusing; the arrival, for instance, of Lady
Holland at the home of the Republican General. "She is always preceded
by a fourgon from London containing her own favourite meubles of
Holland House--her bed, fauteuil, carpet, etc., and divers other
articles too numerous to mention, but which enter into her Ladyship's
superfluchoses très nécessaires, at least to a grande dame one of her
female attendants and a groom of the chambers precede her to make all
ready for her reception. However, her original manner, though it
startles the French ladies, amuses them."

Her Irish ladyship (Lady Morgan) seems to have been troubled by no
shyness in asking questions of the General. She writes: "Is it true,
General, I asked, that you once went to a bal masque at the opera with
the Queen of France--Marie Antoinette--leaning on your arm, the King
knowing nothing of the matter till her return? I am afraid so, said
he. She was so indiscreet, and I can conscientiously add--so innocent.
However, the Comte d'Artois was also of the party, and we were all
young, enterprising, and pleasure-loving. But what is most absurd in
the adventure was that, when I pointed out Mme. du Barry to her--whose
figure and favourite domino I knew--the Queen expressed the most
anxious desire to hear her speak and bade me intriguer her. She
answered me flippantly, and I am sure if I had offered her my other
arm, the Queen would not have objected to it. Such was the esprit
d'aventure at that time in the court of Versailles and in the head of
the haughty daughter of Austria."

I remember quite well the parents of my host. The Marquise, a type of
the grande dame, with blue eyes and snow white hair survived her
husband many years. During the war of 1870 they, like many other
châtelains, had Prussian soldiers in their house. The following
characteristic anecdote of the Marquise was told to me by her son:

"There are still to be seen at La Grange two little cannon which
had been given to Lafayette by the Garde Nationale. One December
morning, in 1870, when the house was full of German troops, Madame de
Lasteyrie was awakened by a noise under the archway, and looking out
of her window saw, in the dim light, the two guns being carried off by
the German soldiers. In an instant, her bare feet hastily thrust into
slippers, her hair like a long white mane hanging down her back, with
a dressing gown thrown over her shoulders, she started in pursuit. She
followed them about three miles and at last came upon them at the top
of a hill. After much persuasion and after spiking the guns (in no
case could they have done great damage), the soldiers were induced to
give them up, and departed, leaving her alone in the frost and
starlight waiting for the morning. She sat bare-footed (for she had
lost her shoes) but triumphant on her small cannon in the deep snow
till the day came and the farm people stole out and dragged them
all--the old lady and the two guns--back to the house."

I was sorry to go--the old château, with its walls and towers soft and
grey in the sunlight, seems to belong absolutely to another century. I
felt as if I had been transported a hundred years back and had lived a
little of the simple patriarchal life that made such a beautiful end
to Lafayette's long and eventful career. The present owner keeps up
the traditions of his grandfather. I was thinking last night what a
cosmopolitan group we were. Three or four different nationalities,
speaking alternately the two languages--French and English--many of
the party having travelled all over the world and all interested in
politics, literature, and music; in a different way, perhaps, but
quite as much as the "belles dames et beaux esprits" of a hundred
years ago. Everything changes as time goes on (I don't know if I would
say that _everything_ improves), but I carried away the same
impression of a warm welcome and large hospitable life that every one
speaks of who saw La Grange during Lafayette's life.



We had a very cold winter one year--a great deal of snow, which froze
as it fell and lay a long time on the hard ground. We woke up one
morning in a perfectly still white world. It had snowed heavily during
the night, and the house was surrounded by a glistening white carpet
which stretched away to the "sapinette" at the top of the lawn without
a speck or flaw. There was no trace of path or road, or little low
shrubs, and even the branches of the big lime-trees were heavy with
snow. It was a bright, beautiful day--blue sky and a not too pale
winter sun. Not a vehicle of any kind had ventured out. In the middle
of the road were footprints deep in the snow where evidently the
keepers and some workmen had passed. Nothing and no one had arrived
from outside, neither postman, butcher, nor baker. The chef was in a
wild state; but I assured him we could get on with eggs and game, of
which there was always a provision for one day at any rate.

About eleven, Pauline and I started out. We thought we would go as far
as the lodge and see what was going on on the highroad. We put on
thick boots, gaiters and very short skirts, and had imagined we could
walk in the footsteps of the keepers; but, of course, we couldn't take
their long stride, and we floundered about in the snow. In some places
where it had drifted we went in over our knees.

There was nothing visible on the road--not a creature, absolute
stillness; a line of footprints in the middle where some labourer had
passed, and the long stretch of white fields, broken by lines of black
poplars running straight away to the forest.

While we were standing at the gate talking to old Antoine, who was all
muffled up with a woollen comforter tied over his cap, and socks over
his shoes, we saw a small moving object in the distance. As it came
nearer we made out it was the postman, also so muffled up as to be
hardly recognizable. He too had woollen socks over his shoes, and said
the going was something awful, the "Montagne de Marolles" a sheet of
ice; he had fallen twice, in spite of his socks and pointed stick. He
said neither butcher nor baker would come--that no horse could get up
the hill.

We sent him into the kitchen to thaw, and have his breakfast. That was
one also of the traditions of the château; the postman always
breakfasted. On Sundays, when there was no second delivery, he brought
his little girl and an accordion, and remained all the afternoon. He
often got a lift back to La Ferté, when the carriage was going in to
the station, or the chef to market in the donkey-cart. _Now_ many of
the postmen have bicycles.

We had a curious feeling of being quite cut off from the outside
world. The children, Francis and Alice, were having a fine time in the
stable-yard, where the men had made them two snow figures--man and
woman (giants)--and they were pelting them with snowballs and tumbling
headlong into the heaps of snow on each side of the gate, where a
passage had been cleared for the horses.

We thought it would be a good opportunity to do a little coasting and
inaugurate a sled we had had made with great difficulty the year
before. It was rather a long operation. The wheelwright at Marolles
had never seen anything of the kind, had no idea _what_ we wanted.
Fortunately Francis had a little sled which one of his cousins had
sent him from America; and with that as a model, and many
explanations, the wheelwright and the blacksmith produced really a
very creditable sled--quite large, a seat for two in front, and one
behind for the person who steered. Only when the sled was finished the
snow had disappeared! It rarely lasts long in France.

We had the sled brought out--the runners needed a little
repairing--and the next day made our first attempt. There was not much
danger of meeting anything. A sort of passage had been cleared, and
gravel sprinkled in the middle of the road; but very few vehicles had
passed, and the snow was as hard as ice. All the establishment
"assisted" at the first trial, and the stable-boy accompanied us with
the donkey who was to pull the sled up the hill.

We had some little difficulty in starting, Pauline and I in front,
Francis behind; but as soon as we got fairly on the slope the thing
flew. Pauline was frightened to death, screaming, and wanted to get
off; but I held her tight, and we landed in the ditch near the foot of
the hill. Half-way down (the hill is steep but straight, one sees a
great distance) Francis saw the diligence arriving; and as he was not
quite sure of his steering-gear, he thought it was better to take no
risks, and steered us straight into the ditch as hard as we could go.
The sled upset; we all rolled off into the deep soft snow, lost our
hats, and emerged quite white from head to foot.

The diligence had stopped at the foot of the hill. There were only two
men in it besides the driver, the old Père Jacques, who was
dumbfounded when he recognized Madame Waddington. It seems they
couldn't think what had happened. As they got to the foot of the hill,
they saw a good many people at the gate of the château; then suddenly
something detached itself from the group and rushed wildly down the
hill. They thought it was an accident, some part of a carriage broken,
and before they had time to collect their senses the whole thing
collapsed in the ditch. The poor old man was quite disturbed--couldn't
think we were not hurt, and begged us to get into the diligence and
not trust ourselves again to such a dangerous vehicle. However we
reassured him, and all walked up the hill together, the donkey pulling
the sled, which was tied to him with a very primitive arrangement of
ropes, the sled constantly swinging round and hitting him on the legs,
which he naturally resented and kicked viciously.

We amused ourselves very much as long as the snow lasted, about ten
days--coasted often, and made excursions to the neighbouring villages
with the sled and the donkey. We wanted to skate, but that was not
easy to arrange, as the ponds and "tourbières" near us were very deep,
and I was afraid to venture with the children. I told Hubert, the
coachman, who knew the country well, to see what he could find. He
said there was a very good pond in the park of the château of La
Ferté, and he was sure the proprietor, an old man who lived there by
himself, would be quite pleased to let us come there.

The old gentleman was most amiable--begged we would come as often as
we liked--merely making one condition, that we should have a man on
the bank (the pond was only about a foot deep) with a rope in case of
accidents.... We went there nearly every afternoon, and made quite a
comfortable "installation" on the bank: a fire, rugs, chairs and a
very good little goûter, the grocer's daughter bringing us hot wine
and biscuits from the town.

It was a perfect sight for La Ferté. The whole town came to look at
us, and the carters stopped their teams on the road to look on--one
day particularly when one of our cousins, Maurice de Bunsen,[3] was
staying with us. He skated beautifully, doing all sorts of figures,
and his double eights and initials astounded the simple country folk.
For some time after they spoke of "l'Anglais" who did such wonderful
things on the ice.

  [3] To-day British Embassador at Madrid.

They were bad days for the poor. We used to meet all the children
coming back from school when we went home. The poor little things
toiled up the steep, slippery hill, with often a cold wind that must
have gone through the thin worn-out jackets and shawls they had for
all covering, carrying their satchels and remnants of dinner. Those
that came from a distance always brought their dinner with them,
generally a good hunk of bread and a piece of chocolate, the poorer
ones bread alone, very often only a stale hard crust that couldn't
have been very nourishing. They were a very poor lot at our little
village, St. Quentin, and we did all we could in the way of warm
stockings and garments; but the pale, pinched faces rather haunted me,
and Henrietta and I thought we would try and arrange with the school
mistress who was wife of one of the keepers, to give them a hot plate
of soup every day during the winter months. W., who knew his people
well, rather discouraged us--said they all had a certain sort of
pride, notwithstanding their poverty, and might perhaps be offended at
being treated like tramps or beggars; but we could try if we liked.

We got a big kettle at La Ferté, and the good Mère Cécile of the Asile
lent us the tin bowls, also telling us we wouldn't be able to carry
out our plan. She had tried at the Asile, but it didn't go; the
children didn't care about the soup--liked the bread and chocolate
better. It was really a curious experience. I am still astonished when
I think of it. The soup was made at the head-keeper's cottage,
standing on the edge of the woods.

We went over the first day about eleven o'clock--a cold, clear day, a
biting wind blowing down the valley. The children were all assembled,
waiting impatiently for us to come. The soup was smoking in a big pot
hung high over the fire. We, of course, tasted it, borrowing two bowls
from the children and asking Madame Labbey to cut us two pieces of
bread, the children all giggling and rather shy. The soup was very
good, and we were quite pleased to think that the poor little things
should have something warm in their stomachs. The first depressing
remark was made by our own coachman on the way home. His little
daughter was living at the keeper's. I said to him, "I did not see
Celine with the other children." "Oh, no, Madame; she wasn't there. We
pay for the food at Labbey's; she doesn't need charity."

The next day, equally cold, about half the children came (there were
only twenty-seven in the school); the third, five or six, rather
shamefaced; the fourth, not one; and at the end of the week the
keeper's wife begged us to stop the distribution; all the parents were
hurt at the idea of their children receiving _public_ charity from
Madame Waddington. She had thought some of the very old people of the
village might like what was left; but no one came except some tramps
and rough-looking men who had heard there was food to be had, and they
made her very nervous prowling around the house when she was alone,
her husband away all day in the woods.

W. was amused--not at all surprised--said he was quite sure we
shouldn't succeed, but it was just as well to make our own experience.
We took our bowls back sadly to the Asile, where the good sister shook
her head, saying, "Madame verra comme c'est difficile de faire du bien
dans ce paysci; on ne pense qu'à s'amuser." And yet we saw the
miserable little crusts of hard bread, and some of the boys in linen
jackets over their skin, no shirt, and looking as if they had never
had a good square meal in their lives.

I had one other curious experience, and after that I gave up trying
anything that was a novelty or that they hadn't seen all their lives.
The French peasant is really conservative; and if left to himself,
with no cheap political papers or socialist orators haranguing in the
cafes on the eternal topic of the rich and the poor, he would be quite
content to go on leading the life he and his fathers have always
led--would never want to destroy or change anything.

I was staying one year with Lady Derby at Knowsley, in Christmas week,
and I was present one afternoon when she was making her annual
distribution of clothes to the village children. I was much pleased
with some ulsters and some red cloaks she had for the girls. They were
so pleased, too--broad smiles on their faces when they were called up
and the cloaks put on their shoulders. They looked so warm and
comfortable, when the little band trudged home across the snow. I had
instantly visions of my school children attired in these cloaks,
climbing our steep hills in the dark winter days.

I had a long consultation with Lady Margaret Cecil, Lady Derby's
daughter--a perfect saint, who spent all her life helping other
people--and she gave me the catalogue of "Price Jones," a well-known
Welsh shop whose "spécialité" was all sorts of clothes for country
people, schools, workmen's families, etc. I ordered a large collection
of red cloaks, ulsters, and flannel shirts at a very reasonable price,
and they promised to send them in the late summer, so that we should
find them when we went back to France.

We found two large cases when we got home, and were quite pleased at
all the nice warm cloaks we had in store for the winter.

As soon as the first real cold days began, about the end of November,
the women used to appear at the château asking for warm clothes for
the children. The first one to come was the wife of the "garde de
Borny"--a slight, pale woman, the mother of nine small children
(several of them were members of the school at St. Quentin, who had
declined our soup, and I rather had _their_ little pinched, bloodless
faces in my mind when I first thought about it). She had three with
her--a baby in her arms, a boy and a girl of six and seven, both
bare-legged, the boy in an old worn-out jersey pulled over his chest,
the girl in a ragged blue and white apron, a knitted shawl over her
head and shoulders. The baby had a cloak. I don't believe there was
much on underneath, and the mother was literally a bundle of rags, her
skirt so patched one could hardly make out the original colour, and a
wonderful cloak all frayed at the ends and with holes in every
direction. However, they were all clean.

The baby and the boy were soon provided for. The boy was much pleased
with his flannel shirt. Then we produced the red cloak for the girl.
The woman's face fell: "Oh, no, Madame, I couldn't take that; my
little girl couldn't wear it." I, astounded: "But you don't see what
it is--a good, thick cloak that will cover her all up and keep her
warm." "Oh, no, Madame, she couldn't wear that; all the people on the
road would laugh at her! Cela ne se porte pas dans notre pays" (that
is not worn in our country).

I explained that I had several, and that she would see all the other
little girls with the same cloaks; but I got only the same answer,
adding that Madame would see--no child would wear such a cloak. I was
much disgusted--thought the woman was capricious; but she was
perfectly right; not a single mother, and Heaven knows they were poor
enough, would take a red cloak, and they all had to be transformed
into red flannel petticoats. Every woman made me the same answer:
"Every one on the road would laugh at them."

I was not much luckier with the ulsters. What I had ordered for big
girls of nine and ten would just go on girls of six and seven. Either
French children are much stouter than English, or they wear thicker
things underneath. Here again there was work to do--all the sleeves
were much too long; my maids had to alter and shorten them, which they
did with rather a bad grace.

A most interesting operation that very cold year was taking ice out of
the big pond at the foot of the hill. The ice was several inches
thick, and beautifully clear in the middle of the pond; toward the
edges the reeds and long grass had all got frozen into it, and it was
rather difficult to get the big blocks out. We had one of the farm
carts with a pair of strong horses, and three or four men with axes
and a long pointed stick. It was so solid that we all stood on the
pond while the men were cutting their first square hole in the middle.
It was funny to see the fish swimming about under the ice.

The whole village of course looked on, and the children were much
excited, and wanted to come and slide on the ice, but I got nervous as
the hole got bigger and the ice at the edges thinner, so we all
adjourned to the road and watched operations from there.

There were plenty of fish in the pond, and once a year it was
thoroughly drained and cleaned--the water drawn off, and the bottom of
the pond, which got choked up with mud and weeds, cleared out. They
made a fine haul of fish on those occasions from the small pools that
were left on each side while the cleaning was going on.

Our ice-house was a godsend to all the countryside. Whenever any one
was ill, and ice was wanted, they always came to the château. Our good
old doctor was not at all in the movement as regarded fresh air and
cold water, but ice he often wanted. He was a rough, kindly old man,
quite the type of the country practitioner--a type that is also
disappearing, like everything else. Everybody knew his cabriolet (with
a box at the back where he kept his medicine chest and instruments),
with a strong brown horse that trotted all day and all night up and
down the steep hills in all weathers. A very small boy was always with
him to hold the horse while he made his visits.

Our doctor was very kind to the poor, and never refused to go out at
night. It was funny to see him arrive on a cold day, enveloped in so
many cloaks and woollen comforters that it took him some time to get
out of his wraps. He had a gruff voice, and heavy black overhanging
eyebrows which frightened people at first, but they soon found out
what a kind heart there was beneath such a rough exterior, and the
children loved him. He had always a box of liquorice lozenges in his
waistcoat pocket which he distributed freely to the small ones.

The country doctors about us now are a very different type--much
younger men, many foreigners. There are two Russians and a Greek in
some of the small villages near us. I believe they are very good. I
met the Greek one day at the keeper's cottage. He was looking after
the keeper's wife, who was very ill. It seemed funny to see a Greek,
with one of those long Greek names ending in "popolo," in a poor
little French village almost lost in the woods; but he made a very
good impression on me--was very quiet, didn't give too much medicine
(apothecaries' bills are always such a terror to the poor), and spoke
kindly to the woman. He comes still in a cabriolet, but his Russian
colleague has an automobile--indeed so have now many of the young
French doctors. I think there is a little rivalry between the
Frenchmen and the foreigners, but the latter certainly make their way.

What is very serious now is the open warfare between the curé and the
school-master. When I first married, the school-masters and mistresses
took their children to church, always sat with them and kept them in
order. The school-mistress sometimes played the organ. Now they not
only don't go to church themselves, but they try to prevent the
children from going. The result is that half the children don't go
either to the church or to the catechism.

I had a really annoying instance of this state of things one year when
we wanted to make a Christmas tree and distribution of warm clothes at
Montigny, a lonely little village not far from us. We talked it over
with the curé and the school-master. They gave us the names and ages
of all the children, and were both much pleased to have a fête in
their quiet little corner. I didn't suggest a service in the church,
as I thought that might perhaps be a difficulty for the school-master.

Two days before the fête I had a visit from the curé of Montigny, who
looked embarrassed and awkward; had evidently something on his mind,
and finally blurted out that he was very sorry he couldn't be present
at the Christmas tree, as he was obliged to go to Reims that day. I,
much surprised and decidedly put out: "You are going to Reims the one
day in the year when we come and make a fête in your village? It is
most extraordinary, and surprises me extremely. The date has been
fixed for weeks, and I hold very much to your being there."

He still persisted, looking very miserable and uncomfortable, and
finally said he was going away on purpose, so as not to be at the
school-house. He liked the school-master very much, got on with him
perfectly; he was intelligent and taught the children very well; but
all school-masters who had anything to do with the Church or the curé
were "malnotés." The mayor of Montigny was a violent radical; and
surely if he heard that the curé was present at our fête in the
school-house, the school-master would be dismissed the next day. The
man was over thirty, with wife and children; it would be difficult for
him to find any other employment; and he himself would regret him, as
his successor might be much worse and fill the children's heads with
impossible ideas.

I was really very much vexed, and told him I would talk it over with
my son and see what we could do. The poor little curé was much
disappointed, but begged me not to insist upon his presence.

A little later the school-master arrived, also very much embarrassed,
saying practically the same thing--that he liked the curé very much.
He never talked politics, nor interfered in any way with his
parishioners. Whenever any one was ill or in trouble, he was always
the first person to come forward and nurse and help. But he saw him
very little. If I held to the curé being present at the Christmas
tree, of course he could say nothing; but he would certainly be
dismissed the next day. He was married--had nothing but his salary; it
would be a terrible blow to him.

I was very much perplexed, particularly as the time was short and I
couldn't get hold of the mayor. So we called a family council--Henrietta
and Francis were both at home--and decided that we must let our fête
take place without the curé. The school-master was very grateful, and
said he would take my letter to the post-office. I had to write to the
curé to tell him what we had decided, and that he might go to Reims.

One of our great amusements in the winter was the hunting. We knew
very well the two gentlemen, Comtes de B. and de L., who hunted the
Villers-Cotterets forest, and often rode with them. It was beautiful
riding country--stretches of grass alongside the hard highroad, where
one could have a capital canter, the only difficulty being the
quantity of broad, low ditches made for the water to run off. Once the
horses knew them they took them quite easily in their stride, but they
were a little awkward to manage at first. The riding was very
different from the Roman Campagna, which was my only experience. There
was very little to jump; long straight alleys, with sometimes a big
tree across the road, occasionally ditches; nothing like the very
stiff fences and stone walls one meets in the Campagna, or the
slippery bits of earth (tufa) where the horses used to slide sometimes
in the most uncomfortable way. One could gallop for miles in the
Villers-Cotterets forest with a loose rein. It was disagreeable
sometimes when we left the broad alleys and took little paths in and
out of the trees. When the wood was thick and the branches low, I was
always afraid one would knock me off the saddle or come into my eyes.
Some of the meets were most picturesque; sometimes in the heart of the
forest at a great carrefour, alleys stretching off in every direction,
hemmed in by long straight lines of winter trees on each side, with a
thick, high undergrowth of ferns, and a broad-leaved plant I didn't
know, which remained green almost all winter. It was pretty to see the
people arriving from all sides, in every description of
vehicle--breaks, dog-carts, victorias, farmer's gigs--grooms with led
horses, hunting men in green or red coats, making warm bits of colour
in the rather severe landscape. The pack of hounds, white with brown
spots, big, powerful animals, gave the valets de chiens plenty to do.
Apparently they knew all their names, as we heard frequent admonitions
to Comtesse, Diane (a very favourite name for hunting dogs in France),
La Grise, etc., to keep quiet, and not make little excursions into the
woods. As the words were usually accompanied by a cut of the whip, the
dogs understood quite well, and remained a compact mass on the side of
the road. There was the usual following of boys, tramps, and stray
bûcherons (woodmen), and when the day was fine, and the meet not too
far, a few people would come from the neighbouring villages, or one or
two carriages from the livery stables of Villers-Cotterets, filled
with strangers who had been attracted by the show and the prospect of
spending an afternoon in the forest. A favourite meet was at the
pretty little village of Ivors, standing just on the edge of the
forest not far from us. It consisted of one long street, a church, and
a château at one end. The château had been a fine one, but was fast
going to ruin, uninhabited, paint and plaster falling off, roof and
walls remaining, and showing splendid proportions, but had an air of
decay and neglect that was sad to see in such a fine place. The owner
never lived there; had several other places. An agent came down
occasionally, and looked after the farm and woods. There was a fine
double court-yard and enormous "communs," a large field only
separating the kitchen garden from the forest. A high wall in fairly
good condition surrounded the garden and small park. On a hunting
morning the little place quite waked up, and it was pretty to see the
dogs and horses grouped under the walls of the old château, and the
hunting men in their bright coats moving about among the peasants and
carters in their dark-blue smocks.

The start was very pretty--one rode straight into the forest, the
riders spreading in all directions. The field was never very
large--about thirty--I the only lady. The cor de chasse was a
delightful novelty to me, and I soon learned all the calls--the
débouché, the vue and the hallali, when the poor beast is at the last
gasp. The first time I saw the stag taken I was quite miserable. We
had had a splendid gallop. I was piloted by one of the old stagers,
who knew every inch of the forest, and who promised I should be in at
the death, if I would follow him, "mais il faut me suivre partout,
avez-vous peur?" As he was very stout, and not particularly well
mounted, and I had a capital English mare, I was quite sure I could
pass wherever he could. He took me through all sorts of queer little
paths, the branches sometimes so low that it didn't seem possible to
get through, but we managed it. Sometimes we lost sight of the hunt
entirely, but he always guided himself by the sound of the horns,
which one hears at a great distance. Once a stag bounded across the
road just in front of us, making our horses shy violently, but he said
that was not the one we were after. I wondered how he knew, but didn't
ask any questions. Once or twice we stopped in the thick of the woods,
having apparently lost ourselves entirely, not hearing a sound, and
then in the distance there would be the faint sound of the horn,
enough for him to distinguish the vue, which meant that they were
still running. Suddenly, very near, we heard the great burst of the
hallali--horses, dogs, riders, all joining in; and pushing through the
brushwood we found ourselves on the edge of a big pond, almost a lake.
The stag, a fine one, was swimming about, nearly finished, his eyes
starting out of his head, and his breast shaken with great sobs. The
whole pack of dogs was swimming after him, the hunters all swarming
down to the edge, sounding their horns, and the master of hounds
following in a small flatboat, waiting to give the coup de grâce with
his carbine when the poor beast should attempt to get up the bank. It
was a sickening sight. I couldn't stand it, and retreated (we had all
dismounted) back into the woods, much to the surprise and disgust of
my companion, who was very proud and pleased at having brought me in
at the death among the very first. Of course, one gets hardened, and a
stag at bay is a fine sight. In the forest they usually make their
last stand against a big tree, and sell their lives dearly. The dogs
sometimes get an ugly blow. I was really very glad always when the
stag got away. I had all the pleasure and excitement of the hunt
without having my feelings lacerated at the end of the day. The sound
of the horns and the unwonted stir in the country had brought out all
the neighbourhood, and the inhabitants of the little village,
including the curé and the châtelaine of the small château near, soon
appeared upon the scene. The curé, a nice, kindly faced old man, with
white hair and florid complexion, was much interested in all the
details of the hunt. It seems the stag is often taken in these ponds,
les étangs de la ramée, which are quite a feature in the country, and
one of the sights of the Villers-Cotterets forest, where strangers are
always brought. They are very picturesque; the trees slope down to the
edge of the ponds, and when the bright autumn foliage is reflected in
the water the effect is quite charming.

Mme. de M., the châtelaine, was the type of the grande dame Française,
fine, clear-cut features, black eyes, and perfectly white hair, very
well arranged. She was no longer young, but walked with a quick, light
step, a cane in her hand. She, too, was much interested, such an
influx of people, horses, dogs, and carriages (for in some mysterious
way the various vehicles always seemed to find their way to the
finish). It was an event in the quiet little village. She admired my
mare very much, which instantly won my affections. She asked us to
come back with her to the château--it was only about a quarter of an
hour's walk--to have some refreshment after our long day; so I held up
my skirt as well as I could, and we walked along together. The château
is not very large, standing close to the road in a small park, really
more of a manor house than a château. She took us into the
drawing-room just as stiff and bare as all the others I had seen, a
polished parquet floor, straight-backed, hard chairs against the wall
(the old lady herself looked as if she had sat up straight on a hard
chair all her life). In the middle of the room was an enormous
palm-tree going straight up to the ceiling. She said it had been there
for years and always remained when she went to Paris in the spring.
She was a widow, lived alone in the château with the old servants. Her
daughter and grandchildren came occasionally to stay with her. She
gave us wine and cake, and was most agreeable. I saw her often
afterward, both in the country and Paris, and loved to hear her talk.
She had remained absolutely ancien régime, couldn't understand modern
life and ways at all. One of the things that shocked her beyond words
was to see her granddaughters and their young friends playing tennis
with young men in flannels. In her day a young man in bras de chemise
would have been ashamed to appear before ladies in such attire. We
didn't stay very long that day, as we were far from home, and the
afternoon was shortening fast. The retraite was sometimes long when we
had miles of hard road before us, until we arrived at the farm or
village where the carriage was waiting. When we could walk our horses
it was bearable, but sometimes when they broke into a jog-trot, which
nothing apparently could make them change, it was very fatiguing after
a long day.

Sometimes, when we had people staying with us, we followed the hunt in
the carriage. We put one of the keepers of the Villers-Cotterets
forest on the box, and it was wonderful how much we could see. The
meet was always amusing, but when once the hunt had moved off, and the
last stragglers disappeared in the forest, it didn't seem as if there
was any possibility of catching them; and sometimes we would drive in
a perfectly opposite direction, but the old keeper knew all about the
stags and their haunts when they would break out and cross the road,
and when they would double and go back into the woods. We were waiting
one day in the heart of the forest, at one of the carrefours, miles
away apparently from everything, and an absolute stillness around us.
Suddenly there came a rush and noise of galloping horses, baying
hounds and horns, and a flash of red and green coats dashed by,
disappearing in an instant in the thick woods before we had time to
realize what it was. It was over in a moment--seemed an hallucination.
We saw and heard nothing more, and the same intense stillness
surrounded us. We had the same sight, the stag taken in the water,
some years later, when we were alone at the château. Mme. A. was dead,
and her husband had gone to Paris to live. We were sitting in the
gallery one day after breakfast, finishing our coffee, and making
plans for the day, when suddenly we saw red spots and moving figures
in the distance, on the hills opposite, across the canal. Before we
had time to get glasses and see what was happening, the children came
rushing in to say the hunt was in the woods opposite, the horns
sounding the hallali, and the stag probably in the canal. With the
glasses we made out the riders quite distinctly, and soon heard faint
echoes of the horn. We all made a rush for hats and coats, and started
off to the canal. We had to go down a steep, slippery path which was
always muddy in all weathers, and across a rather rickety narrow
plank, also very slippery. As we got nearer, we heard the horns very
well, and the dogs yelping. By the time we got to the bridge, which was
open to let a barge go through, everything had disappeared--horses,
dogs, followers, and not a sound of horn or hoof. One solitary
horseman only, who had evidently lost the hunt and didn't know which
way to go. We lingered a little, much disgusted, but still hoping we
might see something, when suddenly we heard again distant sounds of
horns and yelping dogs. The man on the other side waved his cap
wildly, pointed to the woods, and started off full gallop. In a few
minutes the hill slope was alive with hunters coming up from all
sides. We were nearly mad with impatience, but couldn't swim across
the canal, the bridge was still open, the barge lumbering through. The
children with their Fräulein and some of the party crossed a little
lower down on a crazy little plank, which I certainly shouldn't have
dared attempt, and at last the bargeman took pity on us and put us
across. We raced along the bank as fast as we could, but the canal
turns a great deal, and a bend prevented our seeing the stag, with the
hounds at his heels, galloping down the slope and finally jumping
into the canal, just where it widens out and makes a sort of lake
between our hamlet of Bourneville and Marolles. It was a pretty sight,
all the hunters dismounted, walking along the edge of the water,
sounding their hallali, the entire population of Bourneville and
Marolles and all our household arriving in hot haste, and groups of
led horses and valets de chiens in their green coats half-way up the
slope. The stag, a very fine one, was swimming round and round, every
now and then making an effort to get up the bank, and falling back
heavily--he was nearly done, half his body sinking in the water, and
his great eyes looking around to see if any one would help him. I went
back to the barge (they had stayed, too, to see the sight), and the
woman, a nice, clean, motherly body with two babies clinging to her,
was much excited over the cruelty of the thing.

[Illustration: I suggested that the whole chasse should adjourn to the

"Madame trouve que c'est bien de tourmenter une pauvre bête qui ne
fait de mal à personne, pour s'amuser?" Madame found that rather
difficult to answer, and turned the conversation to her life on the
barge. The minute little cabin looked clean, with several pots of red
geraniums, clean muslin curtains, a canary bird, and a nondescript
sort of dog, who, she told me, was very useful, taking care of the
children and keeping them from falling into the water when she was
obliged to leave them on the boat while she went on shore to get her
provisions. I asked: "_How_ does he keep them from falling into the
water--does he take hold of their clothes?" "No, I leave them in the
cabin, when I am obliged to go ashore, and he stands at the door and
barks and won't let them come out." While I was talking to her I heard
a shot, and realised that the poor stag had been finished at last. It
was early in the afternoon--three o'clock, and I suggested that the
whole chasse should adjourn to the château for goûter. This they
promptly accepted, and started off to find their horses. Then I had
some misgivings as to what I could give them for goûter. We were a
small party, mostly women and children. W. was away, and I thought
that probably the chef, who was a sportsman as well as a cook, was
shooting (he had hired a small chasse not far from us); I had told him
there was nothing until dinner. I had visions of twenty or thirty
hungry men and an ordinary tea-table, with some thin bread and butter,
a pot of damson jam, and some sables, so I sent off Francis's tutor,
the stable-boy, and the gardener's boy to the château as fast as their
legs could carry them, to find somebody, anybody, to prepare us as
much food as they could, and to sacrifice the dinner at once, to make
sandwiches--tea and chocolate, of course, were easily provided.

We all started back to the house up the steep, muddy path, some of the
men with us leading their horses, some riding round by Marolles to
give orders to the breaks and various carriages to come to the
château. The big gates were open, Hubert there to arrange at once for
the accommodation of so many horses and equipages, and the billiard
and dining-rooms, with great wood-fires, looking most comfortable. The
chasseurs begged not to come into the drawing-room, as they were
covered with mud, so they brushed off what they could in the hall, and
we went at once to the goûter. It was funny to see our quiet
dining-room invaded by such a crowd of men, some red-coated, some
green, all with breeches and high muddy boots. The master of hounds,
M. Menier, proposed to make the curée on the lawn after tea, which I
was delighted to accept. We had an English cousin staying with us who
knew all about hunting in her own country, but had never seen a French
chasse à courre, and she was most keen about it. The goûter was very
creditable. It seems that they had just caught the chef, who had been
attracted by the unusual sounds and bustle on the hillside, and who
had also come down to see the show. He promptly grasped the situation,
hurried back to the house, and produced beef and mayonnaise
sandwiches, and a splendid savarin with whipped cream in the middle
(so we naturally didn't have any dessert--but nobody minded), tea,
chocolate, and whiskey, of course. As soon as it began to get dark we
all adjourned to the lawn. All the carriages, the big breaks with four
horses, various lighter vehicles, grooms and led horses were massed at
the top of the lawn, just where it rises slightly to meet the woods. A
little lower down was Hubert, the huntsman (a cousin of our coachman,
Hubert, who was very pleased to do the honours of his stable-yard),
with one or two valets de chiens, the pack of dogs, and a great whip,
which was very necessary to keep the pack back until he allowed them
to spring upon the carcass of the stag. He managed them beautifully.
Two men held up the stag--the head had already been taken off; it was
a fine one, with broad, high antlers, a dix cors. Twice Hubert led his
pack up, all yelping and their eyes starting out of their heads, and
twice drove them back, but the third time he let them spring on the
carcass. It was an ugly sight, the compact mass of dogs, all snarling
and struggling, noses down and tails up. In a few minutes nothing was
left of the poor beast but bones, and not many of them. Violet had les
honneurs du pied (the hoof of one of the hind legs of the stag), which
is equivalent to the "brush" one gives in fox-hunting. She thanked M.
M., the master of hounds, very prettily and said she would have it
arranged and hang it up in the hall of her English home, in
remembrance of a lovely winter afternoon, and her first experience of
what still remains of the old French vénerie. The horns sounded again
the curée and the depart, and the whole company gradually dispersed,
making quite a cortège as they moved down the avenue, horses and
riders disappearing in the gray mist that was creeping up from the
canal, and the noise of wheels and hoofs dying away in the distance.

[Illustration: Some red-coated, some green, all with breeches and high
muddy boots.]

       *       *       *       *       *

We were pottering about in our woods one day, waiting for Labbez (the
keeper) to come and decide about some trees that must be cut down,
when a most miserable group emerged from one of the side alleys and
slipped by so quickly and quietly that we couldn't speak to them. A
woman past middle age, lame, unclothed really--neither shoes nor
stockings, not even a chemise--two sacks of coarse stuff, one tied
around her waist half covering her bare legs, one over her shoulders;
two children with her, a big overgrown girl of about twelve, equally
without clothing, an old black bodice gaping open over her bare skin,
held together by one button, a short skirt so dirty and torn that one
wondered what kept it on, no shoes nor stockings, black hair falling
straight down over her forehead and eyes; the boy, about six, in a
dirty apron, also over his bare skin. I was horrified, tried to make
them turn and speak to me, but they disappeared under the brushwood as
quickly as they could, "evidently up to no good," said W. In a few
moments the keeper appeared, red and breathless, having been running
after poachers--a woman the worst of the lot. We described the party
we had just seen, and he was wildly excited, wanted to start again in
pursuit, said they were just the ones he was looking for. The woman
belonged to a band of poachers and vagabonds they could not get hold
of. They could trace her progress sometimes by the blood on the grass
where the thorns and sharp stones had torn her feet. It seems they
were quite a band, living anywhere in the woods, in old
charcoal-burners' huts or under the trees, never staying two nights in
the same place. There are women, and children, and babies, who appear
and disappear, in the most extraordinary manner. Many of them have
been condemned, and have had two weeks or a month of prison. One
family is employed by one of the small farmers near, who lets them
live in a tumbledown hut in the midst of his woods, and that is their
centre. We passed by there two or three days later, when we were
riding across the fields, and anything so miserable I never saw; the
house half falling to pieces, no panes of glass, dirty rags stuffed in
the windows, no door at all, bundles of dirty straw inside, a pond of
filthy water at one side of the house, two or three dirty children
playing in it, and inside at the opening, where the door should have
been, the same lame woman in her two sacks. She glowered at us,
standing defiantly at the opening to prevent our going in, in case we
had any such intention. I suppose she had various rabbits and hares
hung up inside she couldn't have accounted for. There was no other
habitation anywhere near; no cart or vehicle of any kind could have
got there. We followed a narrow path, hardly visible in the long
grass, and the horses had to pick their way--one couldn't imagine a
more convenient trysting-place for vagabonds and tramps. It seems
incredible that such things should go on at our doors, so to speak,
but it is very difficult to get at them. Our keepers and M. de M.,
whose property touches ours, have had various members of the gang
arrested, but they always begin again. The promiscuity of living is
something awful, girls and young men squatting and sleeping in the
same room on heaps of dirty rags. There have been some arrests for
infanticide, when a baby's appearance and disappearance was too
flagrant, but the girls don't care. They do their time of prison, come
out quite untamed by prison discipline, and begin again their wild,
free life. One doesn't quite understand the farmer who gives any
shelter to such a bad lot, but I fancy there is a tacit understanding
that his hares and rabbits must be left unmolested.

It is amusing to see the keepers when they suspect poachers are in
their woods. When the leaves are off they can see at a great distance,
and with their keen, trained eyes make out quite well when a moving
object is a hare, or a roebuck, or a person on all fours, creeping
stealthily along. They have powerful glasses, too, which help them
very much. They, too, have their various tricks, like the poachers. As
the gun-barrel is seen at a great distance when the sun strikes it,
they cover it with a green stuff that takes the general tint of the
leaves and the woods, and post themselves, half hidden in the bushes,
near some of the quarries, where the poachers generally come. Then
they give a gun to an under-strapper, telling him to stand in some
prominent part of the woods, _his_ gun well in sight. That, of course,
the poachers see at once, so they make straight for the other side,
and often fall upon the keepers who are lying in wait for them. As a
general rule, they don't make much resistance, as they know the
keepers will shoot--not to kill them, but a shot in the ankle or leg
that will disable them for some time. I had rather a weakness for one
poaching family. The man was young, good-looking, and I don't really
believe a bad lot, but he had been unfortunate, had naturally a high
temper, and couldn't stand being howled at and sworn at when things
didn't go exactly as the patron wanted; consequently he never stayed
in any place, tried to get some other work, but was only fit for the
woods, where he knew every tree and root and the habits and haunts of
all the animals. He had a pretty young wife and two children, who had
also lived in the woods all their lives, and could do nothing else.
The wife came to see me one day to ask for some clothes for herself
and the children, which I gave, of course, and then tried mildly to
speak to her about her husband, who spent half his time in prison, and
was so sullen and scowling when he came out that everybody gave him a
wide berth. The poor thing burst into a passion of tears and
incoherent defence of her husband. Everybody had been so hard with
him. When he had done his best, been up all night looking after the
game, and then was rated and sworn at by his master before every one
because un des Parisiens didn't know what to do with a gun when he had
one in his hand, and couldn't shoot a hare that came and sat down in
front of him, it was impossible not to answer un peu vivement
peut-être, and it was hard to be discharged at once without a chance
of finding anything else, etc., and at last winding up with the
admission that he did take hares and rabbits occasionally; but when
there was nothing to eat in the house and the children were crying
with hunger, what was he to do? Madame would never have known or
missed the rabbits, and after all, le Bon Dieu made them for
everybody. I tried to persuade W. to take him as a workman in the
woods, with the hope of getting back as under-keeper, but he would not
hear of it, said the man was perfectly unruly and violent-tempered,
and would demoralize all the rest. They remained some time in the
country, and the woman came sometimes to see me, but she had grown
hard, evidently thought I could have done something for her husband,
and couldn't understand that as long as he went on snaring game no one
would have anything to do with him--always repeating the same thing,
that a Bon Dieu had made the animals pour tout le monde. Of course it
must be an awful temptation for a man who has starving children at
home, and who knows that he has only to walk a few yards in the woods
to find rabbits in plenty; and one can understand the feeling that le
Bon Dieu provided food for all his children, and didn't mean some to
starve, while others lived on the fat of the land.

It was a long time before I could get accustomed to seeing women work
in the fields (which I had never seen in America). In the cold autumn
days, when they were picking the betterave (a big beet root) that is
used to make sugar in France, it made me quite miserable to see them.
Bending all day over the long rows of beets, which required quite an
effort to pull out of the hard earth, their hands red and chapped,
sometimes a cold wind whistling over the fields that no warm garment
could keep out, and they never had any really warm garment. We met an
old woman one day quite far from any habitation, who was toiling home,
dragging her feet, in wretched, half-worn shoes, over the muddy
country roads, who stopped and asked us if we hadn't a warm petticoat
to give her. She knew me, called me by name, and said she lived in the
little hamlet near the château. She looked miserably cold and tired. I
asked where she came from, and what she had been doing all day.
"Scaring the crows in M. A.'s fields," was the answer. "What does your
work consist of?" I asked. "Oh, I just sit there and make a
noise--beat the top of an old tin kettle with sticks and shake a bit
of red stuff in the air." Poor old woman, she looked half paralyzed
with cold and fatigue, and I was really almost ashamed to be seated so
warmly and comfortably in the carriage, well wrapped up in furs and
rugs, and should have quite understood if she had poured out a torrent
of abuse. It must rouse such bitter and angry feeling when these poor
creatures, half frozen and half starved, see carriages rolling past
with every appliance of wealth and luxury. I suppose what saves us is
that they are so accustomed to their lives, the long days of hard
work, the wretched, sordid homes, the insufficient meals, the
quantities of children clamouring for food and warmth. Their parents
and grandparents have lived the same lives, and anything else would
seem as unattainable as the moon, or some fairy tale. There has been
one enormous change in all the little cottages--the petroleum lamp.
All have got one--petroleum is cheap and gives much more light and
heat than the old-fashioned oil lamp. In the long winter afternoons,
when one must have light for work of any kind, the petroleum lamp is a
godsend. We often noticed the difference coming home late. The
smallest hamlets looked quite cheerful with the bright lights shining
through the cracks and windows. I can't speak much from _personal_
experience of the _inside_ of the cottages--I was never much given to
visiting among the poor. I suppose I did not take it in the right
spirit, but I could never see the poetry, the beautiful, patient
lives, the resignation to their humble lot. I only saw the dirt, and
smelt all the bad smells, and heard how bad most of the young ones
were to all the poor old people. "Cela mange comme quatre, et cela
n'est plus bon à rien," I heard one woman remark casually to her poor
old father sitting huddled up in a heap near the fire. I don't know,
either, whether they liked to have us come. What suited them best was
to send the children to the château. They always got a meal and a warm
jacket and petticoat.

[Illustration: Peasant women.]



We were very particular about attending all important ceremonies at La
Ferté, as we rarely went to church there except on great occasions. We
had our service regularly at the château every Sunday morning. All the
servants, except ours, were Protestants, Swiss generally, and very
respectable they looked--all the women in black dresses and white
caps--when they assembled in M. A.'s library, sitting on cane chairs near
the door.

Some, in fact most, Protestants in France attach enormous importance to
having all their household Protestant. A friend of mine, a Protestant,
having tea with me one day in Paris was rather pleased with the bread or
little "croissants," and asked me where they came from. I said I didn't
know, but would ask the butler. That rather surprised her. Then she
said, "Your baker of course is a Protestant." That I didn't know either,
and, what was much worse in her eyes, I didn't care. She was quite
distressed, gave me the address of an excellent Swiss Protestant baker
and begged me to sever all connection with the Catholic at once. I asked
her if she really thought dangerous papist ideas were kneaded in with
the bread, but she would not listen to my mild "persiflage," and went
away rather anxious about my spiritual welfare.

We went always to the church at La Ferté for the fête of St. Cécile, as
the Fanfare played in the church on that day. The Fanfare was a very
important body. Nearly all the prominent citizens of La Ferté, who had
any idea of music, were members--the butcher, the baker, the coiffeur,
etc. The Mayor was president and walked at the head of the procession
when they filed into the church. I was "Présidente d'Honneur" and always
wore my badge pinned conspicuously on my coat. It was a great day for
the little town. Weeks before the fête we used to hear all about it from
the coiffeur when he came to the château to shave the gentlemen. He
played the big drum and thought the success of the whole thing depended
on his performance. He proposed to bring his instrument one morning and
play his part for us. We were very careful to be well dressed on that
day and discarded the short serge skirts we generally wore. All the La
Ferté ladies, particularly the wives and sisters of the performers, put
on their best clothes, and their feelings would have been hurt if we had
not done the same.

In fact it was a little difficult to dress up to the occasion. The older
women all had jet and lace on their dresses, with long trailing skirts,
and the younger ones, even children, had wonderful hats with
feathers--one or two long white ones.

It was a pretty, animated sight as we arrived. All along the road we had
met bands of people hurrying on to the town--the children with clean
faces and pinafores, the men with white shirts, and even the old
grandmothers--their shawls on their shoulders and their turbans starched
stiff--were hobbling along with their sticks, anxious to arrive. We
heard sounds of music as we got to the church--the procession was
evidently approaching. The big doors were wide open, a great many people
already inside. We looked straight down the nave to the far end where
the high altar, all flowers and candles, made a bright spot of colour.
Red draperies and banners were hanging from the columns--vases and
wreaths of flowers at the foot of the statues of the saints; chairs and
music-stands in the chancel. We went at once to our places. The curé,
with his choir boys in their little short white soutanes, red petticoats
and red shoes, was just coming out of the sacristy and the procession
was appearing at the bottom of the church. First came the Mayor in a
dress coat and white cravat--the "Adjoint" and one of the municipal
council just behind, then the banner--rather a heavy one, four men
carried it. After that the "pompiers," all in uniform, each man carrying
his instrument; they didn't play as they came up the aisle, stopped
their music at the door; but when they did begin--I don't know exactly
at what moment of the mass--it was something appalling. The first piece
was a military march, executed with all the artistic conviction and
patriotic ardour of their young lungs (they were mostly young men). We
were at the top of the church, very near the performers, and the first
bursts of trumpets and bugles made one jump. They played several times.
It didn't sound too badly at the "Elevation" when they had chosen rather
a soft (comparatively) simple melody. The curé preached a very pretty,
short sermon, telling them about Saint Cécile, the delicately nurtured
young Roman who was not afraid to face martyrdom and death for the sake
of her religion. The men listened most attentively and seemed much
interested when he told them how he had seen in Rome the church of St.
Cécile built over the ruin of the saint's house--the sacristy just over
her bath-room. I asked him how he could reconcile it to his conscience
to speak of the melodious sounds that accompanied the prayers of the
faithful, but he said one must look sometimes at the intention more than
at the result.

There was a certain _harmony_ among the men when they were practising
and preparing their music for the church, and as long as they held to
coming and gave up their evenings to practising, instead of spending
them in the wine shops, we must do all we could to encourage them.

The procession went out in the same order--halted at the church door and
then W. made them a nice little speech, saying he was pleased to see how
numerous they were and how much improved--they would certainly take an
honourable place in the concours de fanfares of the department. They
escorted the Mayor back to his house playing their march and wound up
with a copious déjeuner at the "Sauvage." Either the Mayor or the
"Adjoint" always went to the banquet. W. gave the champagne, but
abstained from the feast.

They really did improve as they went on. They were able to get better
instruments and were stimulated by rival fanfares in the neighbourhood.
They were very anxious to come and play at the château, and we promised
they should whenever a fitting occasion should present itself.

We had a visit from the Staals one year. The Baron de Staal was Russian
Ambassador in England, and we had been colleagues there for many years.
We asked the Fanfare to come one Sunday afternoon while they were there.
We had a little difficulty over the Russian National Hymn, which they,
naturally, wanted to play. The Chef de Fanfare came to see me one day
and we looked over the music together. I had it only for the piano, but
I explained the tempo and repetitions to him and he arranged it very
well for his men. They made quite an imposing entrance. Half the
population of La Ferté escorted them (all much excited by the idea of
seeing the Russian Ambassador), and they were reinforced by the two
villages they passed through. We waited for them in the gallery--doors
and windows open. They played the spirited French march "Sambre et
Meuse" as they came up the avenue. It sounded quite fine in the open
air. They halted and saluted quite in military style as soon as they
came in front of the gallery--stopped their march and began immediately
the Russian Hymn, playing it very well.

They were much applauded, we in the gallery giving the signal and their
friends on the lawn joining in enthusiastically. They were a motley
crowd--over a hundred I should think--ranging from the municipal
councillor of La Ferté, in his high hat and black cloth Sunday coat, to
the humpbacked daughter of the village carpenter and the idiot boy who
lived in a cave on the road and frightened the children out of their
wits by running out and making faces at them whenever they passed. They
played three or four times, then W. called up one or two of the
principal performers and presented them to the Staals. Mme. de Staal
spoke to them very prettily, thanked them for playing the Russian Hymn
and said she would like to hear the "Sambre et Meuse" again. That, of
course, delighted them and they marched off to the strains of their
favourite tune. About half-way down the avenue we heard a few cries of
"Vive la Russie," and then came a burst of cheers.

Our dinner was rather pleasant that evening. We had the Préfet, M.
Sebline; Senator of the Aisne, Jusserand, present Ambassador to
Washington; Mme. Thénard, of the Comédie Française, and several young
people. Jusserand is always a brilliant talker--so easy--no pose of any
kind, and Sebline was interesting, telling about all sorts of old
customs in the country.

Though we were so near Paris, hardly two hours by the express, the
people had remained extraordinarily primitive. There were no
manufacturing towns anywhere near us, nothing but big farms, forests and
small far-apart villages. The modern socialist-radical ideas were
penetrating very slowly into the heads of the people--they were quite
content to be humble tillers of the soil, as their fathers had been
before them. The men had worked all their lives on the farms, the women
too; beginning quite young, taking care of cows and geese, picking
beet-root, etc.

What absolutely changed the men was the three years military service.
After knocking about in garrison towns, living with a great many people
always, having all sorts of amusements easily at hand and a certain
independence, once the service of the day was over, they found the dull
regular routine of the farm very irksome. In the summer it was well
enough--harvest time was gay, everyone in the fields, but in the short,
cold winter days, with the frozen ground making all the work doubly
hard, just enough food and no distraction of any kind but a pipe in the
kitchen after supper, the young men grew terribly restive and
discontented. Very few of them remain, and the old traditions handed
down from father to son for three or four generations are disappearing.
After dinner we had music and some charming recitations by Mme. Thénard.
Her first one was a comic monologue which always had the wildest success
in London, "Je suis veuve," beginning it with a ringing peal of laughter
which was curiously contagious--everyone in the room joined in. I like
her better in some of her serious things. When she said "le bon gite"
and "le petit clairon," by Paul Déroulède, in her beautiful deep
voice, I had a decided choke in my throat.

We often had music at the château. Many of our artist friends came
down--glad to have two or three days rest in the quiet old house. We had
an amusing experience once with the young organist from La Ferté--almost
turned his hair gray. He had taught himself entirely and managed his old
organ very well. He had heard vaguely of Wagner and we had always
promised him we would try and play some of his music with two
pianos--eight hands. Four hands are really not enough for such
complicated music. Mlle. Dubois, premier prix du conservatoire--a
beautiful musician--was staying with us one year and we arranged a
concert for one evening, asking the organist to come to dinner. The poor
man was rather terrified at dining at the château--had evidently taken
great pains with his dress (a bright pink satin cravat was rather
striking) and thanked the butler most gratefully every time he handed
him a dish--"Je vous remercie beaucoup, Monsieur." We had our two grand
pianos and were going to play the overture of Tannhäuser, one of the
simplest and most melodious of Wagner's compositions. The performers
were Francis and I, Mlle. Dubois and the organist. It was a little
difficult to arrange who he should play with. He was very nervous at the
idea of playing with Mlle. Dubois--rather frightened of me and in
absolute terror at the idea of playing before W. Finally it was decided
that he and I should take the second piano--he playing the bass. It was
really funny to see him; his eyes were fixed on the music and he counted
audibly and breathlessly all the time, and I heard him muttering
occasionally to himself, "Non ce n'est pas possible," "Non ce n'est pas

I must say that the Walpurgis Night for a person playing at sight and
unaccustomed to Wagner's music is an ordeal--however, he acquitted
himself extremely well and we got through our performance triumphantly,
but great drops of perspiration were on his forehead. W. was very nice
to him and Mlle. Dubois quite charming, encouraging him very much. Still
I don't think his evening at the château was one of unmixed pleasure,
and I am sure he was glad to have that overture behind him.

We saw our neighbours very rarely; occasionally some men came to
breakfast. The sous-préfet, one or two of the big farmers or some local
swells who wanted to talk politics to W. One frequent visitor was an
architect from Château-Thierry, who had built W.'s farm. He was an
enormous man, very stout and red, always attired in shiny black
broadcloth. He was a very shrewd specimen, very well up in all that
went on in the country and very useful to W. He had a fine appetite,
always tucking his napkin carefully under his chin when he sat down to
table. He talked a great deal one day about his son, who had a good
tenor voice and had just got an engagement at the Opéra Comique. Said he
would like us to hear him sing--might he bring him some day to

He came back two or three weeks later with the young man, who was a
great improvement upon his father. The Paris boulevards and the
coulisses of the opera had quite modified the young provincial. He
talked a good deal at table, was naturally much pleased to have got into
the Opéra Comique. As it is a "théâtre subventionné" (government
theatre), he considered himself a sort of official functionary. After
breakfast he asked us if we would like to hear him sing--sat down to the
piano, accompanying himself very simply and easily and sang extremely
well. I was much astonished and Mme. A. was delighted, especially when
he sang some old-fashioned songs from the "Dame Blanche" and the "Domino
Noir." The old father was enchanted, a broad smile on his face. He
confided to W. that he had hoped his son would walk in his footsteps and
content himself with a modest position as architect in the country, but
after six months in Paris where he had sent him to learn his
profession his ideas had completely changed and he would not hear of
vegetating in the country.

[Illustration: A visit at the château.]

We had, too, sometimes a doctor from one of the neighbouring villages.
He had married an Englishwoman. They had a nice house and garden and he
often had English boys over in the summer to learn French. He brought
them occasionally to us for tea and tennis, begging us not to speak
English to them. But that was rather difficult, with the English terms
at tennis--horses and dogs always spoken to in English. One could not
speak French to a fox-terrier bred in Oxfordshire.

       *       *       *       *       *

Another pretty, simple fête was the Blessing of the Flag given by
Francis to the Pompiers of Montigny, our little village in the woods
just above the château. My husband had always promised them a flag, but
he died before their society was formed. Three years after his death,
when we were living in the small place which now belongs to my son, a
deputation arrived from Montigny one Sunday afternoon to ask if Francis
would give the flag his father had promised. This of course he was
delighted to do. He knew all the men and they all knew him--had seen him
since he was a baby--all of them had worked in his father's woods, and
two or three of the older ones had taken care of him and his gun when he
first began to shoot.

His father gave him a gun when he was twelve years old--had it made at
Purdy's in London, a reduced model of his own. No one is allowed to
shoot in France till he is sixteen years old and then must have his
"permis de chasse" duly signed by the Mayor. So it was rather difficult
to get Francis and his gun into the woods--once there they were safe.
Nothing would have induced him to let any of the men carry it. He walked
beside the keeper with his gun over his shoulder just like him; they did
meet two gendarmes one day and quickly the gun was given to some one
else. I think the gendarmes quite realised the situation (Labbey, the
keeper, said they knew all about it), but they were friends of the
family, W.'s appointment, probably, and asked no questions.

It was necessary of course to consult the local authorities before
deciding such an important question as the presentation of a flag to the
Pompiers. Francis went over two or three days later and interviewed the
curé, the Mayor and the school-master, found out where the flag must be
ordered in Paris and decided the day a fortnight later, a Sunday, of
course. The function was to consist of a service and sermon at the
church and a "vin d'honneur" offered by the Pompiers at the Mairie,
which they hoped Madame Waddington would grace by her presence.

The flag was duly ordered, sent direct to Montigny and everything was
ready on the appointed day. We had fine weather, a bright, cold November
afternoon; the country looked beautiful, all the trees red and yellow, a
black line of pines in the middle of the woods. The long straggling
village street, ending at the church on the top of the hill, was full of
people; all the children in the middle of the road, their mothers
dashing after them when they heard the horn of the auto.

We were quite a large party, as the house was full, and we brought all
our guests with us, including an American cousin, who was much
interested in the local festivities. The Pompiers were drawn up in the
court-yard of the Mairie, their beautiful new flag well to the front.
Almost all were in uniform, and those who had not yet been able to get
one wore a clean white shirt and the Pompier's red belt. There was a
cheer and a broad smile on all their faces when we drove up. Francis got
out, as he was to head the procession with the Mayor and the curé. We
went on to the church and stationed ourselves on the steps of the Infant
School to see the cortège arrive.

It was quite a pretty sight as it wound up the hill: first the banner of
blue silk with gold cords, which was held proudly aloft by two tall
young fellows, then Francis walking between the curé and the Mayor, the
Pompiers immediately behind them, then the Municipal Council, the usual
escort of children that always turns out on such occasions bringing up
the rear. We let the procession pass into the church and then took our
places; a front pew was reserved for the family, but Francis and I sat
on two arm-chairs inside the chancel, just behind the Pompiers.

The fine old church, which is rather large for such a small village, was
crowded; they told me many people had come from the neighbouring
hamlets. The Montigny people had done their best to beautify their
church; there were a few plants and flowers and some banners and
draperies--church property, which always figured upon any great
occasion. They told us with pride that the school-master had arranged
the music. I suppose the poor man did what he could with the material he
had, but the result was something awful. The chorister, a very old man,
a hundred I should think, played the harmonium, which was as old as he
was. It groaned and wheezed and at times stopped altogether. He started
the cantique with a thin quavering voice which was then taken up by the
school-children, particularly the boys who roared with juvenile
patriotism and energy each time they repeated the last line, "pour notre
drapeau, pour notre patrie."

The sermon was very good--short and simple. It was preached by the Doyen
of Neuilly--a tall, strong, broad-shouldered man who would have seemed
more at home in a dragoon's uniform than in the soutane. But he knew his
business well, had a fine voice and very good delivery; his peroration
and appeal to the men to "remember always that the flag was the symbol
of obedience, of loyalty, of devotion, to their country and their God,"
was really very fine. I almost expected to hear cheers. The French are
very emotional, and respond instantly to any allusion to country or
flag. The uniform (even the Pompier's) has an enormous prestige. Then
came the benediction, the flag held high over the kneeling congregation,
and the ceremony was ended.

We stopped a few moments after the service to let the procession pass
out and also to thank the preacher and one or two curés who had assisted
on the occasion; they did not come to the "vin d'honneur."

We walked down to the Mairie, where the Mayor and his Adjoint were
waiting for us; they conducted us to a large room upstairs where there
was a table with champagne bottles, glasses and a big brioche. As soon
as we had taken our places at the top of the room, the Pompiers and
Municipal Council trouped in and Francis made quite a pretty little
speech. It was the first time I had ever heard him speak in public; he
did it very well, was not at all shy. Then there was a pause--the Mayor
filled a glass of champagne, handed it to me, took one himself and we
"trinqué'd" solemnly. Still there seemed a little hitch, no one else
took any and there was an air of expectancy. I made a sign to the
school-master, who was also the Adjoint, and he explained to me in a low
voice that he thought it would give great pleasure if I would shake
hands and trinquer with all the Pompiers. So I asked to have all the
glasses filled and made the round, shaking hands with every one.

Some of them were very shy, could hardly make up their minds to put out
their big, rough hands; some of the old ones were very talkative: "C'est
moi qui suis Jacques, Madame, j'ai nettoyé le premier fusil de M.
Francis." Another in a great hurry to get to me: "C'est moi qui ai
remassé le premier lièvre de M. Francis," etc. I remember the "premier
lièvre" quite well; Francis carried it home himself and dashed into his
father's study swinging the poor beast by its long ears, the blood
dripping from a hole in its neck. It was difficult to scold, the child
was so enchanted, even old Ferdinand did not grumble but came to the
rescue at once with brushes and "savon noir."

The wine had loosened the tongues and made every one more at ease. I
asked that Hubert (our coachman who had been in W.'s service for
thirty-one years) should be invited to come up and have a glass of
champagne. He knew everybody, having driven W. about in his dog-cart all
over the country. He was delighted to take part in the fête and made his
little speech, saying he had seen Monsieur Francis when he was only a
few hours old, and that he had _grown since_--which joke was received
with great applause.

Then some of the young men went off with Francis to look at the
automobile, a great novelty at that time. We went out and talked to the
women who were waiting in the street. Every one looked smiling and
pleased to see us; the men all formed again in procession and escorted
us to the end of the street, the whole village naturally following. They
stopped at the foot of the hill, giving us a ringing cheer as we left.

       *       *       *       *       *

I never but once saw the whole neighbourhood assembled--when the only
son of the Baron de L. married. The Baron and his wife were very good
specimens of provincial _noblesse_. He was a tall, heavily-built man,
square-shouldered, with the weather-beaten complexion of a man who spent
all his days riding about his fields and woods; a pleasant, jovial
manner, quite the type of the country gentleman.

They lived in a charming old Louis XV. château almost in the forest of
Villers-Cotterets--their park touching the line of wood. They went
rarely to Paris; lived almost all the year in the country and were
devoted to their place. One just saw the pointed red roof of the château
in the trees as one passed on the road. It stood high, a very steep road
leading up to it. At the foot of the hill were market gardens, which
made a very curious effect from a distance--the long rows of glass
"cloches" making huge white spots. The vegetables always looked very
tempting as we passed in the early summer. They were all "primeurs"--the
gardens lying in full sun and were sent off to the Paris market.
Half-way up the slope was a pretty little church almost hidden in the
trees, and a tiny village struggled up the hill and along the road.

The bride, dressed in white--a slight girlish figure--was standing near
her mother-in-law and had a pretty smile of welcome for all the guests.
It was rather an ordeal for her, as she was a stranger in the country
(she came from the south of France) and every one was looking at the

It was in the first year of my marriage, my first appearance in the
country, and I was rather puzzled about my dress for the occasion. We
were asked to dinner at seven o'clock. My first idea was to wear full
dress--light-blue satin and diamonds--but a niece of Mme. A.'s, who was
staying with us and who had been to some entertainments in that part of
the country, advised me strongly to dress more simply. "They would not
understand that sort of toilette and I would be overdressed and probably
uncomfortable." So I compromised with a high white dress, no diamonds
and one string of pearls.

We had a short hour's drive. It was a clear, cold night and we saw the
château from a great distance. It was brilliantly lighted. The lights
twinkling through the trees looked like huge fireflies. As we drove into
the rather small court-yard there was quite a stir of carriages arriving
and backing out. The hall doors were wide open; a flood of light
streaming out over the steps--Baron de L. and his son at the door. There
was a hum of voices in the drawing-room and there seemed to be a great
many people. The rooms were handsome--plenty of light, the old tapestry
furniture looked very well, standing straight and stiff against the
wall, and the number of people took away the bare unused look they
generally had.

All the châteaux of the neighbourhood were represented: The Comte de
Lubersac and his sister had come over from their fine place, Maucreux.
He was a very handsome young man--a great hunter and master of hounds of
the stag hunting in the forest of Villers-Cotterets; his sister, Mlle.
de Lubersac, most attractive, with the face of a saint. She was very
simply dressed in a high black dress. She lived almost the life of a
Sister of Charity--going about all day among the sick and poor, but she
had promised her father, who was a great invalid, almost crippled with
gout, to remain with him as long as he lived. It was only after his
death that she took the vows and entered one of the strictest orders
(Carmelites) in France.

There were also the châtelaines of Thury en Valois--a fine château and
estate, not very far from us in the other direction. They had splendid
gardens and their fruit and vegetables were famous all over the country.
Mme. de Thury was a compatriot--the daughter of an American general; the
young Comte de Melun from Brumetz--very delicate looking, with a refined
student's face. His father was a great friend of the Maréchal MacMahon
and one of the leaders of the Catholic clerical party, and the young man
was very religious. Their woods touched ours and once or twice when we
were riding late, we saw him kneeling at a little old shrine, "the White
Lady," which was almost hidden under the big trees--so little left that
the ordinary passer-by would have seen nothing. There were also the
owners of Colinance--rather an ugly square house standing low,
surrounded by a marsh, but a good property--and three or four men I did
not know--the bride's brother and one or two of her relations.

There was hardly time to introduce every one, as dinner was announced
almost immediately. We were a large party, about twenty. All the women,
except the bride and me, were dressed in black, high or a very little
open--no lace, nor jewels. Henriette was right. I would have looked
absurd if I had worn a low dress. The dinner was very good, very
abundant and very long. The men said the wines were excellent. The talk
was animated enough--it was principally the men who talked. I didn't
think the women said much. I listened only, as I was too new in the
country to be at all up in local topics.

After coffee the men went off to smoke and we women remained alone for
some time. I wasn't sorry, as one had so few opportunities of seeing the
neighbours, particularly the women, who rarely went out of their own
places. One met the men hunting, or in the train, or at the notary's.

The notary is a most important person in all small country towns in
France. Everybody consults him, from the big landowner when he has
discussions with his neighbour over right of way, to the peasant who
buys a few metres of land as soon as he has any surplus funds. We were
constantly having rows with one of our neighbours over a little strip of
wood that ran up into ours. Whenever he was angry with us, which
happened quite often (we never knew why), he had a deep, ugly ditch made
just across the road which we always took when we were riding around the
property. The woods were so thick and low, with plenty of thorns, that
we could not get along by keeping on one side and were obliged to go
back and make quite a long détour. The notary did his best to buy it for
us, but the man would never sell--rather enjoyed, I think, having the
power to annoy us.

Mme. de Thury and I fraternised a little and I should have liked to see
more of her, but soon after that evening they had great trouble. They
had a great deal of illness and lost a son. I never saw Thury till after
both of them were dead. The château had been sold, most of the furniture
taken away and the whole place had a deserted, neglected look that made
one feel quite miserable. The big drawing-room was piled up with straw,
over the doors were still two charming dessus-de-porte, the colours
quite fresh--not at all faded--chickens were walking about in another
room, and upstairs in a pretty corner room, with a lovely view over
woods and park, was a collection of photographs, engravings (one the
mother of the late owner), a piece of unfinished tapestry, samplers,
china vases, books, papers, two or three knots of faded ribbon, all
tossed in a corner like a heap of rubbish. The things had evidently been
forgotten in the big move, but it looked melancholy.

The château must have been charming when it was furnished and lived in.
Quantities of rooms, a long gallery with small rooms on one side, the
"garçonnière" or bachelors' quarters, led directly into the church,
where many Thurys are sleeping their last sleep. The park was beautiful
and there was capital shooting. W. had often shot there in the old days
when their shooting parties were famous.

We ended our evening with music, the bride playing extremely well. Mme.
de Thury also sang very well. She had learnt in Italy and sang in quite
bravura style. The evening didn't last very long after the men came in.
Everybody was anxious to get the long, cold drive over.

I enjoyed myself very much. It was my first experience of a French
country entertainment and it was very different from what I had
expected. Not at all stiff and a most cordial welcome. I thought--rather
naïvely perhaps--that it was the beginning of many entertainments of
the same kind, but I never dined out again in the country. It is only
fair to say that we never asked any one to dine either. It was not the
habit of the house, and I naturally fell into their ways. Luncheon was
what people liked best, so as not to be too late on the road or to cross
the forest after nightfall, when the darkness was sometimes
impenetrable. Some of the châtelaines received once a week. On that day
a handsome and plentiful luncheon was provided and people came from the
neighbouring châteaux, and even from Paris, when the distance was not
too great and the trains suited.

       *       *       *       *       *

We had quite an excitement one day at the château. Francis was riding
with the groom one morning about the end of August, and had hardly got
out of the gates, when he came racing back to tell us that the
manoeuvres were to take place very near us, small detachments of troops
already arriving; and the village people had told him that quite a large
contingent, men and horses, were to be quartered at the château. W. sent
him straight off again to the mayor of Marolles--our big village--to
know if his information was correct, and how many people we must provide
for. Francis met the mayor on the road on his way to us, very busy and
bustled with so many people to settle. He was billeting men and horses
in the little hamlet, and at all the farms. He told us we were to have
thirty men and horses--six officers, twenty-four men; and they would
arrive at sundown, in time to cook their dinner. Hubert, the coachman,
was quite bewildered at first how to provide for so many, but
fortunately the stables and dependencies were very large, and it was
quite extraordinary how quickly and comfortably everything was arranged.
Men from the farm brought in large bundles of straw, and everybody lent
a willing hand--they love soldiers in France, and are always proud and
happy to receive them.

About 4.30, when we had just moved out to the tennis ground for tea, we
saw an officer with his orderly riding up the avenue. He dismounted as
soon as he caught sight of us sitting on the lawn, and introduced
himself, said he was sent on ahead to see about lodging for himself, his
brother-officers, and his men. They were part of a cavalry regiment,
chasseurs, stationed at a small town in the neighbourhood. He asked W.
if he might see the soldiers' quarters, said they brought their own food
and would cook their dinner; asked if there was a room in the château
where the sous-officiers could dine, as they never eat with their men.
He, with W. and Francis, went off to inspect the arrangements and give
the necessary orders. We had already seen to the officers' rooms, but
hadn't thought of a separate dining-room for the sous-officiers;
however, it was easily managed. We gave them the children's dining-room,
in the wing near the kitchen and offices.

When W. came in he told us the whole party had arrived, and we started
off to the communs to see what was going on. The stable-yard, which is
very large, with some fine trees and outbuildings all around it, was
filled with blue-coated soldiers and small chestnut horses--some were
drinking out of the troughs; some, tied to the trees, and rings on the
wall, were being rubbed down--the men walking about with the officers'
valises and their own kits, undoing blankets, tin plates, and cups; and
I should think every man and boy on our place and in the small hamlet
standing about anxious to do something. Our little fox-terriers were mad
with excitement; even the donkey seemed to feel there was something
different in the air. He brayed noisily, and gave little vicious kicks
occasionally when some of the horses passed too near. A group of
officers was standing at the door of the stables talking to Hubert, who
had managed very well, putting all the officers' horses into a second
stable, which was always kept for guests, and the others in the various
sheds and outhouses, all under cover.

[Illustration: Soldiers at the château.]

W. introduced the officers--a nice-looking lot, chasseurs, in the
light-blue uniform, which is so smart. He had asked permission for the
men to dine at the château. They had their own meat and bread, but our
chef was most anxious to cook it for them, and make them another
substantial dish; so it was agreed that they should dine at six in the
servants' hall. They all marched up in procession, headed by their
sergeants; the blue tunics and red trousers looked very pretty as they
came along the big avenue. The commandant asked W. if he would go and
say a few words to them when they were having their coffee. They were
very quiet; one hardly heard anything, though all the windows were open.
W. said it was quite interesting to see all the young faces smiling and
listening hard when he made his little speech. He asked them if they had
had a good dinner; he hoped his man knew how to cook for soldiers. They
all nodded and smiled at the chef, who was standing at the door looking
very hot and very pleased. He had produced a sweet dish--I don't know
what with, as he didn't habitually have thirty extra people to
dinner--but I have always seen that when people _want_ to do anything it
is usually accomplished.

Our dinner was very pleasant. We were ten at table--W. and I, Henrietta,
and a niece. The men talked easily, some of them Parisians, knowing
every one. They knew that W. had remained at the château all during the
Franco-German War, and were much interested in all he told them of the
Prussian occupation. Only one of them had, as a very young fellow,
served in 1870. All the rest were too young, and, like all young
soldiers who have not been through a war and seen the horrors of it,
were rather anxious to have their chance, and not spend all the best
years of their lives in a small, dull garrison town.

We discussed the plans for the next day. They were going to have a sham
fight over all the big fields in our neighbourhood, and advised us to
come and see it. They said the best time would be about ten in the
morning, when they were to monter à l'assaut of a large farm with moat
and drawbridge near Dammarie. They were to make a very early start (four
o'clock), and said they would be very pleased to have some hot coffee
before mounting, if it could be had at that unearthly hour. They were
very anxious about choosing a horse out of their squadron for the
general, who was an infantryman, very stout, very rheumatic, and a very
bad rider. The horse must be sure-footed, an easy mouth, easy canter, no
tricks, accustomed to drum and bugle, to say nothing of the
musket-shots, etc.

Henrietta and I rather amused ourselves after dinner teaching the
commandant and another officer halma, which was just then at the height
of its popularity. We had brought it over from London, where the whole
society was mad over it. We were staying in a country house one year
where there were seven tables of halma in the long gallery. The
gentlemen rather disdained it at first, but as the game went on and they
began to realise that there was really some science in it, and that our
men were placing themselves very comfortably in their little squares,
while theirs were wandering aimlessly about the centre of the board,
they warmed to their task, and were quite vexed when they were badly
beaten. They wanted their revanche. W. came in and gave a word of advice
every now and then. The others finished their billiards, came to look
on, each one suggesting a different move, which, of course, only
complicated matters, and they lost again. Then some of the others tried
with the same result. I think we played five or six games. They were so
much pleased with the game that they asked us to write down the name and
where to get it, and one of them afterward told my nephew, also a
cavalry officer, that they introduced it at their mess and played every
night instead of cards or dominoes. It was really funny to see how
annoyed they were when their scientific combinations failed. The next
morning was beautiful--a splendid August day, not too hot, little white
clouds scurrying over the bright blue sky, veiling the sun. We started
about nine, W., Francis, and I riding, the others driving. There were a
good many people about in the fields and cross-roads, a few farmers
riding, and everybody wildly interested telling us which way to go.
Janet, my American niece, who was staying in the country in France for
the first time, was horrified to see women working in the fields,
couldn't believe that her uncle would allow it on his farm, and made
quite an appeal to him when we all got home, to put an end to such cruel
proceedings. It seems women never work in the fields in America, except
negresses on some of the Southern plantations. I have been so long away
that I had forgotten that they didn't, and I remember quite well my
horror the first time we were in Germany, when we saw a woman and an ox
harnessed together.

We separated from the carriage at the top of the hill, as we could get a
nice canter and shorter road across the fields. We soon came in sight of
the farmhouse, standing low, with moat and drawbridge, in rather an
isolated position in the middle of the fields, very few trees around it.
There was no longer any water in the moat. It was merely a deep, wide,
damp ditch with long, straggling vines and weeds filling it up, and a
slippery, steep bank. Soldiers were advancing in all directions, the
small infantrymen moving along with a light, quick step; the cavalry
apparently had been on the ground some time, as they were all dismounted
and their horses picketed. We didn't go very near, as W. wasn't quite
sure how the horses would stand the bugle and firing. They were already
pulling hard, and getting a little nervous. It was pretty to see the
soldiers all mount when the bugle rang out, and in a moment the whole
body was in motion. The rush of the soldiers over the wide plains and
the drawbridge looked irresistible--the men swarmed down the bank and
over the ditch--one saw a confused mass of red trousers and kepis. The
cavalry came along very leisurely, guarding the rear. I looked for the
general. He was standing with some of his staff on a small hill
directing operations. He did look stout and very red and warm; however,
it was the last day, so his troubles were over for the present.

One of the officers saw us and came up to pay his respects; said they
wouldn't be back at the château until about five; perhaps the ladies
would come to the stable-yard and see the pansage. It was quite
interesting; all the horses ranged in a semi-circle, men scrubbing and
combing hard, the sous-officiers superintending, the officers standing
about smoking and seeing that everything was being packed and ready for
an early start the next morning. I was astonished to see how small the
horses were. My English horse, also a chestnut, was not particularly
big, but he looked a giant among the others. They admired him very much,
and one of the officers asked Hubert if he thought I would like to sell

Our dinner was again very pleasant, and we had more halma in the
evening. W. played once or twice, and as he was a fairly good player,
the adversaries had no chance. We broke up early, as they were to start
again at some unearthly hour the next morning. It seems they were very
lively in the stables after dinner--we heard sounds of merriment,
singing, and choruses, and, I fancy, dancing. However, it made quite a
pleasant break in our summer, and the big place seemed quieter and
lonelier than ever after such unusual animation. W. said the war talk
was much keener than the first day when they were smoking in the
gallery; all the young ones so eager to earn their stripes, and so
confident that the army had profited by its bitter experience during the
Franco-German War.

       *       *       *       *       *

Election day is always a very important day in France. The village
farmers and labourers put on their best clothes--usually a black coat,
silk hat and white shirt--and take themselves solemnly to the Mairie
where the voting takes place. For weeks beforehand agents and lecturers
come from Paris and bamboozle the simple village people with newspapers,
money and wonderful promises. It is astounding how easily the French
peasant believes all that the political agents tell him and all that he
reads in the cheap papers, for, as a rule--taken en masse--they are very
intelligent and at the same time suspicious (méfiants), manage their own
little affairs very well and are rarely taken in; but there is something
in the popular orator that carries them away and they really believe
that a golden epoch is coming--when there will be no rich and no poor
and plenty and equality for all. They don't care a bit what form of
government they live under as long as their crops are good, and they can
have regular work and no war. The political agitators understand that
very well. They never lay any stress on Royalist or Bonapartist, or even
a military candidate. The "People's Candidate" is always their cry--one
of themselves who understands them and will give them all they want.
They are disappointed _always_. The ministers and deputies change, but
their lives don't, and run on in the same groove; but they are just as
sanguine each time there is an election, convinced that, at last, the
promised days of high pay and little work are coming.

I tried to reason with a nice, respectable man one day, the village
mason--one of the most fiery orators at the café, over his dominoes, but
in everyday life a sober, hard-working man, with a sickly wife and
several children, who are all clothed and generally looked after by us.
His favourite theme was the owners of châteaux and big houses who lived
in luxury and thought nothing of the poor.

I said to him, "Why do you listen to all those foolish speeches that are
made in the cafés? You know it isn't true half they say. Whenever you
come and ask for anything for your wife and your children, it is always
given to you. You know quite well whenever any one is ill in the
village, they always come here for wine, old linen, or bouillon."

"Oh, oui, Madame is good, but Madame does not understand."

"But it is you, mon ami, who don't understand. Once the election is
over, and they have got your vote, no one will think about you any

"Oh, yes, Madame, everything will be divided--there will be no more big
houses, every one will have a garden and rabbits--not all for the rich.
It is not right; Madame knows it is not right." It was quite useless
talking to him.

Women in France never take the active part in elections that they do in
England. It interested me so much when we were living in England to see
many of the great ladies doing all they could for their candidate,
driving all over the country, with his colours on servants and horses, a
big bill in the windows of their carriages with "Vote for A." on it. In
the drawing-room windows of a well-known society leader there were two
large bills--"VOTE FOR A." I asked W. one day, when he was standing for
the Senate, if he would like me to drive all about the country with his
colours and "VOTE FOR WADDINGTON" on placards in the windows of the
carriage; but he utterly declined any such intervention on my part,
thought a few breakfasts at the château and a quiet talk over coffee and
cigars would be more to the purpose. He never took much trouble over his
elections the last years--meetings and speeches in all the small towns
and "banquets de pompiers" were things of the past. He said the people
had seen him "à l'oeuvre" and that no speeches would change a vote.

The only year that we gave ourselves any trouble was during the
Boulanger craze. W. went about a great deal and I often went with him.
The weather was beautiful and we rode all over the country. We were
astounded at the progress "Boulangism" had made in our quiet villages.
Wherever we went--in the cafés, in the auberges, in the grocer's
shop--there was a picture of Boulanger prancing on his black horse.

We stopped one day at a miserable little cottage, not far from our
place, where a workman had had a horrible accident--been caught in the
machine of one of the sugar mills. Almost all the men in the village
worked in W.'s woods and had always voted--as one man--for him or his
friends. When we went into the poor little dark room, with literally
nothing in it but the bed, a table, and some chairs, the first thing we
saw was the well-known picture of Boulanger, on the mantelpiece. We
talked a little to the man and his wife (the poor fellow was suffering
terribly), and then W. said, "I am surprised to see that picture. Do you
know General Boulanger? Have you ever seen him?" The man's face quite
lighted up as he looked at the picture, and he answered: "Non, Monsieur,
je ne l'ai jamais vu--mais il est crâne celui-là," and that was all that
he could ever get out of him--"il est crâne." I don't know exactly what
he meant. I don't think he knew himself, but he was quite excited when
he spoke of the hero.

Boulanger's campaign was very cleverly done. His agents distributed
papers, pictures and _money_ most liberally. One of the curious features
of that episode was the quantity of money that was given. Gold flowed
freely in to the General's coffers from all parts of France; great
names, grandes dames, giving largely and openly to the cause--a great
deal sent anonymously and a great deal in very small sums.

Boulanger lived in our street, and I was astounded one day when I met
him (I did not know him) riding--always with a man on each side of him.
Almost every one took off his hat to him, and there were a few faint
cries of "Vive Boulanger," proceeding chiefly from the painters and
masons who were building a house just opposite ours.

Certainly for a short time he had the game in his hands--could, I think,
have carried the country, but when the moment to act arrived, his nerve
failed him. It is difficult to understand what made his great popularity.
Politics had not been satisfactory. The President--Grévy--had resigned
under unfortunate circumstances. There had been a succession of weak
and inefficient cabinets, and there was a vague feeling of unrest in
the country. Boulanger seemed to promise something better. He was a
soldier (which always appeals to the French), young and dashing,
surrounded by clever unscrupulous people of all classes. Almost all
the young element of both parties, Radical and Conservative (few of
the moderate Republicans), had rallied to his programme--"Révision et
Dissolution." His friends were much too intelligent to let him issue a
long "manifesto" (circular), promising all sorts of reforms and
changes he never could have carried out, while his two catch words
gave hopes to everybody. A revision of the constitution might mean a
monarchy, empire, or military dictatorship. Each party thought its
turn had come, and dissolving the chambers would of course bring a
new one, where again each party hoped to have the majority.

The Paris election by an overwhelming majority was his great triumph.
The Government did all they could to prevent it, but nothing could stop
the wave of popularity. The night of the election Boulanger and his
État-major were assembled at Durand's, the well-known café on the corner
of the Boulevard and the rue Royale. As the evening went on and the
returns came in--far exceeding anything they had hoped for--there was
but one thought in every one's mind--"A l'Élysée." Hundreds of people
were waiting outside and he would have been carried in triumph to the
Palace. He could not make up his mind. At midnight he still wavered. His
great friend, the poet Déroulède, then took out his watch--waited, in
perfect silence, until it was five minutes past twelve, and then said,
"Général, depuis cinq minutes votre auréole baisse." Boulanger went out
by a side door, leaving his friends--disappointed and furious--to
announce to the waiting crowd that the General had gone home. He could
certainly have got to the Elysée that night. How long he would have
stayed, and whom he would have put there, we shall never know.

MAREUIL, October 31st.

It has been a beautiful, warm, bright autumn day and, for a wonder, we
have had no frost yet, not even a white one, so that the garden is still
full of flowers, and all day the village children have been
coming--begging for some to decorate the graves for to-morrow. I went in
to the churchyard this afternoon, which was filled with women and
children--looking after their dead. It is not very pretty--our little
churchyard--part of a field enclosed on the slope of the hill, not many
trees, a few tall poplars and a laurel hedge--but there is a fine open
view over the great fields and woods--always the dark blue line of the
forest in the distance. They are mostly humble graves--small farmers and
peasants--but I fancy they must sleep very peacefully in the fields they
have worked in all their lives--full of poppies and cornflowers in
summer and a soft gold brown in the autumn, when the last crops are cut
and the hares run wild over the hills.

I think these two days--the "Toussaint" and the "Jour des Morts"--are
the two I like best in the Catholic Church, and certainly they are the
only ones, in our part of the world, when the churches are full. I
walked about some little time looking at all the preparations. Every
grave had some flowers (sometimes only a faded bunch of the last field
flowers) except one, where there were no flowers, but a little border of
moss all around and a slip of pasteboard on a stick stuck into the
ground with "à ma Mere" written on it. All the graves are very simple,
generally a plain white cross with headstone and name. One or two of the
rich farmers had something rather more important--a slab of marble, or a
broken column when it was a child's grave, and were more ambitious in
the way of flowers and green plants, but no show of any kind--none of
the terrible bead wreaths one sees in large cities.

There was a poor old woman, nearly bent double, leaning on a stick,
standing at one of the very modest graves; a child about six years old
with her, with a bunch of flowers in a broken cup she was trying to
arrange at the foot of the grave. I suppose my face was expressive, for
the old woman answered my unspoken thought. "Ah, yes, Madame, it is _I_
who ought to be lying there instead of my children. All gone before me
except this one grandchild, and I a helpless, useless burden upon the
charity of the parish."

On my way home I met all the village children carrying flowers. We had
given our best chrysanthemums for the "pain bénit," which we offer
to-morrow to the church. Three or four times a year, at the great fêtes,
the most important families of the village offer the "pain bénit," which
is then a brioche. We gave our boulanger "carte blanche," and he
evidently was very proud of his performance, as he offered to bring it
to us before it was sent to the church, but we told him we would see it
there. I am writing late. We have all come upstairs. It is so mild that
my window is open; there is not a sound except the sighing of the wind
in the pines and the church bells that are ringing for the vigil of All
Saints. Besides our own bells, we hear others, faintly, in the distance,
from the little village of Neufchelles, about two miles off. It is a bad
sign when we hear Neufchelles too well. Means rain. I should be so sorry
if it rained to-morrow, just as all the fresh flowers have been put on
the graves.

November 2nd. "Jour des Morts."

We had a beautiful day yesterday and a nice service in our little
church. Our "pain bénit" was a thing of beauty and quite distracted the
school children. It was a most imposing edifice--two large, round
brioches, four smaller ones on top, they went up in a pyramid. The four
small ones go to the notabilities of the village--the curé, two of the
principal farmers and the miller; the whole thing very well arranged,
with red and white flowers and lighted tapers. It was carried by two
"enfants de choeur," preceded by the beadle with his cocked hat and
staff and followed by two small girls with lighted tapers. The "enfants
de choeur" were not in their festal attire of red soutanes and red
shoes--only in plain black. Since the inventories ordered by the
government in all the churches, most of the people have taken away their
gifts in the way of vestments, soutanes, vases, etc., and the red
soutanes, shoes and caps, with a handsome white satin embroidered
vestment that C. gave the church when she was married, are carefully
folded and put away in a safe place out of the church until better times
should come.

After luncheon we went over to Soissons in the auto--the most enchanting
drive through the forest of Villers-Cotterets--the poplar trees a line
of gold and all the others taking the most lovely colours of red and
brown. Soissons is a fine old cathedral town with broad squares, planted
with stiff trees like all the provincial towns in France; many large
old-fashioned hotels, entre cour et jardin, and a number of convents and
abbeys, now turned into schools, barracks, government offices of all
kinds, but the fine proportions and beautiful lines are always there.

The city has seen many changes since its first notoriety as the capital
of the France of Clovis, and one feels how much has happened in the
quiet deserted streets of the old town, where almost every corner is
picturesque. The fine ruins of St. Jean des Vignes faced us as we drove
along the broad boulevard. A façade and two beautiful towers with a
cloister is all that remains of a fine old abbey begun in 1076. It is
now an arsenal. One can not always get in, but the porter made no
difficulty for us, and we wandered about in the court-yard and cloister.
The towers looked beautifully grey and soft against the bright blue sky,
and the view over Soissons, with all its churches and old houses, was
charming. It seems that Thomas à Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, lived
at the Abbey when he was exiled from England and had taken refuge in

We wanted to go to the service in the Cathedral, but thought we would go
first to the pâtissier (an excellent one, well known in all the
neighbourhood) famous for a very good bonbon made of coffee and called
"Tors de Soissons." The little place was full--every schoolboy in
Soissons was there eating cakes and bonbons. There was a notice up in
the shop, "Lipton Tea," and we immediately asked for some. The woman
made a place for us, with difficulty, on a corner of a table and gave us
very good English tea, toast and cakes. I complimented the patronne on
her tea and she said so many automobiles with foreigners--English
principally--passed through Soissons in the summer--all asking for
tea--that she thought she must try to get some. One of the ladies told
her where to get Lipton Tea and how much to pay for it. She has found it
a very good speculation.

We walked to the Cathedral through a grand old Square planted with fine
trees, that had once been a part of the garden of the Évêché. As it was
getting dark, we could not see the outside very well. A gigantic mass of
towers and little steeples loomed up through the twilight, but the
inside was very striking--crowded with people, lights, banners, flowers
everywhere--five or six priests were officiating and the Bishop in full
dress, with his gold mitre on his head, was seated on his red velvet
throne under the big crucifix. The congregation (there were a good many
men) was following the service very devoutly, but there were a great
many people walking about and stopping at the different chapels which
rather takes away from the devotional aspect. Unfortunately the sermon
had only just begun, so we didn't hear any music. The organ is very
fine and they have a very good choir. Neither did we hear the famous
chimes, which we regretted very much. Some of the bells have a beautiful
sound--one in particular, that used to be at St. Jean de Vignes, has a
wonderful deep note. One hears it quite distinctly above all the others.
All the bells have names. This one used to be called "Simon," after a
Bishop Simon le Gras, who blessed it in 1643. When the voice got faint
and cracked with age, it was "refondue" (recast) and called Julie

It was quite dark and cold when we started back. We had to light our big
lantern almost as soon as we left Soissons. For some little time after
we got out of the town we met people walking and driving--all with
holiday garbs and faces--but once we plunged in the long forest alleys
we were absolutely cut off from the outside world. It is a curious
sensation I have never got accustomed to, those long, dark, lonely
forest roads. The leaves were still so thick on the trees that we could
hardly see the last glow of a beautiful orange sunset. The only sign of
life was a charbonnier's hut in a clearing quite close to the road. They
had a dull light; just enough to let us see dusky figures moving about.

This morning our church looked quite different--no more banners,
embroideries or bright flowers, all draped in black and a bier covered
with a black pall in the middle of the aisle--the curé in a black satin
vestment; all the congregation in black. I went out before the end of
the service. All the black draperies and the black kneeling figures and
the funeral psalms were so inexpressibly sad and dreary. I was glad to
get out into the sunshine and to the top of the hill, where the cemetery
gates stood wide open and the sun was streaming down on all the green
graves with their fresh flowers and plants. Soon we heard the sound of
the chaunt, and the procession wound slowly up the steep, straggling
village street. A banner and cross carried by the boys and girls--then
the curé, with his "ostensoir," followed by his "enfants de choeur"
carrying books and tapers, then the congregation. There were a great
many people already in the cemetery. The little procession halted at the
foot of the cross in the middle. There were several prayers and psalms,
and then the curé made the tour of the cemetery, sprinkling all the
graves with holy water and saying a short prayer at each. The procession
broke up into groups, all kneeling at the different graves praying for
their dead. There were not many men; a few old ones. They were not
kneeling, but stood reverently, with bowed heads, when the curé passed.
It was a pretty sight--the kneeling figures, the flower-covered graves,
the little procession winding in and out among the tombstones, the white
soutanes of the boys shining in the sun and not a sound except the
droning of the chaunts. As it was fête--one of the great religious fêtes
of the year--there was no work going on--no labourers in the fields, no
carts on the road--nothing but the great stillness of the plains.

We had our curé at dinner. We were quite sure no one else would ask him
and it seemed a shame to leave him in his empty "presbytère" on a fête
day. I think his evenings with us are the only bright spots in his life
just now. The situation of the priests is really wretched and their
future most uncertain. This government has taken away the very small
stipend they allowed them. Our curé got his house and nine hundred
francs a year--not quite two hundred dollars. In many cases they have
refused to let the priests live in their "presbytères" unless they pay
rent. The churches are still open. They can have their services if they
like, but those who have no fortune (which is the case with most of
them) are entirely dependent upon the voluntary contribution of their

Our little curé has no longer his servant--the traditional, plain,
middle-aged bonne of the priest (they are not allowed to have a woman
servant under fifty). He lives quite alone in his cold, empty house and
has a meal of some kind brought into him from the railway café. What is
hardest for him is never to have an extra franc to give to his poor. He
is profoundly discouraged, but does his duty simply and cheerfully;
looks after the sick, nurses them when there is a long illness or an
accident, teaches the women how to keep their houses clean and how to
cook good plain food. He is a farmer's son and extraordinarily
practical. He came to us one day to ask if we had a spare washing tub we
could give him. He was going to show a woman who sewed and embroidered
beautifully and who was very poor and unpractical, how to do her
washing. I think the people have a sort of respect for him, but they
don't come to church. Everybody appeals to him. We couldn't do anything
one day with a big kite some one had given the children. No one could in
the house, neither gardener, chauffeur, nor footmen, so we sent for him,
and it was funny to see him shortening the tail of the kite and racing
over the lawn in his black soutane. However, he made it work.

He was rather embarrassed this evening, as he had refused something I
had asked him to do and was afraid I wouldn't understand. We were
passing along the canal the other day when the "éclusier" came out of
his house and asked me if I would come and look at his child who was
frightfully ill--his wife in despair. Without thinking of my little ones
at home, I went into the house, where I found, in a dirty, smelly room,
a slatternly woman holding in her arms a child, about two years old,
who, I thought, was dead--such a ghastly colour--eyes turned up;
however, the poor little thing moaned and moved and the woman was shaken
with sobs--the father and two older children standing there, not knowing
what to do. They told me the doctor had come in the early morning and
said there was nothing to do. I asked if they had not sent for the curé.
"No, they hadn't thought of it." I said I would tell him as I passed the
presbytère on my way home. He wasn't there, but I left word that the
child was dying--could he go?

The child died about an hour after I had left the house. I sent a black
skirt to the woman and was then obliged to go to Paris for two or three
days. When I came back I asked my gardener, who is from this part of the
country and knows everybody, if the child's funeral had been quite
right. He told me it was awful--there was no service--the curé would not
bury him as he had never been baptized. The body had been put into a
plain wooden box and carried to the cemetery by the father and a friend.

I was very much upset, but, of course, the thing was over and there was
nothing to be done. However, when we talked it over, I understood quite
well. To begin with, all priests are forbidden to read the burial
service over any one who has not been baptized, therefore he had no
choice. And this man was not only an unbeliever, but a mocker of all
religion. When his last child was born he had friends over, from some of
the neighbouring villages, who were Freemasons (they are a very bad lot
in France); they had a great feast and baptized the child in red wine. I
rather regretted the black frock I sent the mother, but she looked so
utterly wretched and perhaps she could not help herself.

The little curé is very pleased to have his midnight mass this year on
Christmas eve. Last year it was suppressed. There was such angry feeling
and hostility to the clergy that the authorities were afraid there might
be scenes and noisy protestations in the churches; perhaps in some
quarters of the big cities, but certainly not in the country where
people hold very much to the midnight mass. It is also one of the
services that most people attend. It is always a pretty sight in the
country, particularly if there happens to be snow on the ground. Every
one that can walk comes. One sees the little bands arriving across the
fields and along the canal--five or six together, with a lantern.
Entire families turn out--the old grandfathers hobbling along on their
sticks, the women carrying their babies, who are generally very
good--quite taken up with the lights and music, or else asleep. We
always sing Adam's "Noël." In almost every church in France, I think,
they sing it. Even in the big Paris churches like the Madeleine and St.
Eustache, where they have orchestras and trained choirs, they always
sing the "Noël" at some period of the service.

MAREUIL, le 24 Mai.

To-day was the Première Communion at La Ferté, and I had promised the
Abbé Devigne to go. I couldn't have the auto, as Francis was at a
meeting of a Syndicat Agricole in quite another direction. So I took the
train (about seven minutes), and I really believe I had the whole train
to myself. No one travels in France, on Sunday, in the middle of the
day. It is quite a long walk from the station to the church (the service
was at Notre Dame, the church on the hill), with rather a steep climb at
the end. The little town looked quite deserted--a few women standing at
their doors and in all directions white figures of all ages were
galloping up the hill. The bells were ringing and we were a little late.
The big doors of the church were wide open, the organ playing, and a
good many people standing about. The altar was bright with flowers and
candles, and "oriflammes" of blue and pink gauze, worked with gold and
silver lilies, were stretched across the church between the pillars. One
or two banners with the head of the Virgin and flowers painted in bright
colours were also hanging from the columns. Two or three priests, with
handsome vestments--white embroidered in gold--were officiating, and the
choir boys wore their red petticoats--soutanes trimmed with lace and red
shoes and caps. The Suisse (beadle), with his cocked hat, silver
embroidered coat and big cane, was hovering about, keeping order.

Just inside the chancel sat the "communiants"--fifty boys and girls. The
girls--all in white from top to toe--white dresses, shoes, and gloves,
and long white veils coming to the edge of the dress, and either a white
cap (which looks very pretty and quaint on the little heads--rather like
some of the old Dutch pictures) or a wreath of white flowers. With them
sat about half a dozen smaller girls--also in white, with wreaths of
white roses. They were too small to make their first communion, but they
were to hold the cordons of the banner when the procession passed down
the church. The boys were all in black, short jackets, white waistcoats,
and white ribbon bows on their sleeves.

The church was very full--mostly women, a few men at the bottom. It was
a pretty sight when the procession moved around the church. First came
the "sacristain" in his black skirt and white soutane, then the banner
held by two of the big girls; the group of little ones--some of them
quite tiny and so pretty with the wreaths of white roses on their black
hair--holding the cords and looking most pleased with their part of the
function. Just behind them came the good old religieuse Soeur St.
Antoine, hovering over her little flock and keeping them all in their
places; then all the communiants, the smallest girls first, the boys
behind, all carrying lighted tapers and singing a hymn to the
accompaniment of the organ.

They went first to the font, stopped there, and one of the girls read a
sort of prayer renewing their baptismal vows. Then they started again,
in the same order, to the Chapelle de la Vierge, always singing their
hymn, and knelt at the rails. Then the hymn stopped, and they recited,
all together, a prayer to the Virgin. The little childish voices sounded
quite distinctly in the old church--one heard every word. The
congregation was much interested.

There wasn't a sound. I don't know if it was any sort of religious
feeling--some dim recollection of their early days, or merely the love
of a show of any kind that is inherent in all the Latin race, but they
seemed much impressed. While the collection was being made there was
music--very good local talent--two violin soli played by a young fellow,
from one of the small neighbouring châteaux, whom we all knew well, and
the "Panus Angelicus" of César Franck, very well sung by the wife of the
druggist. The curé of La Ferté, a very clever, cultivated man, with a
charming voice and manner, made a very pretty, short address, quite
suited to childish ears and understanding, with a few remarks at the end
to the parents, telling them it was their fault if their children grew
up hostile or indifferent to religion; that it was a perfectly false
idea that to be patriotic and good citizens meant the abandonment of all
religious principles.

We waited until the end of the service (Francis and his friends arrived
in time to hear the curé's address), and watched the procession
disappear down the steep path and gradually break up as each child was
carried off by a host of friends and relations to its home. The curé was
very pleased, said he had had a "belle fête"--people had sent flowers
and ribbons and helped as much as they could to decorate the church. I
asked him if he thought it made a lasting impression on the children. He
thought it did on the girls, but the boys certainly not. Until their
first communion he held them a little, could interest them in books and
games after school hours, but after that great step in their lives they
felt themselves men, and were impatient of any control.



It had been a cold December, quite recalling Christmas holidays at
home--when we used to think Christmas without snow wasn't a real
Christmas, and half the pleasure of getting the greens to dress the
church was gone, if the children hadn't to walk up to their ankles in
untrodden snow across the fields to get the long, trailing branches of
ivy and bunches of pine. We were _just_ warm enough in the big
château. There were two calorifères, and roaring wood fires (trees) in
the chimneys; but even I must allow that the great stone staircase
and long corridors were cold: and I couldn't protest when nearly all
the members of the household--of all ages--wrapped themselves in
woolen shawls and even fur capes at night when the procession mounted
the big staircase. I had wanted for a long time to make a Christmas
Tree in our lonely little village of St. Quentin, near Louvry, our
farm, but I didn't get much support from my French friends and
relations. W. was decidedly against it. The people wouldn't
understand--had never seen such a thing; it was entirely a foreign
importation, and just beginning to be understood in the upper classes
of society. One of my friends, Madame Casimir-Périer,[4] who has a
beautiful château at Pont-sur-Seine (of historic renown--"La Grande
Mademoiselle" danced there--"A Pont j'ai fait venir les violons", she
says in her memoirs), also disapproved. She gives away a great deal
herself, and looks after all her village, but not in that way. She
said I had much better spend the money it would cost, on good,
sensible, warm clothes, blankets, "bons de pain," etc.; there was no
use in giving them ideas of pleasure and refinement they had never
had--and couldn't appreciate. Of course it was all perfectly logical
and sensible, but I did so want to be unreasonable, and for once give
these poor, wretched little children something that would be a delight
to them for the whole year--one poor little ray of sunshine in their
gray, dull lives.

  [4] Madame Casimir-Périer, widow of the well-known liberal statesman,
  and mother of the ex-President of the Republic.

We had many discussions in the big drawing-room after dinner, when W.
was smoking in the arm-chair and disposed to look at things less
sternly than in bright daylight. However, he finally agreed to leave
me a free hand, and I told him we should give a warm garment to every
child, and to the very old men and women. I knew I should get plenty
of help, as the Sisters and Pauline promised me dolls and "dragées." I
am sorry he couldn't be here; the presence of the Ambassador would
give more éclat to the fête, and I think in his heart he was rather
curious as to what we could do, but he was obliged to go back to
London for Christmas. His leave was up, and beside, he had various
country and shooting engagements where he would certainly enjoy
himself and see interesting people. I shall stay over Christmas and
start for London about the 29th, so as to be ready to go to
Knowsley[5] by the 30th, where we always spend the New Year's Day.

  [5] The Earl of Derby's fine palace near Liverpool.

We started off one morning after breakfast to interview the
school-mistress and the Mayor--a most important personage. If you had
ever seen St. Quentin you would hardly believe it could possess such
an exalted functionary. The village consists of about twelve little,
low gray houses, stretching up a steep hill, with a very rough road
toward the woods of Borny behind. There are forty inhabitants, a
church, and a school-house; but it _is_ a "commune," and not the
smallest in France (there is another still smaller somewhere in the
South, toward the Alpes Maritimes). I always go and make a visit to
the Mayor, who is a very small farmer and keeps the drinking shop[6]
of the village. We shake hands and I sit a few minutes in a wooden
chair in the one room (I don't take a drink, which is so much gained),
and we talk about the wants and general behaviour of the population.
The first time I went I was on horseback, so we dismounted and had our
little talk. When we got up to go he hurriedly brought out a bench for
me to mount from, and was quite bewildered when he saw W. lift me to
the saddle from the ground.

  [6] Cabaret.

The church is a pretty, old gray building--standing very high, with
the little graveyard on one side, and a grass terrace in front, from
which one has the most lovely view down the valley, and over the
green slopes to the woods--Borny and Villers-Cotterets on one side,
Chézy the other. It is very worn and dilapidated inside, and is never
open except on the day of St. Quentin,[7] when the curé of La
Ferté-Milon comes over and has a service. The school-house is a nice
modern little house, built by W. some years ago. It looks as if it had
dropped down by mistake into this very old world little hamlet.

  [7] In August, I think.

It is a short walk, little more than two kilomètres from the gates of
the big park, and the day was enchanting--cold and bright; too bright,
indeed, for the low, gray clouds of the last days had been promising
snow and I wanted it so much for my tree! We were quite a
party--Henrietta, Anne, Pauline, Alice and Francis, Bonny the
fox-terrier, and a very large and heavy four-wheeled cart, which the
children insisted upon taking and which naturally had to be drawn up all
the hills by the grown-ups, as it was much too heavy for the little
ones. Bonny enjoyed himself madly, making frantic excursions to the
woods in search of rabbits, absolutely unheeding call or whistle, and
finally emerging dirty and scratched, stopping at all the rabbit holes
he met on the way back, and burrowing deep into them until nothing was
left but a stumpy little white tail wagging furiously.

We went first to the Mayor, as we were obliged to ask his permission to
give our party at the school. Nothing in France can be done without
official sanction. I wanted, too, to speak to him about a church
service, which I was very anxious to have before the Tree was lighted. I
didn't want the children's only idea of Christmas to be cakes and toys;
and that was rather difficult to arrange, as the situation is so
strained between the clergy and the laïques, particularly the curé and
the school-master. I knew I should have no trouble with the
school-mistress (the school is so small it is mixed girls and boys from
four to twelve--and there is a woman teacher; she is the wife of one of
our keepers, and a nice woman)--but I didn't know how the Mayor would
feel on the subject. However, he was most amiable; would do anything I
wanted. I said I held very much to having the church open and that I
would like as many people to come as it would hold. Would he tell all
the people in the neighbourhood? I would write to the principal farmers,
and I was sure we could make a most interesting fête. He was rather
flattered at being consulted; said he would come up with us and open the
church. It was absolutely neglected and there was nothing in the way of
benches, carpets, etc. I told him I must go first to the school, but I
would meet him at the church in half an hour.

The children were already up the hill, tugging the big cart filled with
pine cones. The school-mistress was much pleased at the idea of the
Christmas Tree; she had never seen one except in pictures, and never
thought she would really have one in her school. We settled the day, and
she promised to come and help arrange the church. Then we went into the
school-room, and it was funny to hear the answer--a roar--of "Oui,
Madame Waddington," when I asked her if the children were "good"; so we
told them if they continued very good there would be a surprise for
them. There are only thirty scholars--rather poor and miserable looking;
some of them come from so far, trudge along the high-road in a little
band, in all weathers, insufficiently clad--one big boy to-day had on a
linen summer jacket. I asked the teacher if he had a tricot underneath.
"Mais non, Madame, où l'aurait-il trouvé?" He had a miserable little
shirt underneath which may once have been flannel, but which was worn

We chose our day and then adjourned to the church, where the Mayor
and a nice, red-cheeked, wrinkled old woman[8] who keeps the
ornaments, such as they are, of the church were waiting for us. It was
certainly bare and neglected, the old church, bits of plaster dropping
off walls and ceilings, and the altar and one or two little statues
still in good condition; but we saw we could arrange it pretty well
with greens, the few flowers, chrysanthemums, Christmas roses, etc.,
that were still in the green-house, a new red carpet for the altar
steps, and of course vases, tall candlesticks, etc. There was one
handsome bit of old lace on a white nappe for the altar, and a good
dress for the Virgin. We could have the school benches, and the Mayor
would lend chairs for the "quality." On the whole we were satisfied,
and told W. triumphantly at dinner that the Mayor, so far from making
any objection, was pleased as Punch; he had never seen a Christmas
Tree either.

  [8] La Mère Rogov.

[Illustration: The Mayor and a nice, red-cheeked, wrinkled old woman
were waiting for us.]

The next day the list of the children was sent according to age and
sex--also the old people; and we were very busy settling what we must do
in the way of toys. The principal thing was to go to Paris and get all
we wanted--toys, "bêtises", and shiny things for the Tree, etc.
Henrietta and I undertook that, and we went off the same day that W.
left for London. It was bitterly cold--the ground frozen hard--and we
had a long drive, eighteen kilomètres through Villers-Cotterets
forest--but no snow, only a beautiful white frost--all the trees and
bushes covered with rime. It was like driving through a fairy forest.
When we had occasional gleams of sunlight every leaf sparkled, and the
red berries of the holly stood out beautifully from all the white. The
fine old ruins of La Ferté looked splendid rising out of a mass of
glistening underwood and long grass. We are very proud of our old
château-fort, which has withstood well the work of time. It was begun
(and never finished) by Louis d'Orléans in 1303, and was never
inhabited. Now there is nothing left but the façade and great round
towers, but quite enough to show what it might have been. There is also
a bas-relief, perfectly well preserved, over the big door, of the
Coronation of the Virgin, the kneeling figure quite distinct. On the
other side is a great grass place (village green) where the fêtes of La
Ferté take place, and where all the town dances the days of the
"Assemblée." From the bottom of the terrace, at the foot of the low
wall, one has a magnificent view over the town and the great forest of
Villers-Cotterets stretching away in front, a long blue line on the
horizon. In the main street of La Ferté there is a statue of Racine, who
was born there. It is in white marble, in the classic draperies of the
time, and is also in very good preservation. The baptismal register of
Jean Racine is in the archives of La Ferté.

The road all the way to Villers-Cotterets was most animated. It was
market-day, and we met every description of vehicle, from the high,
old-fashioned tilbury of the well-to-do farmer, to the peasant's
cart--sometimes an old woman driving, well wrapped up, her turban on her
head, but a knit shawl wound around it, carrying a lot of cheeses to
market; sometimes a man with a cow tied behind his cart, and a calf
inside. We also crossed Menier's équipage de chasse, horses and dogs
being exercised. We talked a few minutes to Hubert, the piqueur, who was
in a very bad humor. They had not hunted for some days, and dogs and
horses were unruly. The horses were a fine lot, almost all white or
light gray. We go sometimes to the meets, and the effect is very good,
as the men all wear scarlet coats and the contrast is striking.

We had an exhausting day in Paris, but managed to get pretty nearly
everything. The little children were easily disposed of--dolls, drums,
wooden horses, etc.; but the bigger boys and girls, who have outgrown
toys, are more difficult to suit. However, with knives, paint-boxes,
lotos (geographical and historical), for the boys; and handkerchief and
work-boxes, morocco bags, etc., we did finally get our fifty objects.
There are always extra children cropping up. Shopping was not very easy,
as the streets and boulevards were crowded and slippery. We had a fairly
good cab, but the time seemed endless. The big bazaars--Hôtel de Ville,
rue d'Amsterdam, etc.--were the most amusing; really, one could get
anything from a five-sou doll to a ménagère (the little cooking-stove
all the peasant women use in their cottages). There were armies of
extras--white-aproned youths, who did their best for us. We explained to
one of the superintendents what we wanted, and he gave us a very
intelligent boy, who followed us about with an enormous basket, into
which everything was put. When we finally became almost distracted with
the confusion and the crowd and our list, we asked the boy what he had
liked when he was eleven years old at school; and he assured us all boys
liked knives and guns.

When we had finished with the boys we had the decorations for the Tree
to get, and then to the Bon Marché for yards of flannel, calico, bas de
laine, tricots, etc. We had given W. rendezvous at five at Henrietta's.
He was going to cross at night. We found him there having his tea. He
had seen lots of people; been to the Élysée and had a long interview
with the President (Grévy); then to the Quai d'Orsay to get his last
instructions from the Minister; and he had still people coming to see
him. When we left (our train was before his) he was closeted with one of
his friends, a candidate for the Institute, very keen about his vote
which W. had promised him, and going over for about the twentieth time
the list of the members to see what his chances were. However, I suppose
all candidates are exactly alike, and W. says he is sure he was a
nuisance to all his friends when he presented himself at the Institute.
One or two people were waiting in the dining-room to speak to him, and
his servant was distracted over his valise, which wasn't begun then. I
promised him I would write him a faithful account of our fête once we
had decided our day. We took the five-o'clock train down, and a nice
cold drive we had going home. The roads were rather slippery, and the
forest black and weird. The trees which had been so beautiful in the
morning covered with rime, seemed a massive black wall hemming us in. It
is certainly a lonely bit of country, once we had left the lights of
Villers-Cotterets behind us, crossed the last railway, and were fairly
started in the forest. We didn't meet anything--neither cart, carriage,
bûcheron, nor pedestrian of any kind.

Henrietta was rather nervous, and she breathed a sigh of relief when we
got out on the plains and trotted down the long hill that leads to La
Ferté. The château lights looked very warm and home-like as we drove in.
We gave a detailed account of all we had bought, and as we had brought
our lists with us we went to work at once, settling what each child
should have. I found a note from the Abbé Maréchal, the curé of
Laferté-Milon, whom I wanted to consult about our service. He is a very
clever, moderate man, a great friend of ours, and I was sure he would
help us and arrange a service of some kind for the children. Of course I
was rather vague about a Catholic service; a Protestant one I could have
arranged myself, with some Christmas carols and a short liturgy, but I
had no idea what Christmas meant to Catholic minds. We had asked him to
come to breakfast, and we would go over to the village afterward, see
the church and what could be done. He was quite pleased at the idea of
doing anything for his poor little parish, and he is so fond of children
and young people that he was quite as much interested as we were. He
knew the church, having held a service there three or four times. We
walked over, talking over the ceremony and what we could do. He said he
would give a benediction, bring over the Enfant Jésus, and make a small
address to the children. The music was rather difficult to arrange, but
we finally agreed that we would send a big omnibus to bring over the
harmonium from La Ferté, one or two Sisters, two choir children, and
three or four of the older girls of the school who could sing, and he
would see that they learned two or three canticles.

We agreed to do everything in the way of decoration. He made only one
condition: that the people should come to the service. I could answer
for all our household and for some of the neighbours--almost all, in
fact--as I was sure the novelty of the Christmas Tree would attract
them, and they wouldn't mind the church service thrown in.

We went of course to see the Mayor, as the curé was obliged to notify
him that he wished to open the church, and also to choose the day. We
took Thursday, which is the French holiday; that left us just two
days to make our preparations. We told Madame Isidore (the
school-mistress) we would come on Wednesday for the church, bringing
flowers, candles, etc., and Thursday morning to dress the Tree. The
service was fixed for three o'clock--the Tree afterward in the
school-room. We found our big ballots[9] from the bazaars and other
shops, when we got home, and all the evening we wrote tickets and
names (some of them so high-sounding--Ismérie, Aline, Léocadie, etc.),
and filled little red and yellow bags, which were very troublesome to
make, with "dragées."

  [9] Big packages.

Wednesday we made a fine expedition to the woods--the whole party, the
donkey-cart, and one of the keepers to choose the Tree--a most important
performance, as we wanted the real pyramid "sapin," tapering off to a
fine point at the top. Labbey (keeper) told us his young son and the
coachman's son had been all the morning in the woods getting enormous
branches of pine, holly, and ivy, which we would find at the church. We
came across various old women making up their bundles of fagots and dead
wood (they are always allowed to come once a week to pick up the dead
wood, under the keeper's surveillance). They were principally from
Louvry and St. Quentin, and were staggering along, carrying quite heavy
bundles on their poor old bent backs. However, they were very smiling
to-day, and I think the burden was lightened by the thought of the
morrow. We found a fine tree, which was installed with some difficulty
in the donkey-cart; Francis and Alice taking turns driving, perched on
the trunk of the tree, and Labbey walking behind, supporting the top

We found the boys at the church, having already begun their
decorations--enormous, high pine branches ranged all along the wall, and
trails of ivy on the windows. The maids had arrived in the carriage,
bringing the new red carpet, vases, candelabras and tall candlesticks,
also two splendid wax candles painted and decorated, which Gertrude
Schuyler had brought us from Italy; all the flowers the gardener would
give them, principally chrysanthemums and Christmas roses. It seems he
wasn't at all well disposed; couldn't imagine why "ces dames" wanted to
despoil the green-houses "pour ce petit trou de St. Quentin."

We all worked hard for about an hour, and the little church looked quite
transformed. The red carpet covered all the worn, dirty places on the
altar steps, and the pine branches were so high and so thick that the
walls almost disappeared. When the old woman (gardienne) appeared she
was speechless with delight! As soon as we had finished there, we
adjourned to the school-house, and to our joy snow was falling--quite
heavy flakes. Madame Isidore turned all the children into a small room,
and we proceeded to set up our Tree. It was a great deal too tall, and
if we hadn't been there they would certainly have chopped it off at the
top, quite spoiling our beautiful point; but as we insisted, they cut
away from the bottom, and it really was the regular pyramid one always
wants for a Christmas Tree. We put it in a big green case (which we had
obtained with great difficulty from the gardener; it was quite empty,
standing in the orangerie, but he was convinced we would never bring it
back), moss all around it, and it made a great effect. The "garde de
Borny" arrived while we were working, and said he would certainly come
to the church in his "tenue de garde"; our two keepers would also be

[Illustration: There was one handsome bit of old lace on a white nappe
for the altar.]

Thursday morning we went early (ten o'clock) to St. Quentin and spent
over two hours decorating the Tree, ticketing and arranging all the
little garments. Every child in the neighbourhood was hanging around the
school-house when we arrived, the entrance being strictly forbidden
until after the service, when the Tree would be lighted. I expressed
great surprise at seeing the children at the school on a holiday, and
there were broad grins as they answered, "Madame Waddington nous a dit
de venir." It had snowed all night, and the clouds were low and gray,
and looked as if they were still full of snow. The going was extremely
difficult; not that the snow was very deep, but there was enough to make
the roads very slippery. We had the horses "ferrés à glace," and even
the donkey had nails on his shoes. The country looked beautiful--the
poor little village quite picturesque, snow on all the dark roofs, and
the church standing out splendidly from its carpet of snow--the tall
pines not quite covered, and always the curtain of forest shutting in
the valley.

We left the maids to breakfast with the keeper, and promised to be back
at three o'clock punctually. Our coachman, Hubert, generally objects
strongly to taking out his horses in bad weather on rough country roads
and making three or four trips backward and forward; but to-day he was
quite serene. He comes from that part of the neighbourhood and is
related to half the village. Our progress was slow, as we stopped a good
deal. It was a pretty sight as we got near St. Quentin: the church,
brightly lighted, stood out well on the top of the hill against a
background of tall trees, the branches just tipped with snow. The bell
was ringing, the big doors wide open, sending out a glow of warmth and
colour, and the carpet of white untrodden country snow was quite intact,
except a little pathway made by the feet of the men who had brought up
the harmonium. The red carpet and bright chrysanthemums made a fine
effect of colour, and the little "niche" (it could hardly be called a
chapel) of the Virgin was quite charming, all dressed with greens and
white flowers, our tall Italian candles making a grand show.

The La Ferté contingent had arrived. They had much difficulty in getting
the omnibus up to the church, as it was heavy with the harmonium on top;
however, everybody got out and walked up the hill, and all went off
well. The Abbé was robing, with his two choir children, in the minute
sacristy, and the two good Sisters were standing at the gate with all
their little flock--about ten girls, I should think. There were people
in every direction, of all sizes and ages--some women carrying a baby in
their arms and pushing one or two others in a cart, some wretched old
people so bent and wrinkled one couldn't imagine how they could crawl
from one room to another. A miserable old man bent double, really,
leaning on a child and walking with two canes, was pointed out to me as
the "père Colin," who makes the "margottins" (bundles of little dry
sticks used for making the fires) for the château. However, they were
all streaming up the slippery hillside, quite unmindful of cold or
fatigue. We walked up, too, and I went first to the school-house to see
if our provisions had come. Food was also a vexed question, as tea and
buns, which would seem natural to us, were unknown in these parts. After
many consultations with the women about us--lessiveuses (washerwomen),
keepers' wives, etc.--we decided upon hot wine and brioches. The Mayor
undertook to supply the wine and the glasses, and we ordered the
brioches from the Hôtel du Sauvage at La Ferté; the son of the house is
a very good pâtissier. It is a funny, old-fashioned little hotel, not
very clean, but has an excellent cuisine, also a wonderful sign board--a
bright red naked savage, with feathers in his hair and a club in his
hand--rather like the primitive pictures of North American Indians in
our school-books.

Everything was there, and the children just forming the procession to
walk to the church. Some of the farmers' wives were also waiting for us
at the school-house, so I only had a moment to go into the big
class-room to see if the Tree looked all right. It was quite ready, and
we agreed that the two big boys with the keeper should begin to light it
as soon as the service was over. Madame Isidore (the school-mistress)
was rather unhappy about the quantity of people. There were many more
than thirty children, but Henrietta and Pauline had made up a bundle of
extras, and I was sure there would be enough. She told us people had
been on the way since nine in the morning--women and children arriving
cold and wet and draggled, but determined to see everything. She showed
me one woman from Chézy, the next village (some distance off, as our
part of the country is very scantily populated; it is all great farms
and forests; one can go miles without seeing a trace of habitation). She
had arrived quite early with two children, a boy and a girl of seven and
eight, and a small baby in her arms; and when Madame Isidore
remonstrated, saying the fête was for her school only, not for the
entire country-side, the woman answered that Madame always smiled and
spoke so nicely to her when she passed on horseback that she was sure
she would want her to come. The French peasants love to be spoken to,
always answer civilly, and are interested in the horses, or the donkey,
or the children--anything that passes.

[Illustration: They were all streaming up the slippery hillside.]

We couldn't loiter, as the bell was tolling, the children already at the
church, and some one rushed down to say that "M. le Curé attendait ces
dames pour commencer son office." There was quite a crowd on the little
"place," everybody waiting for us to come in. We let the children troop
in first, sitting on benches on one side. In front of the altar there
were rows of chairs for the "quality." The Sisters and their girls sat
close up to the harmonium, and on a table near, covered with a pretty
white linen cloth trimmed with fine old lace (part of the church
property), was the Enfant Jésus in his cradle. This was to be a great
surprise to me. When it was decided that the Sisters should come to the
fête with some of the bigger girls, and bring the Enfant Jésus, they
thought there must be a new dress for the "babe," so every child
subscribed a sou, and the dress was made by the couturière of La Ferté.
It _was_ a surprise, for the Enfant Jésus was attired in a pink satin
garment with the high puffed fashionable sleeves we were all wearing!
However, I concealed my feelings, the good Sisters were so naïvely
pleased. I could only hope the children would think the sleeves were

As soon as the party from the château was seated, every one crowded in,
and there were not seats enough, nor room enough in the little church;
so the big doors remained open (it was fairly warm with the lights and
the people), and there were nearly as many people outside as in. The
three keepers (Garde de Borny and our two) looked very imposing. They
are all big men, and their belts and gun-barrels bright and shining.
They stood at the doors to keep order. The Mayor, too, was there, in a
black coat and white cravat, but he came up to the top of the church and
sat in the same row with me. He didn't have on his tricoloured scarf,
so I suppose he doesn't possess one.

It was a pretty, simple service. When the curé and his two choir
children in their short, white surplices and red petticoats came up the
aisle, the choir sang the fine old hymn "Adeste Fideles," the
congregation all joining in. We sang, too, the English words ("Oh, come,
all ye Faithful"); we didn't know the Latin ones, but hoped nobody would
notice. There were one or two prayers and a pretty, short address,
talking of the wonderful Christmas night so many years ago, when the
bright star guided the shepherds through the cold winter night to the
stable where the heavenly babe was born. The children listened most
attentively, and as all the boys in the village begin life as shepherds
and cow-boys, they were wildly interested. Then there was a benediction,
and at the end all the children in procession passed before the Enfant
Jésus and kissed his foot. It was pretty to see the little ones standing
up on tip-toe to get to the little foot, and the mothers holding up
their babes. While this was going on, the choir sang the Noël Breton of
Holmès, "Deux anges sont venus ce soir m'apporter de bien belles
choses." There was some little delay in getting the children into
procession again to go down to the school-house. They had been
supernaturally good, but were so impatient to see the Tree that it was
difficult to hold them. Henrietta and Pauline hurried on to light the
Tree. I waited for the Abbé. He was much pleased with the attendance,
and spoke so nicely to all the people.

We found the children all assembled in the small room at the school-house,
and as soon as we could get through the crowd we let them come in. The
Tree was quite beautiful, all white candles--quantities--shiny
ornaments and small toys, dolls, trumpets, drums, and the yellow and
red bags of "dragées" hanging on the branches. It went straight up to
the ceiling, and quite on top was a big gold star, the manufacture of
which had been a source of great tribulation at the château. We forgot
to get one in Paris, and sent in hot haste on Wednesday to La Ferté
for pasteboard and gold paper; but, alas! none of us could draw, and
we had no model. I made one or two attempts, with anything but a
satisfactory result: all the points were of different lengths and
there was nothing but points (more like an octopus than anything
else). However, Pauline finally produced a very good one (it really
looked like a star), and of course the covering it with gold paper was
easy. The crèche made a great effect, standing at the bottom of the
Tree with a tall candle on each side. All the big toys and clothes
were put on a table behind, where we all sat. Then the door was
opened; there was a rush at first, but the school-mistress kept strict
order. The little ones came first, their eyes round and fixed on the
beautiful Tree; then the bigger children, and immediately behind them
the "oldest inhabitants"--such a collection of old, bent, wrinkled,
crippled creatures--then as many as could get in. There wasn't a sound
at first, except some very small babies crowing and choking--then a
sort of hum of pleasure.

[Illustration: All the children in procession passed.]

We had two or three recitations in parts from the older scholars; some
songs, and at the end the "compliment," the usual thing--"Madame et
chère Bienfaitrice," said by a small thing about five years old,
speaking very fast and low, trying to look at me, but turning her head
always toward the Tree and being shaken back into her place by Madame
Isidore. Then we began the distribution--the clothes first, so as not to
despoil the Tree too soon. The children naturally didn't take the
slightest interest in warm petticoats or tricots, but their mothers did.

We had the little ones first, Francis giving to the girls and Alice to
the boys. Henrietta called the names; Pauline gave the toys to our two,
and Madame Isidore called up each child. The faces of the children, when
they saw dolls, trumpets, etc., being taken off the Tree and handed to
each of them, was a thing to remember. The little girls with their dolls
were too sweet, hugging them tight in their little fat arms. One or two
of the boys began to blow softly on the trumpets and beat the drums, and
were instantly hushed up by the parents; but we said they might make as
much noise as they pleased for a few moments, and a fine "vacarme" (row)
it was--the heavy boots of the boys contributing well as they moved
about after their trains, marbles, etc.

However, the candles were burning low (they only just last an hour) and
we thought it was time for cakes and wine. We asked the children if they
were pleased, also if each child had garment, toy, and "dragées," and to
hold them up. There was a great scamper to the mothers to get the
clothes, and then all the arms went up with their precious load.

The school-children passed first into the outer room, where the keepers'
wives and our maids were presiding over two great bowls of hot wine
(with a great deal of water, naturally) and a large tray filled with
brioches. When each child had had a drink and a cake they went out, to
make room for the outsiders and old people. Henrietta and Pauline
distributed the "extras"; I think there were about twenty in all,
counting the babies in arms--also, of course, the girls from La Ferté
who had come over with the Sisters to sing. I talked to some of the old
people. There was one poor old woman--looked a hundred--still gazing
spellbound at the Tree with the candles dying out, and most of the
ornaments taken off. As I came up to her she said: "Je suis bien
vieille, mais je n'aurais jamais cru voir quelque chose de si beau! Il
me semble que le ciel est ouvert"--poor old thing! I am so glad I wasn't
sensible, and decided to give them something pretty to look at and think
about. There was wine and cakes for all, and then came the closing

We (the quality) adjourned to the sitting-room of the school-mistress
(where there were red arm-chairs and a piano), who produced a bottle of
better wine, and then we "trinquéd" (touched glasses) with the Mayor,
who thanked us in the name of the commune for the beautiful fête we had
made for them. I answered briefly that I was quite happy to see them so
happy, and then we all made a rush for wraps and carriages.

The Abbé came back to the château to dine, but he couldn't get away
until he had seen his Sisters and harmonium packed safely into the big
omnibus and started for La Ferté. It looked so pretty all the way home.
It was quite dark, and the various groups were struggling down the hill
and along the road, their lanterns making a bright spot on the snow;
the little childish voices talking, laughing, and little bands running
backward and forward, some disappearing at a turn of the road, the
lantern getting dimmer, and finally vanishing behind the trees. We went
very slowly, as the roads were dreadfully slippery, and had a running
escort all the way to the Mill of Bourneville, with an accompaniment of
drums and trumpets. The melancholy plains of the Valois were transformed
tonight. In every direction we saw little twinkling lights, as the
various bands separated and struck off across the fields to some lonely
farm or mill. It is a lonely, desolate country--all great stretches of
fields and plains, with a far-away blue line of forests. We often drive
for miles without meeting a vehicle of any kind, and there are such
distances between the little hamlets and isolated farms that one is
almost uncomfortable in the absolute solitude. In winter no one is
working in the fields and one never hears a sound; a dog's bark is
welcome--it means life and movement somewhere.

[Illustration: There was some poor old woman still gazing spellbound.]

It is quite the country of the "haute culture," which Cherbuliez wrote
about in his famous novel, "La Ferme du Choquart." The farms are often
most picturesque--have been "abbayes" and monasteries. The massive round
towers, great gate-ways, and arched windows still remain;
occasionally, too, parts of a solid wall. There is a fine old
ruin--the "Commanderie," near Montigny, one of our poor little villages.
It belonged to the Knights Templars, and is most interesting. The chapel
walls are still intact, and the beautiful roof and high, narrow windows.
It is now, alas! a "poulailler" (chicken-house), and turkeys and
chickens are perched on the rafters and great beams that still support
the roof. The dwelling-house, too, is most interesting with its thick
gray walls, high narrow windows, and steep winding staircase. I was
always told there were "donjons" in the cellars, but I never had the
courage to go down the dark, damp, slippery staircase.

We were quite glad to get back to our big drawing-room with the fire and
the tea-table; for of course the drawback to our entertainment was the
stuffiness (not to say bad smell) of the little room. When all the
children and grown people got inmost of them with damp clothes and
shoes-the odour was something awful. Of course no window could be opened
on account of the candles, and the atmosphere was terrible. At the end,
when it was complicated with wine and cake and all the little ones'
faces smeared with chocolate and "dragées," I really don't know how we
stood it.

We had a very cheerful dinner. We complimented the Abbé upon his sermon,
which was really very pretty and poetical. He said the children's faces
quite inspired him, and beyond, over their heads, through the open door
he got a glimpse of the tall pines with their frosted heads, and could
almost fancy he saw the beautiful star.

We were all much pleased with our first "Christmas in the Valois."



MAREUIL-SUR-OURCQ, April 20th, 1899.

I could scarcely believe I was in our quiet little town of La
Ferté-Milon to-day. Such a transformation--flags flying, draperies at
all the windows, garlands of greens and flowers across the streets, and
a fine triumphal arch--all greens and flowers arranged about the centre
of the Grande Rue. Many people standing about, looking on, and making
suggestions; altogether, an air de fête which is most unusual in these
sleepy little streets where nothing ever passes, except at four o'clock,
when the three schools come out, and clatter down the street. The École
Maternelle comes first, the good Mère Cécile bringing up the rear of the
procession, holding the smallest children, babies three and four years
old, by the hand, three or four more clinging to her skirts, and guiding
them across the perilous passage of the bridge over the canal. It is a
pretty view from the bridge. The canal (really the river Ourcq,
canalisée), which has preserved its current and hasn't the dead,
sluggish look of most canals, runs alongside of the Mail, a large green
place with grass, big trees, a broad walk down the centre, and benches
under the trees. It is a sort of promenade for the inhabitants and also
serves as a village green, where all the fairs, shows and markets are
held. The opposite bank is bordered by quaint old houses, with round
towers and gardens, full of bright flowers, running down to the water's
edge. There is one curious old colombier which has been there for
centuries; near the bridge there is a lavoir, where there are always
women washing. They are all there to-day, but much distracted, wildly
interested in all that is going on--and the unwonted stir in the
streets; chattering hard, and giving their opinions as to the decoration
of the arch, which is evidently a source of great pride to the town.

On a bright sunny day, when the red roofs and flowers are reflected in
the water, and it is not too cold, their work doesn't seem very hard;
but on a winter afternoon, when they have to break the ice sometimes,
and a biting wind is blowing down the canal, it is pitiable to see the
poor things thinly clad, shivering and damp; their hands and arms red
and chapped with cold. On the other side of the bridge, the canal
wanders peacefully along through endless green meadows, bordered with
poplars, to Marolles, a little village where there is the first écluse
on the way to Paris.

We had been talking vaguely all winter of doing something at La
Ferté-Milon to fêter the bicentenaire of Racine. They were making
preparations at Paris, also at Port Royal, and it seemed hard to do
nothing in his native place. His statue in the Grande Rue is one of the
glories of La Ferté.

Jean Racine was born in La Ferté in 1639. He lost both father and mother
young, and was brought up by his grandparents. He was sent first to
school at Beauvais, later, while still quite a youth, to Port Royal. His
stay there influenced considerably his character and his writings; and
though he separated himself entirely from the "Solitaires" during the
years of his brilliant career as poet and courtier, there remained
always in his heart a latent tenderness for the quiet green valley of
the Chevreuse, where he had passed all his years of adolescence,
listening to the good Fathers, and imbibing their doctrines of the
necessity of divine grace to complete the character. His masters were
horrified and distressed when his talent developed into plays, which
brought him into contact with actors and actresses, and made him an
habitué of a frivolous Court.

There is a pretty letter from one of his aunts, a religieuse de Port
Royal, begging him to keep away from "des fréquentations abominables,"
and to return to a Christian life.

His career was rapid and brilliant. He was named to the Académie
Française in 1673, and when he retired from the theatre was a welcome
and honoured guest at the most brilliant court of the world. He was made
private historian to the King and accompanied him on various campaigns.
There are amusing mentions of the poets-historians (Boileau was also
royal historian) in the writings of their contemporaries, "les messieurs
du sublime," much embarrassed with their military accoutrements and much
fatigued by the unwonted exercise and long days on horseback. The King
showed Racine every favour. He was lodged at Versailles and at Marly and
was called upon to amuse and distract the monarch when the cares of
state and increasing years made all diversions pall upon him. He saw the
decline and disgrace of Madame de Montespan, the marvellous good fortune
of Madame de Maintenon. His famous tragedies of Esther and Athalie were
written at Madame de Maintenon's request for her special institution of
St. Cyr, and the performances were honoured by the presence of the King.
Racine himself directed the rehearsals and the music was composed by
Jean Baptiste Moreau, organist of St. Cyr. The youthful actresses showed
wonderful aptitude in interpreting the passionate, tender verses of the
poet. Young imaginations worked and jealousies and rivalries ran high.
After a certain number of representations Mme. de Maintenon was obliged
to suspend the performances in public, with costumes and music. The
plays were only given in private at the Maison de St. Cyr; the young
scholars playing in the dress of the establishment. He made his peace
with Port Royal before he died. He submitted Phèdre to his former
masters and had the satisfaction of being received again by the "Grand
Arnauld,"[10] who had been deeply offended by his ingratitude and his
criticisms and ridicule of many of his early friends and protectors. He
asked to be buried there, and his body remained until the destruction
and devastation of Port Royal, when it was removed to Paris and placed
in the Church of St. Etienne des Monts.

[10] "Le Grand Arnauld" (Antoine), one of the first and most
influential of the celebrated "Solitaires" who established themselves
at Port Royal, and one of the founders of the famous sect of
Jansenists whose controversies with the Jesuits convulsed the whole
religious world in France during the years 1662-1668. He was followed
in his retreat by his mother (after the husband's death), his brother
and four sisters, one of whom became the "Mère Angélique," Abbesse of
Port Royal.

He returned many times to La Ferté-Milon, and the great poet and
private historian of the Roi Soleil must often have climbed the steep
little street that leads to the ruins, and thought of the changes, since
the little boy lay on the grass at the foot of the great walls, dreaming
golden dreams of the future, which for him were so brilliantly realised.

In a small country town one is slow to adopt new ideas, slower still to
carry them out, but the Mayor and curé were both most anxious to do
something in the birthplace of the poet, and that was the general
feeling in the Department. After many discussions we finally arrived at
a solution, or at least we decided what we wanted: a special service in
the fine old church of Notre Dame, which stands beautifully on the hill,
close to the ruins; a representation of the Comédie Française, and of
course a banquet at the Sauvage, with all the official world, senators,
Préfet, Académiciens--a band of music, a torch-light procession, and as
many distinguished visitors as we could get hold of. _Funds_ of course
were a necessary item, but all the countryside contributed largely, and
we knew that the artists would give their services gratis.

We arranged a breakfast at my house in Paris with Mons. Casimir-Périer,
late President of the Republic, who was always ready to lend his
influence for anything that interests the people, and teaches them
something of their great men, and Mons. Claretie, Directeur of the
Comédie Française, a most cultivated, charming man. He is generally
rather chary of letting his pensionnaires play en province, but this
really was an occasion to break through his rules, and he was quite
ready to help us in every way. We had also M. Sebline, Senator of the
Aisne, and l'Abbé Maréchal, curé of La Ferté-Milon. We had wanted one of
the Administrateurs of the Chemin de Fer du Nord to arrange about a free
transport for the actors, but there seemed some trouble about getting
hold of the right man, and Sebline promised to see about that.

The Abbe Maréchal and I were very ambitious for the theatrical part of
the entertainment and had views of Esther with the costumes, and
choruses of Moreau, but M. Claretie said that would be impossible. It
was difficult enough to arrange in Paris with all the singers,
instruments, and costumes at hand--and would be impossible in the
country with our modest resources. I think the idea of a tent on a
village green rather frightened him; and he didn't quite see the élite
of his company playing in such a cadre--no décor--and probably very bad
acoustics. However, Sebline reassured him. He knew the tent and its
capabilities, having seen it figure on various occasions, comices
agricoles, banquets de pompiers, at village fêtes generally, and said it
could be arranged quite well.

We discussed many programmes, but finally accepted whatever M. Claretie
would give--an act of "Les Plaideurs," and two or three of "Bérénice,"
with Mme. Bartet, who is charming in that rôle. The Abbé Maréchal
undertook the music in his church, and I was sure he would succeed in
having some of the choruses of Esther. His heart was quite set on it.
Once he had settled our programme, the conversation drifted away from
the purely local talk, and was brilliant enough. All the men were clever
and good talkers, and all well up in Racine, his career, and the various
phases of his work.

From the classics we got into modern plays and poets, and there of
course the differences of opinion were wide; but I think the general
public (people in the upper galleries) like better when they go to the
Française to see a classic piece--Roman emperors and soldiers, and
vestal virgins and barbarians in chains--and to listen to their long
tirades. The modern light comedy, even when it treats of the vital
subjects of the day, seems less in its place in those old walls. I quite
understand one couldn't see Britannicus,[11] Mithridate, nor the Cid
every evening.

[11] I remember so well our cousin Arthur's description of his
holidays spent at his grandmother's château. Every evening they read
aloud some classical piece. When he had read Britannicus twice (the
second time to appreciate more fully the beauties which were lightly
passed over at first), he rebelled, had a migraine, or a sore throat,
something which prevented his appearing in the drawing-room after
dinner; and he and his cousins attired themselves in sheets, and stood
on the corner of the wall where the diligence made a sharp turn,
frightening the driver and his horses out of their wits.

We came down here several times to see how things were getting on, and
always found the little town quite feverishly animated. We had succeeded
in getting the band of the regiment stationed at Soissons. I wrote to
the Colonel, who said he would send it with pleasure, but that he
couldn't on his own authority. An application must be made to the
Ministère de la Guerre. There is always so much red tape in France. One
writes and receives so many letters about anything one wants to do--a
Christmas Tree in the school-house--a distribution of soup for the poor
and old--a turn in a road to be rounded, etc. However, the permission
was graciously accorded for the band. The Mayor's idea was to station it
on the Mail, where quantities of people would congregate who couldn't
get into the church or the tent.

We went one day to have tea with the Abbé Maréchal in his nice old
presbytère; the salon opening out on a large, old-fashioned garden with
fine trees, and a view of the church towers in the distance. He was
quite pleased with all that he had arranged for his church service. One
of his friends, Abbé Vignon, a most interesting man and eloquent
preacher, promised to deliver a lecture on Racine from the pulpit; and
M. Vincent d'Indy, the distinguished composer and leader of the modern
school of music, undertook the music with Mme. Jeanne Maunay as singer;
he himself presiding at the organ.

I tried to persuade the proprietors of all the châteaux in the
neighbourhood to come, but I can't say I had much success. Some had
gout--some had mourning. I don't remember if any one "had married a wife
and therefore couldn't come."

However, we shall fill our own house, and give breakfast and dinner to
any one who will come. To-day we have been wandering about on the green
near the ruins, trying to find some place where we can give our friends
tea. The service in the church will certainly be long, and before the
theatrical performance begins we should like to arrange a little
goûter--but where? It is too far to go back to our house, and the
Sauvage, our usual resort, will be packed on that day, and quite off its
head, as they have two banquets morning and evening. The "Cafe des
Ruines," a dirty little place just under the great walls of the château,
didn't look inviting; but there was literally nothing else, so we
interviewed the proprietor, went in to the big room down stairs, which
was perfectly impossible, reeking with smoke, and smelling of cheap
liquor; but he told us he had a "très belle salle" up stairs, where we
should be quite alone. We climbed up a dark, rickety little turning
staircase, and found ourselves in quite a good room, with three large
windows on the green; the walls covered with pictures from the cheap
illustrated papers, and on the whole not too dirty. We have taken it for
the afternoon, told the patron we would come to-morrow, put up tables,
and make as many preparations as we could for the great day. He was very
anxious to furnish something--some "vin du pays;" but we told him all we
wanted was fire, plenty of hot water, and a good scrubbing of floor and

It is enchanting this afternoon. We are taking advantage of the fine
weather to drive about the country, and show our friends some of our big
farms and quaint little villages. They look exactly as they did a
hundred years ago, "when the Cossacks were here," as they say in the
country. Some of the inns have still kept their old-fashioned signs and
names. Near May, on the road to Meaux, Bossuet's fine old cathedral
town, there is a nice old square red-brick house, "L'Auberge du Veau qui
Téte" (The Inn of the Sucking Calf), which certainly indicates that this
is great farming country. There are quantities of big white oxen, cows,
and horses in the fields, but the roads are solitary. One never meets
anything except on market day. The Florians who live in Seine et Marne,
which is thickly populated--villages and châteaux close together--were
much struck with the loneliness and great stretches of wood and plain.

We are praying for fine weather, as rain would be disastrous. The main
street looks really charming. The green arch is nearly finished, and at
night, when everything is illuminated, will be most effective.

22nd. It rained yesterday afternoon and all night--not light April
showers, but a good, steady downpour. Francis and Ctesse. de Gontaut
arrived from Paris in his little open automobile. Such a limp, draggled
female as emerged from the little carriage I never saw. They had had
some sharp showers; pannes (breakdowns), too, and she _says_ she pushed
the carriage up all the hills. She didn't seem either tired or cross,
and looked quite bright and rested when she reappeared at dinner.

Various friends arrived this morning, and we have been in La Ferté all
the afternoon. The draperies and festoons of flowers don't look any the
worse for the heavy rain, and at least it is over, and we shall probably
have sun to-morrow. The tent is up on the green, and looks fairly large.
I don't think any one will see anything except in the first eight or ten
rows of chairs, but it seems they will all hear. The stage was being
arranged, and, much to our amusement, they told us the Empire chairs and
tables had been lent by the Abbé Maréchal. He is a collectionneur, and
has some handsome furniture. We inspected our tea-room, which didn't
look too bad. Our men were there with tables, china, etc., and when it
is all arranged we shall have quite a respectable buffet. The landlord
was very anxious to decorate the tables with greens, flags, and perhaps
a bust of Racine with a crown of laurels, but we told him it would be
better not to complicate things.

The view was lovely to-day from the top of the hill--the ruins looking
enormous, standing out against the bright blue sky, and soft and pink at
the top where the outline was irregular and the walls crumbling a
little. We had some difficulty in collecting our party, and finally
discovered Francis, Ctesse de Gontaut and Christiani having chocolate
and cakes in the back parlour of the grocer's shop (nothing like
equality on these occasions), who was telling them all the little gossip
of the town, and naming the radicals who wouldn't go to the church.

We had a pleasant evening with music and "baraque"--which is not very
fatiguing as a mental exercise. I tried to send all the party to bed
early, and have come upstairs myself, but I still hear the click of the
billiard balls, and sounds of merriment downstairs. It is a splendid
starlight night, the sky quite blue over the pines. I think we shall
have beautiful weather for our fête. I have very vague ideas as to how
many people we shall have for breakfast and dinner to-morrow, but the
"office" is warned. I hope we shan't starve.

April 24th. Monday.

We had a beautiful and most successful day yesterday. All the household
was stirring fairly early, as we had to get ourselves in to La Ferté
before 12 o'clock. We started in all sorts of conveyances--train,
carriage, voiturette--and found the Grande Rue full of people. The
official breakfast was over, also the visit to the Mairie, where there
are a few souvenirs of the poet--his picture, acte de naissance,[12]
and signature. The procession was just forming to climb up the steep,
little street that leads to the church, so we took a short cut (still
steeper), and waited outside the doors to see them arrive. It was a
pretty sight to see the cortège wind up the path--the Bishop of
Soissons and several other ecclesiastics in their robes, blackcoated
officials, some uniforms--the whole escorted by groups of children
running alongside, and a fair sprinkling of women in light dresses,
with flowers on their hats, making patches of colour. The church was
crowded--one didn't remark the absence of certain "esprits forts" who
gloried in remaining outside--and the service was most interesting.
The lecture or rather "Éloge de Racine" was beautifully given by the
Abbé Vignot. It was not very easy for a priest to pronounce from the
pulpit an eulogium on the poet and dramatic author who had strayed so
far from the paths of grace and the early teachings of Port Royal,
where the "petit Racine" had been looked upon as a model pupil
destined to rise high in the ecclesiastical world; but the orator made
us see through the sombre tragedies of Phèdre, Britannicus and others
the fine nature of the poet, who understood so humanly the passions
that tempt and warp the soul, and showed a spirit of tolerance very
remarkable in those days. He dwelt less upon the courtier; spoke more
of the Christian of his last days. He certainly lent to the "charm of
the poet, the beauty of his voice," for it was impossible to hear
anything more perfect than the intonation and diction of the speaker.

[12] Birth certificate.

There was a short address from Monseigneur Deramecourt, Bishop of
Soissons--a stately figure seated on the Episcopal throne in the
chancel. The music was quite beautiful. We had the famous "Chanteurs de
St. Gervais," and part of the chæurs d'Esther, composed by Moreau, and
sung in splendid style by Mme. Jeanne Maunay, M. Vincent d'Indy
accompanying on the organ. The simple sixteenth century chaunts sung by
the St. Gervais choir sounded splendidly in the fine old cathedral. The
tones seemed fuller and richer than in their Paris church.

We went out a little before the end to see what was going on on the
green. It was still quite a climb from the church, and all the people of
the upper town had turned out to see the sight. It is quite a distinct
population from the lower town. They are all canal hands, and mostly a
very bad lot. The men generally drink--not enough to be really
intoxicated (one rarely sees that in France), but enough to make them
quarrelsome; and the women almost all slatternly and idle. They were
standing at their doors, babies in their arms, and troops of dirty,
ragged, pretty little children playing on the road, and accompanying us
to the green, begging for "un petit sou."

We saw the cortège winding down again, the robes and banners of the
clergy making a great effect, and we heard in the distance the strains
of the military band stationed on the Mail--echoes of the Marseillaise
and the "Père la Victoire" making a curious contrast to the old-world
music we had just been listening to in the church. Our party scattered
a little. Francis went down to the station with his auto to get the
Duc and Duchesse d'Albufera, who had promised to come for the Comédie
and dinner. They are neighbours, and have a beautiful place not very
far off--Montgobert, in the heart of the Villers-Cotteret forest. He
is a descendant of Suchet, one of Napoleon's Marshals, and they have a
fine picture of the Marshal in uniform, and various souvenirs of the
Emperor. Francis had some difficulty in making his way through the
Grande Rue which was packed with people very unwilling to let any
vehicle pass. However, they had a certain curiosity about the little
carriage, which is the first one to appear in this part of the
country--where one sees only farmers' gigs on two high wheels, or a
tapissière, a covered carriage for one horse. However, as every one
knew him they were good natured enough, and let him pass, but he could
not get any further than the foot of the street--too steep for any
carriage to venture.

It was a pretty sight as we got to the Place. Quantities of people
walking about--many evident strangers, seeing the ruins for the first
time. There was a band of schoolboys, about twenty, with a priest, much
excited. They wanted to go in the tent and get good places, but were
afraid of missing something outside, and were making little excursions
in every direction, evidently rather worrying their Director. The tent,
fairly large, looked small under the shadow of the great walls. We
looked in and found a good many people already in their places, and saw
that the first two or three rows of red arm-chairs were being kept for
the quality. One of the sights was our two tall men standing at the door
of the rather dirty, dilapidated "Cafe des Ruines," piloting our friends
past the groups of workmen smoking and drinking in the porch, and up the
dark, rickety staircase. I don't think any one would have had the
courage to go up, if Henrietta hadn't led the way--once up, the effect
of our banqueting-hall was not bad. The servants had made it look very
well with china and silver brought from the house, also three or four
fresh pictures taken from the illustrated papers to cover those which
already existed, and which looked rather the worse for smoke and damp.
We were actually obliged to cover General Boulanger and his famous
black charger with a "Bois de Boulogne le Matin," with carriages,
riders, bicycles, pretty women and children strolling about.

The view from the windows was charming, and it was amusing to watch all
the people toiling up the path. We recognised many friends, and made
frantic signs to them to come and have tea. We had about three-quarters
of an hour before the Comédie began, and when we got to the tent it was
crowded--all the dignitaries--Bishop, Préfet, Senator, Deputy (he didn't
object to the theatrical performance), M. Henri Houssaye, Académician;
M. Roujon, Directeur des Beaux Arts, sitting in the front row in their
red arm-chairs, and making quite as much of a show for the villagers as
the actors.

The performance began with the third act of "Les Plaideurs," played with
extraordinary entrain. There were roars of laughter all through the
salle, or tent--none more amused than the band of schoolboys, and their
youthful enjoyment was quite contagious. People turned to look at them,
and it was evident that, if they didn't see, they _heard_, as they never
missed a point--probably knew it all by heart. Then came a recitation by
Mlle. Moreno, who looked and spoke like a tragic muse the remorse and
suffering of Phèdre. The end of the performance--the two last acts of
Bérénice--was enchanting. Mme. Bartet looked charming in her floating
blue draperies, and was the incarnation of the resigned, poetic, loving
woman; Paul Mounet was a grand, sombre, passionate Titus, torn between
his love for the beautiful Queen and his duty as a Roman to choose only
one of his own people to share his throne and honours. The Roman Senate
was an all-powerful body, and a woman's love too slight a thing to
oppose to it. Bartet was charming all through, either in her long
plaintes to her Confidante, where one felt that in spite of her repeated
assurances of her lover's tenderness there was always the doubt of the
Emperor's faith or in her interviews with Titus--reproaching him and
adoring him, with all the magic of her voice and smile. It was a triumph
for them both, and their splendid talent. With no décor, no room, no
scenic illusions of any kind, they held their audience enthralled. No
one minded the heat, nor the crowd, nor the uncomfortable seats, and all
were sorry when the well-known lines, said by Mme. Bartet, in her
beautiful, clear, pathetic voice

   "Servons tous trois d'exemple à l'Univers
    De l'amour la plus tendre et la plus malheureuse
    Dont il puisse garder l'histoire douloureuse,"

brought to a close the fierce struggle between love and ambition.

As soon as it was over, I went with Sebline to compliment the actors. We
found Bartet, not in her dressing-room, but standing outside, still in
her costume, very busy photographing Mounet, superb as a Roman Emperor.
He was posing most impatiently, watching the sun slowly sinking behind
the ruins, as he wanted to photograph Bérénice before the light failed,
and the time was short. They were surrounded by an admiring crowd, the
children much interested in the "beautiful lady with the stars all over
her dress." We waited a few moments, and had a little talk with them.
They said the fête had interested them very much and they were very glad
to have come. They were rather taken aback at first when they saw the
tent, the low small stage, and the very elementary scenery--were afraid
the want of space would bother them, but they soon felt that they held
their audience, and that their voices carried perfectly. They were
rather hurried, as they were all taking the train back to Paris, except
Bartet, who had promised to stay for the banquet. I had half hoped she
would come to me, but of course I was obliged to waive my claim. When I
saw how much the Préfet and the official world held to having her--when
I heard afterwards that she had had the seat of honour next to the
Bishop I was very glad I hadn't insisted, as she certainly doesn't often
have the opportunity of sitting next to a Bishop. It seems he was
delighted with her.

We loitered about some little time, talking to all our friends. The view
from the terrace was beautiful--directly at our feet the little town,
which is literally two streets forming a long cross, the Grande Rue a
streak of light and color, filled with people moving about, and the air
alive with laughter and music. Just beyond, the long stretches of green
pasture lands, cut every now and then by narrow lanes with apple trees
and hawthorn in flower, and the canal winding along between the green
walls of poplars--the whole hemmed in by the dark blue line of the
Villers-Cotteret forest, which makes a grand sweep on the horizon.

It was lovely driving back to Mareuil, toward the bright sunset clouds.
We had a gay dinner and evening. I never dared ask where the various men
dressed who came to dinner. The house is not very large, and every room
was occupied--but as they all appeared most correctly attired, I suppose
there are resources in the way of lingerie and fumoir which are
available at such times, and Francis's valet de chambre is so accustomed
to having more people than the house can hold that he probably took his
precautions. Francis started off for the banquet at the Sauvage in his
voiturette, but that long-suffering vehicle having made hundreds of
kilomètres these last days, came to grief at the foot of "la Montagne de
Marolles," and he was towed back by a friendly carter and arrived much
disgusted when we were half through dinner.

We heard all the details of the dinner from the Abbé Maréchal. Certainly
the banqueting hall of the Sauvage will not soon again see such a
brilliant assembly. Madame Bartet was the Queen of the Fête, and sat
between the Bishop and the Préfet. There were some pretty speeches from
M. Henri Houssaye, M. Roujon--and of course the toast of the President
accompanied by the Marseillaise.

The departure to the train was most amusing--all the swells, including
Bartet, walking in the cortége, escorted by a torch-light procession,
and surrounded by the entire population of La Ferté.

The Grande Rue was illuminated from one end to the other, red Bengal
lights throwing out splendidly the grand old château and the towers of
Notre Dame.




It is lovely looking out of my window this morning, so green and cool
and quiet. I had my petit déjeuner on my balcony, a big tree in the
garden making perfect shade and a wealth of green wood and meadow in
every direction, so resting to the eyes after the Paris asphalt. It
seems a very quiet little place. Scarcely anything passing--a big
omnibus going, I suppose, to the baths, and a butcher's cart. For the
last ten minutes I have been watching a nice-looking sunburned girl with
a big straw hat tied down over her ears, who is vainly endeavouring to
get her small donkey-cart, piled high with fruit and vegetables, up a
slight incline to the gate of a villa just opposite. She has been
struggling for some time, pulling, talking, and red with the exertion.
One or two workmen have come to her assistance, but they can't do
anything either. The donkey's mind is made up. There is an animated
conversation--I am too high up to hear what they say. Finally she leaves
her cart, ties up her fruit in her apron, balances a basket of eggs with
one hand on her head, and disappears into the garden behind the gate. No
one comes along and the cart is quite unmolested. I think I should have
gone down myself if I had seen anyone making off with any of the fruit.
It is a delightful change from the hot stuffy August Paris I left
yesterday. My street is absolutely deserted, every house closed except
mine, the sun shining down hard on the white pavement, and perfect
stillness all day. The evenings from seven till ten are indescribable--a
horror of musical concierges with accordions, a favorite French
instrument. They all sit outside their doors with their families and
friends, playing and singing all the popular songs, and at intervals all
joining in a loud chorus of "Viens Poupoule." Grooms are teaching lady
friends to ride bicycles, a lot of barking, yapping fox-terriers running
alongside. There is a lively cross-conversation going on from one side
of the street to the other, my own concierge and chauffeur contributing
largely. Of course my balcony is untenable, and I am obliged to sit
inside, until happily sleep descends upon them. They all vanish, and the
street relapses into perfect silence. I am delighted to find myself in
this quiet little Norman bathing-place, just getting known to the
French and foreign public.

It is hardly a village; the collection of villas, small houses, shops,
and two enormous hotels surrounding the établissement seems to have
sprung up quite suddenly and casually in the midst of the green fields
and woods, shut in on all sides almost by the Forest of Ardennes, which
makes a beautiful curtain of verdure. There are villas dotted about
everywhere, of every possible style; Norman chalets, white and gray,
with the black crossbeams that one is so familiar with all over this
part of the country; English cottages with verandas and bow-windows;
three or four rather pretentious looking buildings with high perrons and
one or two terraces; gardens with no very pretty flowers, principally
red geraniums, some standing back in a nice little green wood, some
directly on the road with benches along the fence so that the
inhabitants can see the passers-by (and get all the dust of the roads).
But there isn't much passing even in these days of automobiles. There
are two trains from Paris, arriving at two in the afternoon and at
eleven at night. The run down from Paris, especially after Dreux, is
charming, almost like driving through a park. The meadows are
beautifully green and the trees very fine--the whole country very like
England in appearance, recalling it all the time, particularly when we
saw pretty gray old farmhouses in the distance--and every now and then a
fine Norman steeple.

There are two rival hotels and various small pensions and family houses.
We are staying at the Grand, which is very comfortable. There is a
splendid terrace overlooking the lake; rather an ambitious name for the
big pond, which does, however, add to the picturesqueness of the place,
particularly at night, when all the lights are reflected in the water.
The whole hotel adjourns there after dinner, and people walk up and down
and listen to the music until ten o'clock. After that there is a decided
falling off of the beau monde. Many people take their bath at half past
five in the morning and are quite ready to go to bed early. The walk
down in the early morning is charming, through a broad, shaded
alley--Allée de Dante. I wonder why it is called that. I don't suppose
the poet ever took warm baths or douches in any description of
établissement. I remember the tale we were always told when we were
children, and rebelled against the perpetual cleansing and washing that
went on in the nursery, of the Italian countess who said she would be
ashamed, if she couldn't do all her washing in a glass of water. It is
rather amusing to see all the types. I don't think there are many
foreigners. I hear very little English spoken, though they tell me
there are some English here. We certainly don't look our best in the
early morning, but the women stand the test better than the men. With
big hats, veils, and the long cloaks they wear now, they pass muster
very well and don't really look any worse than when they are attired for
a spin in an open auto; but the men, with no waistcoats, a foulard
around their throats, and a very dejected air, don't have at all the
conquering-hero appearance that one likes to see in the stronger sex.

The établissement is large and fairly good, but nothing like what one
finds in all the Austrian and German baths. When I first go in, coming
out of the fresh morning air, I am rather oppressed with the smell of
hot air, damp clothing, and many people crowded into little hot
bath-rooms. There are terrible little dark closets called cabinets de
repos. Many doctors in white waistcoats and red ribbons are walking
about; plenty of baigneuses, with their sleeves rolled up, showing a red
arm that evidently has been constantly in the water; people who have had
their baths and are resting, wrapped up in blankets, stretched out on
long chairs near the windows; bells going all the time, cries of
"Marie-Louise," "Jeanne," "Anne-Marie." It is rather a pandemonium. Our
baigneuse, who is called Marie-Louise, is upstairs. At the top of the
stairs there is a grand picture of the horse who discovered the
Bagnoles waters, a beautiful white beast standing in a spring, all water
lilies and sparkling water. A lovely young lady in a transparent green
garment with roses over each ear, like the head-dress one sees on
Japanese women, is holding his bridle. The legend says that a certain
gallant and amorous knight of yore, having become old and crippled with
rheumatism, and unable any longer to make a brave show in tournaments
under fair ladies' eyes, determined to retire from the world, and to
leave his horse--faithful companion of many jousts--in a certain green
meadow traversed by a babbling brook, where he could end his days in
peace. What was his surprise, some months later, to find his horse
quietly standing again in his old stable, his legs firm and straight,
his skin glossy, quite renovated. The master took himself off to the
meadow, investigated the quality of the water, bathed himself, and began
life anew with straightened limbs and quickened pulses. The waters
certainly do wonders. We see every day people who had arrived on
crutches or walking with canes quite discarding them after a course of

[Illustration: L'Etablissement, Bagnoles de l'Orme.]

The hotel is full, mostly French, but there are of course some
exceptions. We have a tall and stately royal princess with two daughters
and a niece. The girls are charming--simple, pretty, and evidently much
pleased to be away for a little while from court life and etiquette.
They make their curé quite regularly, like any one else, walking and
sitting in the Allée Dante. The people don't stare at them too much.
There are one or two well-known men--deputies, membres de
l'Institut--but, of course, women are in the majority. There is a
band--not very good, as the performers, some of them good enough alone,
had never played together until they came here. However, it isn't of
much consequence, as no one listens. I make friends with them, as usual;
something always draws me to artists. The boy at the piano looks so
thin--really as if he did not get enough to eat. He plays very well,
told me he was a premier prix of the Conservatoire de Madrid. When one
thinks of the hours of work and fatigue that means, it is rather
pathetic to see him, contented to earn a few francs a night, pounding
away at a piano and generally ending with a "cake walk," danced by some
enterprising young people with all sorts of remarkable steps and
gestures, which would certainly astonish the original negro performers
on a plantation.

The view from the terrace at night is pretty--quantities of lights
twinkling about among the trees, and beyond, always on each side and in
front, the thick green walls of the forest quite shutting in the quiet
little place. We are usually the last outside. It grows cooler as the
evening gets on, and I fancy it is not wise to sit out too late after
the hot bath and fatigue of the day.

It is a splendid automobiling country, and every afternoon there is a
goodly show of motors of all sizes and makes waiting to take their
owners on some of the many interesting excursions which abound in this
neighbourhood. We have an English friend who has brought over his
automobile, a capital one--English make--and we have been out several
times with him. The other day we went to Domfront--a lovely road, almost
all the way through woods, the forest of Audaine with its fine old trees
making splendid shade. We passed through the Étoile--well known to all
the hunting men, as it is a favourite rendezvous de chasse. It is a
lovely part of the forest, a great green space with alleys running off
into the woods in all directions. Some of them, where the ground was a
little hilly, looked like beautiful green paths going straight up to the

We kept in the forest almost all the way--as we got near Domfront the
road rising all the time, quite steep at the end, which, however, made
no perceptible difference in our speed. The big auto galloped up all the
hills quite smoothly and with no effort. It was a divine view as we
finally emerged from the woods--miles of beautiful green meadows and
hedges stretching away on each side and a blue line of hills in the
distance. We had been told that we could see Mont St. Michel and the sea
with our glasses, but we didn't, though the day was very clear. Domfront
is a very old walled town, with round towers and a great square donjon,
perched on the top of a mountain. A long stretch of solid wall is still
there, and some of the old towers are converted into modern dwellings.
It looked out of place to see ordinary lace curtains tied back with a
ribbon and pots of red geraniums in the high narrow windows, when one
thought of the rough grim soldiers armed to the teeth who have stood for
hours in those same windows watching anxiously for the first glimpse of
an armed band appearing at the edge of the meadows. The château must
have been a fine feudal fortress in its time and has sheltered many
great personages. William the Conqueror, of course--he has apparently
lived in every château and sailed from every harbour in this part of
Normandy--Charles IX, Catherine de Medicis, and the Montgomery who
killed Henri II in tournament.

[Illustration: In Domfront some of the old towers are converted into
modern dwellings.]

It was too early to go home, so we went on to the Château de Lassay. We
raced through pretty little clean gray villages, looking peaceful and
sleepy and deserted and evidently quite accustomed to automobiles. No
one took much notice of us. There were only a few old people and
children in the streets; all the men were working in the fields
gathering in their harvest. Lassay is quite a place, with hotels, shops,
churches, and an old Benedictine convent. We left the auto in the
square, as it couldn't get up the narrow, steep little road to the
hotel. There were swarms of beggars of all ages--old women, girls,
children--lining the road before we got to the château. Monsieur B.
(deputy), who was with us, remonstrated vigorously, particularly with
stout, sturdy young women who were pursuing us, but they didn't care a
bit, and we only got rid of them once we had crossed the moat and
drawbridge and got into the court-yard, where a wrinkled and red-cheeked
old woman locked the door after us. The château is almost entirely in
ruins, but must have been splendid. There is a sort of modern
dwelling-house in the inner court, but I fancy the proprietor rarely
lives there. It is enormous. There are eight massive round towers
connected by a courtine (little green path) that runs along the top of
the ramparts. The big door that opens on the park is modern, and makes
decidedly poor effect after the fine old pointed doorway that gives
access to the great court-yard. The park, with a little care and a
little money spent on it, would be beautiful, but it is quite wild and
uncared for. There are splendid old trees, some of them covered entirely
with ivy growing straight up into the branches and giving a most
peculiar effect to the trees; ragged green paths leading to woods;
running waters with little bridges thrown over them; a splendid
vegetation everywhere, almost a jungle in some places--all utterly
neglected. The old woman took us through the "casemates"--dark stone
galleries with little narrow slits for windows or to fire through; they
used to run all around the house, connected by a subterranean passage,
but they are now, like all the rest, half in ruins. It was most
interesting. We had not the energy, any of us, to go up into the tower
and see the view--we had seen it all the way, culminating at Domfront
on the top of the mountain, and though very beautiful, it is always the
same--great stretches of green fields, hedges, and fine trees. It is a
little too peaceful and monotonous for my taste. I like something bolder
and wilder. A high granite cliff standing out in the sea, with the great
Atlantic rollers breaking perpetually against it, appeals to me much
more than green fields and cows standing placidly in little clear
brooks, and clean, comfortable farmhouses, with pretty gray Norman
steeples rising out of the woods, but my companions were certainly not
of my opinion and were enchanted with the Norman landscape. We had a
long ride back in the soft evening light. I am afraid to say how many
kilomètres we went in the three hours we were away.

It has been warm these last days. There is a bit of road absolutely
without shade of any kind we have to pass every time we go to the
établissement, which is very trying. I love the early morning walk,
everything is so fresh and the air singularly light and pure. It seems
wicked to go into that atmosphere of hot air and suffering humanity,
which greets one on the threshold of the bathhouse. To-day I have been
driving with the princess. She does not like the automobile when she is
making a cure--says it shakes her too much.

We had a pretty drive, past the château of Couterne, which is most
picturesque. A beautiful beech avenue leads up to the house, which is
built of brick, with round towers and a large pond or lake which comes
right up to the walls. It is of the sixteenth century, and has been
inhabited ever since by the same family. One of the ancestors was
"chevalier et poète" of Queen Marguerite of Navarre. I had a nice talk
with the princess about everything and everybody. I asked her if she had
ever read "The Lightning Conductor." As her own auto is a Napier, I
thought it would interest her. I told her all the potins (little gossip)
of the hotel--that people said her youngest daughter was going to marry
the King of Spain, and the general verdict was that the princess would
make "a beautiful queen." Every one is horror-struck at the murder of
the Russian Minister of the Interior, and I suppose it is only a

This afternoon I have been walking in the lovely woods at the back of
the établissement. It is rather a steep climb to get to the point de vue
and troublesome walking, as the paths are dry and slippery and the roots
of the pine-trees that spread out over the paths catch one's heels
sometimes. Some people spend all their day high up in the pines--take up
books, seats, work, and goûter, and only come down after six, when the
air gets cooler. We saw parties seated about in all directions and had
glimpses of the white dresses, which are a uniform this year, flitting
through the trees. It was very pretty, but not like the walls of
Marienbad, with the splendid black pine forest all around and every now
and then a glimpse of a green Alm (high field on the top of a mountain),
with the peasant girl in her high Tyrolean hat and clean white
chemisette standing on the edge, with her cows all behind her and the
bells tinkling in the distance.

[Illustration: Château de Lassay.]

It was so warm this evening that we sat out until ten o'clock. We had a
visit from Comte de G., son-in-law of our friend Mrs. L.S. He lives at
Deauville, and had announced himself for Monday morning for breakfast at
twelve. He _did_ come for breakfast, but on Tuesday morning, having been
en route since Monday morning at seven o'clock. He was in an automobile
and everything happened to him that can happen to an automobile except
an absolute smash. He punctured his tires, had a big hole in his
reservoir, his steering gear bent, his bougies always doing something
they oughtn't to. He dined and slept at Falaise; rather a sketchy
repast, but as he told us he could always get along with poached eggs,
could eat six in an ordinary way and twelve in an emergency, we were
reassured; for one can always get eggs and milk in Normandy. He arrived
in a perfectly good humour and made himself very pleasant. He is an old
soldier--a cavalry officer--and doesn't mind roughing it.

The journey from Deauville to Bagnoles is usually accomplished in three
or four hours. Falaise, the birthplace of William the Conqueror, is an
interesting old town, but looks as if it had been asleep ever since that
great event. The old castle is very fine, stands high, close to the edge
of the cliff, so that the rock seems to form part of the great walls.
There is one fine round tower, and always the grass walk around the

The views are beautiful. Looking down from one of the narrow, pointed
windows, still fairly preserved, we had the classic Norman landscape at
our feet--beautiful green fields, enormous trees making spots of black
shade in the bright grass, the river, sparkling in the sunshine, winding
through the meadows, a group of washerwomen, busy and chattering,
beating their clothes on the flat stones where the river narrows a
little under the castle walls, and a bright blue sky overhead.

We walked through the Grande Place--picturesque enough. On one side the
Church of La Trinité, and in the middle of the Place the bronze
equestrian statue of William the Conqueror. It is very spirited. He is
in full armor, lance in hand, his horse plunging forward toward
imaginary enemies. They say the figure was copied from Queen Mathilde's
famous tapestries at Bayeux, but it looked more modern to me. I remember
all the men and beasts and ships of those tapestries looked most
extraordinary as to shape. Monsieur R. took over the young princesses
the other day in his auto. They were very keen to see the cradle of
their race. It was curious to see the descendants of the great rough
soldier starting in an auto, fresh, pretty English girls, dressed in the
trotteuses (little short skirts) that we all wear in the country,
carrying their Kodaks and sketching materials.

All this part of the country teems with legends of the great warrior.
Years ago, when we were at Deauville, we drove over to Dives to
breakfast--one gets a very good breakfast at the little hotel. We
wandered about afterward down to the sea (William the Conqueror is said
to have sailed from Dives), and into the little church where the names
of all the barons who accompanied him to England are written on tablets
on the walls. We saw various relics and places associated with him and
talked naturally a great deal about the Conqueror. On the way home (we
were a large party in a brake) one of our compatriots, a nice young
fellow whose early education had evidently not been very comprehensive,
turned to me, saying; "Do tell me, what did that fellow conquer?" I
could hardly believe my own ears, but unfortunately for him, just at
that moment we were walking up a steep hill and everybody in the
carriage overheard his remark. It was received with such shouts of
laughter that any explanation was difficult, and one may imagine the
jokes, and the numerous and fabulous conquests that were instantly put
down to the great duke's account. The poor fellow was quite bewildered.
However, I don't know if an American is bound to know any history but
that of his own country. I am quite sure that many people in the
carriage didn't know whom Pocahontas married, nor what part she played
in the early days of America. But it was funny all the same.

We have been out again this afternoon in Monsieur R.'s auto--a charming
turn. We started out by the Étoile, as Monsieur R. wanted to show it to
some gentlemen who were with us. The drive, if anything, was more lovely
than the first time, the slanting rays of the sun were so beautiful
shining through the rich green foliage, making patterns upon the hard,
white road. We raced all over the country, through countless little
villages, all exactly alike, sometimes flying past a stately old brick
château just seen at the end of a long, beech avenue, sometimes past an
old church standing high, its gray stone steeple showing well against
the bright, cloudless sky, and a little graveyard stretching along the
hillside, the roads bordered on each side with high green banks and
hedges, the orchards full of apple-trees, and the whole active
population of the village in the fields. It is a beautiful month to be
in Normandy, for one must have sun in these parts. As soon as it rains
everything is gray and cold and melancholy, the forest looks like a
great high black wall, the meadows are shrouded in mist, and the damp
strikes through one. Now it is smiling, sunny, peaceful.

We have frightened various horses to-day; a quiet old gray steed, driven
by two old ladies in black bonnets. They were too old to get out, and
were driving their horse timidly and nervously into the ditch in their
anxiety to give us all the road. However, we slowed up and the horse
didn't look as if he could run away. Two big carthorses, too, at the end
of a long line, dragging a heavy wagon, turned short round and almost
ran into us; also a very small donkey, driven by a little brown girl,
showed symptoms of flight. I don't know the names of half the villages
we passed through. Near Bagnoles we came to La Ferté-Macé, which looks
quite imposing as one comes down upon it from the top of a long hill.
The church makes a great effect--looks almost like a cathedral. Bagnoles
looked very animated as we came back. People were loitering about
shopping--quite a number of carriages and autos before the door of the
Grand Hotel, and people sitting out under the trees in the gardens of
the different villas. It was decidedly cool at the end of our outing; I
was glad to have my coat.

This morning after breakfast, in the big hall, where every one
congregates for coffee, we had a little political talk--not very
satisfactory. Everybody is discontented and everybody protests, but no
one seems able to stop the radical current. The rupture with the Vatican
has come at last, and I think might have been avoided if they had been a
little more patient in Rome. There will be all sorts of complications
and bitter feeling, and I don't quite see what benefit the country at
large will get from the present state of things. A general feeling of
irritation and uncertainty, higher taxes--for they must build
school-houses and pay lay-teachers and country curés. A whole generation
of children cannot be allowed to grow up without religious instruction
of any kind. I can understand how the association of certain religious
orders (men) could be mischievous--harmful even--but I am quite sure
that no one in his heart believes any harm of the women--soeurs de
charité and teachers--who occupy themselves with the old people, the
sick, and the children. In our little town they have sent away an old
sister who had taught and generally looked after three generations of
children. When she was expelled she had been fifty years in the town and
was teaching the grandchildren of her first scholars. Everybody knew
her, everybody loved her; when any one was ill or in trouble she was
always the first person sent for. Now there is at the school an
intelligent, well-educated young laïque with all the necessary brevets.
I dare say she will teach the children very well, but her task ends with
the close of her class. She doesn't go to church, doesn't know the
people, doesn't interest herself in all their little affairs, and will
never have the position and the influence the old religieuse had.

I am sorry to go away from this quiet little green corner of Normandy,
but we have taken the requisite number of baths. Every one rushes off as
soon as the last bath (twenty-first generally) is taken. Countess F.
took her twenty-first at six o'clock this morning, and left at ten.




I seem to have got into another world, almost another century, in this
old town. I had always promised the Florians I would come and stay
with them, and was curious to see their installation in one of the
fine old hotels of the place. The journey was rather long--not
particularly interesting. We passed near Caen, getting a very good
view of the two great abbayes[13] with their towers and spires quite
sharply outlined against the clear blue sky. The train was full. At
almost every station family parties got in--crowds of children all
armed with spades, pails, butterfly nets, and rackets, all the
paraphernalia of happy, healthy childhood. For miles after Caen there
were long stretches of green pasture-lands--hundreds of cows and
horses, some of them the big Norman dray-horses resting a little
before beginning again their hard work, and quantities of long-legged
colts trotting close up alongside of their mothers, none of them
apparently minding the train. We finally arrived at the quiet little
station of Valognes. Countess de Florian was waiting for me, with
their big omnibus, and we had a short drive all through the town to
their hotel, which is quite at one end, a real country road running in
front of their house. It is an old hotel standing back from the road
and shut in with high iron gates. There is a large court-yard with a
grass-plot in the middle, enormous flower-beds on each side, and a
fine sweep of carriage road to the perron. A great double stone
staircase runs straight up to the top of the house, and glass doors
opposite the entrance lead into the garden. I had an impression of
great space and height and floods of light. I went straight into the
garden, where they gave me tea, which was most refreshing after the
long hot day. They have no house party. The dowager countess,
Florian's mother, is here, and there was a cousin, a naval officer,
who went off to Cherbourg directly after dinner. The ground-floor is
charming; on one side of the hall there are three or four salons, and
a billiard-room running directly across the house from the garden to
the court-yard; on the other, a good dining-room and two or three
guests' rooms; the family all live upstairs.

  [13] Abbaye aux Hommes, Abbaye aux Dames.

It is a delightful house. My room is on the ground-floor, opening from
the corridor, which is large and bright, paved with flagstones. My
windows look out on the entrance court, so that I see all that goes on.
As soon as my maid has opened the windows and brought in my petit
déjeuner, I hear a tap at the door and the countess's maid appears to
ask, with madame's compliments, if I have all I want, if I have had a
good night, and to bring me the morning paper. The first person to move
is the dowager countess, who goes to early mass every morning. She is a
type of the old-fashioned French Faubourg St. Germain lady; a straight,
slender figure, always dressed in black, devoted to her children and to
all her own family, with the courteous, high-bred manner one always
finds in French women of the old school. She doesn't take much interest
in the outside world, nor in anything that goes on in other countries,
but is too polite to show that when she talks to me, for instance, who
have knocked about so much. She doesn't understand the modern life, so
sans gêne and agitated, and it is funny to hear her say when talking of
people she doesn't quite approve of, "Ils ne sont pas de notre monde."

[Illustration: Entrance to hotel of the Comte de Florian.]

Then comes the young countess, very energetic and smiling, with her
short skirt and a bag on her arm, going to market. She sees me at the
window and stops to know if I am going out. Will I join her at the
market? All the ladies of Valognes do their own marketing and some of
the well-known fishwomen and farmers' wives who come in from the
country with poultry would be quite hurt if Madame la Comtesse didn't
come herself to give her orders and have a little talk. This morning I
have been to market with Countess Florian. The women looked so nice
and clean in their short, black, heavily plaited skirts, high white
caps, and handkerchiefs pinned over their bodices. The little stalls
went all down the narrow main street and spread out on the big square
before the church. The church is large, with a square tower and fine
dome--nothing very interesting as to architecture. Some of the stalls
were very tempting and the smiling, red-cheeked old women, sitting up
behind their wares, were so civil and anxious to sell us something.
The fish-market was most inviting--quantities of flat white turbots,
shining silver mackerel, and fresh crevettes piled high on a marble
slab with water running over them. Four or five short-skirted,
bare-legged fisher girls were standing at the door with baskets of
fish on their heads. Florian joined us there and seemed on the best of
terms with these young women. He made all kinds of jokes with them, to
which they responded with giggles and a funny little half-courtesy,
half-nod. Both Florians spoke so nicely to all the market people as we
passed from stall to stall. The poultry looked very good--such fat
ducks and chickens. It was funny to see the bourgeoises of Valognes
all armed with a large basket doing their marketing; they looked at
the chickens, poked them, lifted them so as to be sure of their
weight, and evidently knew to a centime what they had to pay. I fancy
the Norman ménagère is a pretty sharp customer and knows exactly what
she must pay for everything. The vegetable stalls were very well
arranged--the most enormous cabbages I ever saw. I think the old
ladies who presided there were doing a flourishing business. I did not
find much to buy--some gray knitted stockings that I thought would be
good for my Mareuil[14] boys and some blue linen blouses with white
embroidery, that all the carters wear, and which the Paris dressmakers
transform into very pretty summer costumes. I bought for myself a
paper bag full of cherries for a few sous, then left the Florians, and
wandered about the streets a little alone. They are generally narrow,
badly paved, with grass growing in the very quiet ones. There are many
large hotels standing well back, entre cour et jardin, the big doors
and gate-ways generally heavy and much ornamented--a great deal of
carving on the façades and cornices, queer heads and beasts. Valognes
has not always been the quiet, dull, little provincial town it is
to-day. It has had its brilliant moment, when all the hotels were
occupied by grands seigneurs, handsome equipages rolled through the
streets, and its society prided itself on its exclusiveness and grand
manner. It used to be said that to rouler carrosse at Valognes was a
titre de noblesse, and the inhabitants considered their town a "petit
Paris." In one of the plays of the time, a marquis, very fashionable
and a well-known courtier, was made to say: "Il faut trois mois de
Valognes pour achever un homme de cour." One can quite imagine "la
grande vie d'autrefois" in the hotel of the Florians. Their garden is
enchanting--quantities of flowers, roses particularly. They have made
two great borders of tall pink rose-bushes, with dwarf palms from
Bordighera planted between, just giving the note of stiffness which
one would expect to find in an old-fashioned garden. On one side is a
large terrace with marble steps and balustrade, and beyond that, half
hidden by a row of fruit-trees, a very good tennis court. We just see
the church-tower at one end of the garden; and it is so quiet one
would never dream there was a town near. The country in every
direction is beautiful--real English lanes, the roads low, high banks
on each side, with hawthorn bushes on top--one drives between thick
green walls. We have made some lovely excursions. They have a big
omnibus with a banquette on top which seats four people, also a place
by the coachman, and two great Norman posters, who go along at a good
steady trot, taking a little gallop occasionally up and down the

  [14] Mareuil is the name of the village near our place in France.

Countess de Nadaillac, Countess Florian's sister-in-law, arrived to-day
with her daughter for a short visit. We had a pleasant evening with
music, billiards, and dominoes (a favorite game in this country). The
dowager countess always plays two games, and precisely at half-past nine
her old man-servant appears and escorts her to her rooms. We all break
up early; the ten o'clock bell is usually the signal. It rings every
night, just as it has done for hundreds of years. The town lights are
put out and the inhabitants understand that the authorities are not
responsible for anything that may happen in the streets of Valognes
after such a dangerous hour of the night.

... There are some fine places in the neighborhood. We went to-day to
Chiffevast, a large château which had belonged to the Darus, but has
been bought recently by a rich couple, Valognes people, who have made a
large fortune in cheese and butter. It seems their great market is

They send over quantities via Cherbourg, which is only twenty minutes
off by rail. It is a splendid place--with a fine approach by a great
avenue with beautiful old trees. The château is a large, square
house--looks imposing as one drives up. We didn't see the master of the
house--he was away--but madame received us in all her best clothes. She
was much better dressed than we were, evidently by one of the good Paris
houses. Countess Florian had written to ask if we might come, so she was
under arms. She was a little nervous at first, talked a great deal, very
fast, but when she got accustomed to us it went more easily, and she
showed us the house with much pride. There was some good furniture and
one beautiful coverlet of old lace and embroidery, which she had found
somewhere upstairs in an old chest of drawers. They have no
children--such a pity, as they are improving and beautifying the place
all the time. The drive home was delightful, facing the sunset. I was
amused with the Florians' old coachman. He is a curiosity--knows
everybody in the country. He was much interested in our visit and asked
if we had seen "la patronne"--said he knew her well, had often seen her
on a market day at Valognes, sitting in her little cart in the midst of
her cheeses and butter; said she was a brave femme. How strange it must
seem to people like that, just out of their hard-working peasant
life--and it _is_ hard work in France--to find themselves owners of a
splendid château and estate, receiving the great people of the country.
I dare say in ten or twelve years they will be like any one else, and if
there were sons or daughters the young men would get into parliament or
the diplomatic career, the daughters would marry some impoverished scion
of a noble family, and cheeses and butter would be forgotten.

We had one delightful day at Cherbourg. The Préfet Maritime invited us
to breakfast with him at his hotel. We went by rail to Cherbourg, about
half an hour, and found the admiral's carriage waiting for us. The
prefecture is a nice, old-fashioned house, in the centre of the town,
with a big garden. We took off our coats in a large, handsome room
upstairs. The walls were covered with red damask and there were pictures
of Queen Victoria and Louis Napoleon. It seems the Queen slept in that
room one night when she came over to France to make her visit to Louis
Philippe at the Château d'Eu. We found quite a party assembled--all the
men in uniform and the women generally in white. We breakfasted in a
large dining-room with glass doors opening into the garden, which was
charming, a blaze of bright summer flowers. We adjourned there for
coffee after breakfast. The trees were big, made a good shade, and the
little groups, seated about in the various bosquets, looked pretty and
gay. When coffee and liqueurs were finished we drove down to the quay,
where the admiral's launch was waiting, and had a delightful afternoon
steaming about the harbour. It is enormous, long jetties and breakwaters
stretching far out, almost closing it in. There was every description of
craft--big Atlantic liners, yachts, fishing boats, ironclads, torpedoes,
and once we very nearly ran over a curious dark object floating on the
surface of the water, which they told us was a submarine. It did not
look comfortable as a means of transportation, but the young officers
told us it was delightful.

[Illustration: Market women. Valognes.]

We got back to Valognes to a late dinner, having invited a large party
to come over for tennis and dinner the next day. The Florians are a
godsend to Cherbourg. They are most hospitable, and with automobiles the
distance is nothing, and one is quite independent of trains. Yesterday
four of our party went off to Cherbourg to make a cruise in a
torpedo-boat. The ladies were warned that they must put on clothes which
would not mind sea-water, but I should think bathing dresses would be
the only suitable garments for such an expedition. They were remarkable
objects when they came home, Mademoiselle de Nadaillac's hat a
curiosity, also her white blouse, where the red of her hat-ribbons and
cravat had run. However, they had enjoyed themselves immensely--at least
the girl. Countess de Nadaillac was not quite so enthusiastic. They got
into dry clothes and played tennis vigorously all the afternoon.

We had a pleasant family evening. Mademoiselle de Nadaillac has a pretty
voice and sang well. Florian and I played some duets. I joined in the
dowager's game of dominoes, which I don't seem to have mastered, as I
lose regularly, and after she left us, escorted by her faithful old
butler (a light shawl over his arm to put on her shoulders when she
passed through the corridors), we had rather an interesting conversation
about ways and manners in different countries, particularly the way
young people are brought up. I said we were a large family and that
mother would never let us read in the drawing-room after dinner. If we
were all absorbed in our books, conversation was impossible. We were all
musical, so the piano and singing helped us through. Madame de Florian,
whose father, Marquis de Nadaillac, is quite of the old school, said
they were not even allowed to work or look at pictures in the _salon_
after dinner! Her father considered it disrespectful if any of his
children did anything but listen when he talked. They might join in the
conversation if they had anything intelligent to say. She told us, too,
of some of the quite old-fashioned châteaux that she stayed in as a
girl, and even a young married woman. There was one fire and one lamp in
the drawing-room. Any one who wanted to be warm, or to work, was obliged
to come into that room. No fires nor lamps allowed anywhere else in the
house; a cup of tea in the afternoon an unheard-of luxury. If you were
ill, a doctor was sent for and he ordered a tisane; if you were merely
tired or cold, you waited until dinner-time.

We have also made a charming expedition to Quinéville, a small seaside
place about an hour and a half's drive, always through the same green
country, our Norman posters galloping up all the hills. We passed
through various little villages, each one with a pretty little gray,
square-towered church. There was plenty of passing, as it was market
day. We met a good many peasant women carrying milk in those curious old
brass bowls one sees everywhere here. Some of them are very handsome,
polished until they shine like mirrors, with a delicate pattern lightly
traced running around the bowl. They balance them perfectly on their
heads and walk along at a good swinging pace. They all look prosperous,
their skirts (generally black), shoes, and stockings in good condition,
and their white caps and handkerchiefs as clean as possible. Quinéville
is a very quiet little place, no hotel, and rows of ugly little houses
well back from the sea, but there is a beautiful stretch of firm white
sand. To-day it was dead low tide. The sea looked miles away, a long
line of dark sea-weed marking the water's edge. There were plenty of
people about; women and girls with stout bare legs, and a primitive sort
of tool, half pitchfork, half shovel, were piling the sea-weed into the
carts which were waiting on the shore. Children were paddling about in
the numerous little pools and making themselves wreaths and necklaces
out of the berries of the sea-weed--some of them quite bright-coloured,
pink and yellow. We wandered about on the beach, sitting sometimes on
the side of a boat, and walking through the little pools and streams. It
was a lonely bit of water. We didn't see a sail. The sea looked like a
great blue plain meeting the sky--nothing to break the monotony. We got
some very bad coffee at the restaurant--didn't attempt tea. They would
certainly have _said_ they had it, and would have made it probably out
of hay from the barn. The drive home was delicious, almost too cool, as
we went at a good pace, the horses knowing as well as we did that the
end of their day was coming.... We have been again to market this
morning. It was much more amusing than the first time, as it was horse
day, and men and beasts were congregated in the middle of the Cathedral
Square. There was a fair show--splendid big carthorses and good cobs and
ponies--here and there a nice saddle-horse. There were a good many women
driving themselves, and almost all had good, stout little horses. They
know just as much about it as the men and were much interested in the
sales. They told me the landlady of the hotel was the best judge of a
horse and a _man_ in Normandy. She was standing at the entrance of her
court-yard as we passed the hotel on our way home, a comely, buxom
figure, dressed like all the rest in a short black skirt and sabots. She
was exchanging smiling greetings and jokes with every one who passed and
keeping order with the crowds of farmers, drivers, and horse-dealers who
were jostling through the big open doors and clamoring for food for
themselves and their animals. She was the type of the hard-working,
capable Frenchwoman of whom there are thousands in France.

Some years ago I was on the committee for a great sale we had in our
arrondissement in Paris for the benefit of "L'Assistance par le
Travail," an excellent work which we are all much interested in. I was
in charge of the buffet, and thought it better to apply at once to one
of the great caterers, Potel and Chabot, and see what they could do for
us. We made an appointment, and Mme. de B. and I drove down to the
place. The manager was out, but they told us that Madame was waiting for
us in the back shop. We found rather a pretty woman, very well dressed
in velvet, with diamond earrings, and I was put out at first--thought
that didn't look like business. However, we talked a few minutes; she
said her husband was obliged to go to the country, but would certainly
come and see me the next day. Then she stepped up to her desk, where
there was a big book open, said she understood we wished to give an
order for a buffet for a charity sale, and was at once absorbed in
sandwiches, tea and coffee, orangeade, and all the requirements for such
an occasion. She was perfectly practical and gave us some very useful
hints--said she supposed we wanted some of their maîtres d'hôtel. We
thought not--our own would do. That, she said, would be a great mistake.
They weren't accustomed to that sort of thing and wouldn't know how to
do it. One thing, for instance--they would certainly fill all the
glasses of orangeade and punch much too full and would waste a great
deal. Their men never filled a glass entirely, and consequently gained
two on every dozen. She told us how much we wanted, made out the
estimate at once, and ended by asking if we would allow them to present
the tea as their contribution to the charity. It didn't take more than
twenty minutes--the whole thing. She then shut up her book, went to the
door with us, thanked us for giving them the order, and hoped we would
be satisfied. That business capability and thriftiness runs through
almost all Frenchwomen of a certain class, and when I hear, as of course
I often do, the frivolous, butterfly, pleasure-loving Frenchwoman spoken
of, that energetic, hard-working bourgeoise comes into my mind. We all
who live in France know the type well.

The whole nation is frugal. During the Franco-German War, my husband,
who had spent all the dreary months of the invasion at his château in
the country, was elected a member of the Assemblée Nationale, which met
at Bordeaux. They were entirely cut off from Paris, surrounded by
Prussian troops on all sides, and he couldn't get any money. Whatever he
had had at the beginning of the war had been spent--sending off recruits
for one of the great army corps near his place. It was impossible to
communicate with his banker or any friends in Paris, and yet he couldn't
start without funds. He applied to the notary of La Ferté-Milon, the
little town nearest the château. He asked how much he wanted. W. said
about 10,000 francs. The notary said, "Give me two days and I will get
it for you." He appeared three days afterward, bringing the 10,000
francs--a great deal of it in large silver five-franc pieces, very
difficult to carry. He had collected the whole sum from small farmers
and peasants in the neighbourhood--the five-franc pieces coming always
from the peasants, sometimes fifty sewed up in a mattress or in the
woman's thick, wadded Sunday skirt. He said he could get as much more if
W. wanted it. It seems impossible for the peasant to part with his money
or invest it. He must keep it well hidden, but in his possession.

... We had a pretty drive this afternoon to one of Florian's farms, down
a little green lane, some distance from the high-road and so hidden by
the big trees that we saw nothing until we got close to the gate. It was
late--all the cows coming home, the great Norman horses drinking at the
trough, two girls with bare legs and high caps calling all the fowl to
supper, and the farmer's wife, with a baby in her arms and another
child, almost a baby, pulling at her skirts, seated on a stone bench
underneath a big apple-tree, its branches heavy with fruit. She was
superintending the work of the farm-yard and seeing that the two girls
didn't waste a minute of their time, nor a grain of the seed with which
they were feeding the chickens. A little clear, sparkling stream was
meandering through the meadows, tall poplars on each side, and quite
at the end of the stretch of green fields there was the low blue line of
the sea. The farmhouse is a large, old-fashioned building with one or
two good rooms. It had evidently been a small manor house. One of the
rooms is charming, with handsome panels of dark carved wood. It seemed a
pity to leave them there, and almost a pity, that the Florians could not
have made their home in such a lovely green spot, but they would have
been obliged to add to the house enormously, and it would have
complicated their lives, being so far away from everything.

[Illustration: Old gate-way. Valogues.]

... We have had a last walk and flânerie this morning. We went to the
Hospice, formerly a Benedictine convent, where there is a fine gate-way
and court-yard with most extraordinary carving over the doors and
gate--monstrous heads and beasts and emblems alongside of cherubs and
beautiful saints and angels. One wonders what ideas those old artists
had; it seems now such distorted imagination. We walked through some of
the oldest streets and past what had been fine hotels, but they are
quite uninhabited now. Sometimes a bric-à-brac shop on the ground-floor,
and some sort of society on the upper story, but they are all neglected
and half tumbling down. There is still splendid carving on some of the
old gate-ways and cornices, but bits of stone and plaster are falling
off, grass is growing between the paving stones of the court-yards, and
there is an air of poverty and neglect which is a curious contrast to
the prosperous look of the country all around--all the little farms and
villages look so thriving. The people are smiling and well fed; their
animals, too--horses, cows, donkeys--all in good condition.

I have played my last game of dominoes in this fine old hotel and had my
last cup of tea in the stiff, stately garden, with the delicious salt
sea-breeze always coming at four o'clock, and the cathedral chimes
sounding high and clear over our heads. I leave to-morrow night for
London, via Cherbourg and Southampton.



We never remained all summer at our place. August was a disagreeable
month there--the woods were full of horse-flies which made riding
impossible. No nets could keep them off the horses who were almost
maddened by the sting. They were so persistent that we had to take them
off with a sharp stick. They stuck like leeches. We generally went to
the sea--almost always to the Norman Coast--establishing ourselves in a
villa--sometimes at Deauville, sometimes at Villers, and making
excursions all over the country.

Some of the old Norman châteaux are charming, particularly those which
have remained just as they were before the Revolution, but, of course,
there are not many of these. When the young ones succeed, there is
always a tendency to modify and change, and it is not easy to mix the
elaborate luxurious furniture of our times with the stiff old-fashioned
chairs and sofas one finds in the old French houses. Merely to look at
them one understands why our grandfathers and grandmothers always sat

One of the most interesting of the Norman châteaux is "Abondant," in the
department of the Eure-et-Loir, belonging until very recently to the
Vallambrosa family. It belonged originally to la Duchesse de Tourzel,
gouvernante des Enfants de France (children of Louis XVI and Marie
Antoinette). After the imprisonment of the Royal Family, Madame de
Tourzel retired to her château d'Abondant and remained there all through
the Revolution. The village people and peasants adored her and she lived
there peacefully through all those terrible days. Neither château nor
park was damaged in any way, although she was known to be a devoted
friend and adherent of the unfortunate Royal Family. A band of
half-drunken "patriots" tried to force their way into the park one day,
with the intention of cutting down the trees and pillaging the château,
but all the villagers instantly assembled, armed with pitchforks, rusty
old guns and stones, and dispersed the rabble.

Abondant is a Louis XV château--very large--seventeen rooms en
façade--but simple in its architecture. The Duchess occupied a large
corner room on the ground-floor, with four windows. The ceiling (which
was very high) and walls covered with toiles de Jouy. An enormous bed à
baldaquin was trimmed with the same toile and each post had a great
bunch of white feathers on top.

In 1886, when one of my friends was staying at Abondant, the hangings
were the same which had been there all through the Revolution. She told
me she had never been so miserable as the first time she stayed at the
château during the lifetime of the late Duchesse de Vallambrosa. They
gave her the Duchesse de Tourzel's room, thinking it would interest her
as a chambre historique. She was already nervous at sleeping alone on
the ground-floor, far from all the other inmates of the château. The
room was enormous--walls nearly five metres high--the bed looked like an
island in the midst of space; there was very little furniture, and the
white feathers on the bed-posts nodded and waved in the dim light. She
scarcely closed her eyes, could not reason with herself, and asked the
next morning to have something less magnificent and more modern.

In all the bedrooms the dressing-tables were covered with dentelle de
Binche[15] of the epoch, and all the mirrors and various little boxes
for powder, rouge, patches, and the hundred accessories for a fine
lady's toilette in those days, were in Vernis Martin absolutely
intact. The drawing-rooms still had their old silk hangings--a white
ground covered with wreaths of flowers and birds with wonderful bright
plumage--hand-painted--framed in wood of two shades of light green.

  [15] Binche, name of a village in Belgium where the lace is made.

The big drawing-room was entirely panelled in wood of the same light
green, most beautifully and delicately carved. These old boiseries were
all removed when the château was sold. After the death of the Duchesse
de Tourzel the château went to her niece, the Duchesse des Cars--who
left it to her niece, the Duchesse de Vallambrosa, a very rare instance,
in France, of a property descending directly through several generations
in the female line.

It was sold by the Vallambrosas. The old wood panels are in the Paris
house of a member of that family. The park was very large and
beautifully laid out, with the fine trees one sees all over Normandy.

Twenty years ago a salle de spectacle "en verdure" still existed in the
park--the seats were all in grass; the coulisses (side scenes) made in
the trees of the park--their boughs cut and trained into shape, to
represent green walls, a marble group of allegorical figures at the
back. It was most carefully preserved--the seats of the amphitheatre
looked like green velvet and the trees were always cut in the same
curious shapes. It seemed quite a fitting part of the fine old place,
with its memories of past fêtes and splendours, before the whirlwind of
liberty and equality swept over the country.

Many of the châteaux are changing hands. The majorat (entail) doesn't
exist in France, and as the fortunes must always be divided among the
children, it becomes more and more difficult to keep up the large
places. Life gets dearer every day--fortunes don't increase--very few
young Frenchmen of the upper classes do anything. The only way of
keeping up the big places is by making a rich marriage--the daughter of
a rich banker or industrial, or an American.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our cousins, Comte and Comtesse d'Y----, have a pretty little old place
not very far from Villers-sur-Mer, where we went sometimes for
sea-bathing. The house is an ordinary square white stone building, a
fine terrace with a flight of steps leading down to the garden on one
side. The park is delightful--many splendid old trees. Until a few years
ago there were still some that dated since Louis XIV. The last one of
that age--a fine oak, with wide spreading branches--died about two years
ago, but they cannot make up their minds to cut it down. I advised them
to leave the trunk standing--(I think, by degrees, the branches will
fall as they are quite dead)--cover it with ivy or a vine of some kind,
and put a notice on it of the age of the tree.

The house stands high, and they have splendid views--on one side, from
the terrace, a great expanse of green valley looking toward Falaise--on
the other, the sea--a beautiful, blue summer sea, when we were there the
other day.

We went over from Villers to breakfast. It was late in the season, the
end of September--one of those bright days one sometimes has in
September, when summer still lingers and the sun gives beautiful mellow
tints to everything without being strong enough to make one feel the
heat. The road was lovely all the way, particularly after we turned off
the high road at the top of the Houlgate Hill. We went through countless
little Norman lanes, quite narrow, sometimes--between high green banks
with a hedge on top, and the trees meeting over our heads--so narrow
that I wondered what would happen if we met another auto. We left the
sea behind us, and plunged into the lovely green valley that runs along
back of the coast line. We came suddenly on the gates of the château,
rather a sharp turn. There was a broad avenue with fine trees leading up
to the house--on one side, meadows fenced off with white wooden palings
where horses and cows were grazing--a pretty lawn before the house with
beds of begonias, and all along the front, high raised borders of red
geranium which looked very well against the grey stone.

We found a family party, Comte and Comtesse d'Y----, their daughter and
a governess. We went upstairs (a nice wooden staircase with broad
shallow steps) to an end room, with a beautiful view over the park,
where we got out of all the wraps, veils, and glasses that one must have
in an open auto if one wishes to look respectable when one arrives, and
went down at once to the hall where the family was waiting.

The dining-room was large and light, high, wide windows and beautiful
trees wherever one looked. The decoration of the room was rather
curious. The d'Y----s descend--like many Norman families--from William
the Conqueror, and there are English coats-of-arms on some of the
shields on the walls. A band which looks like fresco, but is really
painted on linen--very cleverly arranged with some composition which
makes it look like the wall--runs straight around the room with all
sorts of curious figures: soldiers, horses, and boats, copied exactly
from the famous Bayeux tapestries, the most striking episodes--the
departure of the Conqueror from Dives--the embarkation of his army (the
cavalry--most extraordinary long queerly shaped horses with faces like
people)--the death of Harold--the fighting Bishop Odo--brother of the
Conqueror, who couldn't carry a lance, but had a good stout stick which
apparently did good service as various Saxons were flying horizontally
through the air as he and his steed advanced; one wonders at the
imagination which could have produced such extraordinary figures, as
certainly no men or beasts, at any period of time, could have looked
like those. The ships were less striking--had rather more the semblance
of boats.

However, the effect, with all the bright colouring, is very good and
quite in harmony with this part of the country, where everything teems
with legends and traditions of the great Duke. They see Falaise, where
he was born, from their terrace, sometimes. We didn't, for though the
day was beautiful, there was a slight haze which made the far-off
landscapes only a blue line.

After breakfast we went for a walk in the park. They have arranged it
very well, with rustic bridges and seats wherever the view was
particularly fine. We saw a nice, old, red brick house, near the farm,
which was the manoir where the Dowager Countess lives now. She made over
the château to her son, in her life time, on condition that he would
keep it up and arrange it, which he has done very well. We made the
tour of the park--passing a pretty lodge with roses and creepers all
over it and "Mairie" put upon a sign; d'Y----is mayor of his little
village and finds it convenient to have the Mairie at his own gate. We
rested a little in the drawing-room before going back, and he showed us
various portraits and miniatures of his family which were most
interesting. Some of the miniatures are exactly like one we have of
father, of that period with the high stock and tight-buttoned coat. The
light was lovely--so soft and warm--in the drawing-room, and as there
were no lace curtains or vitrages, and the silk curtains were drawn back
from the high plate glass windows, we seemed to be sitting in the park
under the trees. They gave us tea and the good little cakes, "St.
Pierre," a sort of "sablé," for which all the coast is famous.

The drive home was enchanting, with a lovely view from the top of the
hill; a beautiful blue sea at our feet and the turrets and pointed roofs
of the Villers houses taking every possible colour from the sunset

We went back once more to a thé dansant given for her seventeen-year-old
daughter. It was a lovely afternoon and the place looked charming--the
gates open--carriages and autos arriving in every direction--people came
from a great distance as with the autos no one hesitates to undertake a
drive of a hundred kilomètres. The young people danced in the
drawing-room--Madame d'Y---- had taken out all the furniture, and the
parents and older people sat about on the terrace where there were
plenty of seats and little tea-tables. The dining-room--with an abundant
buffet--was always full; one arrives with a fine appetite after whirling
for two or three hours through the keen salt air. The girls all looked
charming--the white dresses, bright sashes, and big picture hats are so
becoming. They were dancing hard when we left, about half past six, and
it was a pretty sight as we looked back from the gates--long lines of
sunlight wavering over the grass, figures in white flitting through the
trees, distant strains of music, and what was less agreeable, the
strident sound of a sirène on some of the autos. They are detestable

We were very comfortable at Villers in a nice, clean house looking on
the sea, with broad balconies at every story, where we put sofas and
tables and green blinds, using them as extra salons. We were never in
the house except to eat and sleep. Nothing is more characteristic of the
French (particularly in the bourgeoise) than the thorough way in which
they _do_ their month at the sea-shore. They generally come for the month
of August. Holidays have begun and business, of all kinds, is slack.
Our plage was really a curiosity. There is a splendid stretch of sand
beach--at low tide one can walk, by the shore, to Trouville or Houlgate
on perfectly firm, dry sand. There are hundreds of cabins and tents,
striped red and white, and umbrellas on the beach, and all day long
whole families sit there. They all bathe, and a curious fashion at
Villers is that you put on your bathing dress in your own house--over
that a peignoir, generally of red and white striped cotton, and walk
quite calmly through the streets to the établissement. Some of the
ladies and gentlemen of mature years are not to their advantage. When
they can, if they have houses with a terrace or garden, they take their
meals outside, and as soon as they have breakfasted, start again for the
beach. When it is low tide they go shrimp-fishing or walk about in the
shallow water looking for shells and sea-weed. When it is high tide, all
sit at the door of their tents sewing, reading, or talking--I mean, of
course, the petite bourgeoisie.

At other places on the coast, Deauville or Houlgate, the life is like
Newport or Dinard, or any other fashionable seaside place, with
automobiles, dinners, dressing, etc. They get all the sea air and
out-of-door life that they can crowd into one month. One lady said to me
one day, "I can't bathe, but I take a 'bain d'air' every day--I sit on
the rocks as far out in the water as I can--take off my hat and my shoes
and stockings."

There is a great clearing out always by the first of September and then
the place was enchanting--bright, beautiful September days, one could
still bathe, the sun was so strong; and the afternoons, with just a
little chill in the air, were delightful for walking and driving. There
was a pretty Norman farm--just over the plage--at the top of the falaise
where we went sometimes for tea. They gave us very good tea, milk, and
cider, and excellent bread and butter and cheese. We sat out of doors in
an apple orchard at little tables--all the beasts of the establishment
in the same field. The chickens and sheep surrounded us, were evidently
accustomed to being fed, but the horses, cows, and calves kept quite to
the other end. We saw the girls milking the cows which, of course,
interested the children immensely.

We made some charming excursions in the auto--went one Saturday to
Caen--such a pretty road through little smiling villages--every house
with a garden, or if too close together to allow that, there were pots
of geraniums, the falling kind, in the windows, which made a red curtain
dropping down over the walls. We stopped at Lisieux--a quaint old Norman
town, with a fine cathedral and curious houses with gables and
towers--one street most picturesque, very narrow, with wooden houses,
their projecting roofs coming so far over the street one could hardly
see the sky in some places. There were all kinds of balconies and
cornices most elaborately carved--the wood so dark one could scarcely
distinguish the original figures and devices, but some of them were
extraordinary, dragons, and enormous winged animals. We did not linger
very long as we were in our new auto--a Martini hill-climber--built in
Switzerland and, of course (like all automobilists), were anxious to
make as fast a run as possible between Villers and Caen.

The approach to Caen is not particularly interesting--the country is
flat, the road running through poplar-bordered fields--one does not see
it at all until one gets quite near, and then suddenly beautiful towers
and steeples seem to rise out of the green meadows. It was
Saturday--market day--and the town was crowded--every description of
vehicle in the main street and before the hotel, two enormous red
60-horse-power Mercedes--farmers' gigs and donkey carts with cheeses and
butter--a couple generally inside--the man with his blue smock and
broad-brimmed hat, the woman with a high, clean, stiff-starched muslin
cap, a knit shawl over her shoulders. They were not in the least
discomposed by the bustle and the automobiles, never thought of getting
out of the way--jogged comfortably on keeping to their side of the road.

We left the auto at the hotel and found many others in the court-yard,
and various friends. The d'Y----s had come over from Grangues (their
place). He is Conseiller Général of Calvados, and market day, in a
provincial town, is an excellent occasion for seeing one's electors.
There were also some friends from Trouville-Deauville, most of them in
autos--some in light carriages. We tried to make a rendezvous for tea at
the famous pâtissier's (who sends his cakes and bonbons over half the
department), but that was not very practical, as they had all finished
what they had to do and we had not even begun our sightseeing. However,
d'Y---- told us he would leave our names at the tea-room, a sort of club
they have established over the pâtissier's, where we would be quieter
and better served than in the shop which would certainly be crowded on
Saturday afternoon. We walked about till we were dead tired.

St. Pierre is a fine old Norman church with beautiful tower and steeple.
It stands fairly well in the Place St. Pierre, but the houses are much
too near. It should have more space around it. There was a market going
on, on the other side of the square--fruit, big apples and pears,
flowers and fish being heaped up together. The apples looked tempting,
such bright red ones.

We went to the two abbayes--both of them quite beautiful--St.
Étienne--Abbaye aux Hommes was built by William the Conqueror, who was
originally buried there. It is very grand--quite simple, but splendid
proportions--a fitting resting-place for the great soldier, who,
however, was not allowed to sleep his last sleep, undisturbed, in the
city he loved so well. His tomb was desecrated several times and his
remains lost in the work of destruction.

We went on to the Abbaye aux Dames which is very different; smaller--not
nearly so simple. The façade is very fine with two square towers most
elaborately carved, the steeples have long since disappeared; and there
are richly ornamented galleries and balustrades in the interior of the
church, not at all the high solemn vaulted aisles of the Abbaye aux
Hommes. It was founded by Queen Mathilde, wife of William the Conqueror,
and she is buried there--a perfectly simple tomb with an inscription in
Latin. There was at one time a very handsome monument, but it was
destroyed, like so many others, during the Revolution, and the remains
placed, some years after, in the stone coffin where they now rest. We
hadn't time to see the many interesting things in the churches and in
the town, as it was getting late and we wanted some tea before we
started back. We found our way to the pâtissier's quite easily, but
certainly couldn't have had any tea if d'Y---- had not told us to use
his name and ask for the club-room. The little shop was crowded--people
standing and making frantic dashes into the kitchen for chocolate and
muffins. The club-room upstairs was quite nice--painted white, a good
glass so that we could arrange our hair a little, one or two tables--and
we were attended to at once. They brought us the spécialité of the
place--light, hot brioches with grated ham inside--very good and very

We went home by a different road, but it looked just like the
other--fewer little hamlets, perhaps, and great pasture fields, filled
with fine specimens of Norman dray horses and mares with long-legged
colts running alongside of them. It was late when we got home. The
lighthouses of Honfleur and Havre made a long golden streak stretching
far out to sea, and the great turning flashlight of St. Adresse was
quite dazzling.

We went back over the same ground two or three days later on our way to
Bayeux. The town is not particularly interesting, but the cathedral is
beautiful and in wonderful preservation--the columns are very
grand--every capital exquisitely carved and no two alike. Our guide, a
very talkative person--unlike the generality of Norman peasants, who are
usually taciturn--was very anxious to show us each column in detail and
explain all the really beautiful carving, but we were rather hurried as
some of the party were going to lunch at Barbieville--Comte Foy's

On the same place as the cathedral is the Hôtel de Ville, with the
wonderful tapestries worked by the Queen Mathilde, wife of William the
Conqueror. They are really most extraordinary and so well preserved. The
colours look as if they had been painted yesterday. I hadn't seen them
for years and had forgotten the curious shapes and vivid colouring. We
went to one of the lace shops. The Bayeux lace is very pretty, made with
the "fuseau", very fine--a mixture of Valenciennes and Mechlin. It is
very strong, though it looks delicate. The dentellières still do a very
good business. The little girls begin to work as soon as they can thread
their needle, and follow a simple pattern.

       *       *       *       *       *

The F.'s enjoyed their day at Barbieville, Comte Foy's château, very
much. They said the house was nothing remarkable--a large square
building, but the park was original. Comte Foy is a racing man, breeds
horses, and has his "haras" on his place. The park is all cut up into
paddocks, each one separated from the other by a hedge and all
connected by green paths. F. said the effect from the terrace was quite
charming; one saw nothing but grass and hedges and young horses and
colts running about. Comtesse Foy and her daughters were making lace.
The girls went in to Bayeux three or four times a week and took lessons
from one of the dentellières.



One year we were at Boulogne for the summer in a funny little house, in
a narrow street just behind the port and close to the Casino and beach.
There were a great many people--all the hotels full and quantities of
automobiles passing all day. The upper part of the town is just like any
other seaside place--rows of hotels and villas facing the sea--some of
the houses built into the high green cliff which rises steep and almost
menacing behind. Already parts of the cliff have crumbled away in some
place and the proprietors of the villas find some difficulty in letting
them. The front rooms on the sea are charming, but the back
ones--directly under the cliff--with no air or sun, are not very
tempting. There is a fine digue and raised broad walk all along the sea
front, with flowers, seats, and music stand.

It is a perfectly safe beach for children, for though the channel is
very near and the big English boats pass close to the shore, there are
several sand banks which make the beach quite safe, and from seven in
the morning till seven at night there are two boats au large and two men
on the beach, with ropes, life-preservers, and horns which they blow
whenever they think the bathers are too far out. There is an "Inspecteur
de la Plage," a regular French official with a gold band on his cap, who
is a most important and amiable gentleman and sees that no one is
annoyed in any way. We made friends with him at once, moyennant une
pièce de dix francs, and he looked after us, saw that our tents were put
up close to the water, no others near, and warned off stray children and
dogs who were attracted by our children's toys and cakes.

The plage is a pretty sight on a bright day. There are hundreds of
tents--all bright-coloured. When one approaches Boulogne from the sea
the beach looks like a parterre of flowers. Near the Casino there are a
quantity of old-fashioned ramshackly bathing cabins on wheels, with very
small boys cracking their whips and galloping up and down, from the
digue to the edge of the water, on staid old horses who know their work
perfectly--put themselves at once into the shafts of the
carriages--never go beyond a certain limit in the sea.

All the bathers are prudent. It is rare to see any one swimming out or
diving from a boat. A policeman presides at the public bathing place
and there are three or four baigneurs and baigneuses who take charge of
the timid bathers; one wonderful old woman, bare-legged, of course, a
handkerchief on her head, a flannel blouse and a very short skirt made
of some water-proof material that stood out stiff all around her and
shed the water--she was the première baigneuse--seventy years old and
had been baigneuse at Boulogne for fifty-one years. She had bathed C. as
a child, and was delighted to see her again and wildly interested in her
two children.

There were donkeys, of course, and goats. The children knew the goat man
well and all ran to him with their mugs as soon as they heard his
peculiar whistle. They held their mugs close under the goat so that they
got their milk warm and foaming, as it was milked directly into their
mugs. The goats were quite tame--one came always straight to our tents
and lay down there till his master came. Every one wanted to feed them
with cakes and bits of sugar, but he would never let them have anything
for fear it should spoil their milk.

Another friend was the cake man, dressed all in white, with his basket
of brioches and madeleines on his head--then there were the inevitable
Africans with fezes on their heads and bundles of silks--crêpes-de-chine
and ostrich feathers, that one sees at every plage. I don't think they
did much business.

The public was not all distinguished. We often wondered where the people
were who lived in the hôtels (all very expensive) and villas, for, with
very rare exceptions, it was the most ordinary petite bourgeoisie that
one saw on the beach--a few Americans, a great many fourth-rate English.
They were a funny contrast to the people who came for the Concours
Hippique, and the Race Week. One saw then a great influx of
automobiles--there were balls at the Casino and many pretty,
well-dressed women, of both worlds, much en evidence. The châtelains
from the neighbouring châteaux appeared and brought their guests.

For that one week Boulogne was quite fashionable. The last Sunday of the
races was a terrible day. There was an excursion train from Paris and
two excursion steamers from England. We were on the quay when the
English boats came in and it was amusing to see the people. Some of them
had left London at six in the morning. There were all sorts and kinds,
wonderful sportsmen with large checked suits, caps and field glasses
slung over their shoulders--a great many pretty girls--generally in
white. All had bags and baskets with bathing suits and luncheon, and in
an instant they were swarming over the plage--already crowded with the
Paris excursionists. They didn't interfere with us much as we never went
to the beach on Sunday.

F. was fishing all day with some of his friends in a pilot boat. (They
brought back three hundred mackerel), had a beautiful day--the sea quite
calm and the fish rising in quantities. C. and I, with the children,
went off to the Hardelot woods in the auto. We established ourselves on
a hillside, pines all around us, the sea at our feet, a beautiful blue
sky overhead, and not a sound to break the stillness except sometimes,
in the distance, the sirène of a passing auto. We had our tea-basket,
found a nice clear space to make a fire, which we did very prudently,
scooping out a great hole in the ground and making a sort of oven. It
was very difficult to keep the children from tumbling into the hole as
they were rolling about on the soft ground, but we got home without any
serious detriment to life or limb.

       *       *       *       *       *

The life in our quarter on the quais is very different, an extraordinary
animation and movement. There are hundreds of vessels of every
description in the port. All day and all night boats are coming in and
going out: The English steamers with their peculiar, dull, penetrating
whistle that one hears at a great distance--steam tugs that take
passengers and luggage out to the Atlantic liners, lying just outside
the digue--yachts, pilot boats, easily distinguished by a broad white
line around their hulls, and a number very conspicuously printed in
large black letters on their white sails, "baliseurs," smart-looking
little craft that take buoys out to the various points where they must
be laid. One came in the other day with two large, red, bell-shaped
buoys on her deck which made a great effect from a distance; we were
standing on the pier, and couldn't imagine what they were; "avisos"
(dispatch-boats), with their long, narrow flamme, which marks them as
war vessels, streaming out in the wind. Their sailors looked very
picturesque in white jerseys and blue bérets with red pompons. Small
steamers that run along the coast from Calais to Dunkirk--others, cargo
boats, broad and deep in the water, that take fruit and eggs over to
England. The baskets of peaches, plums, and apricots look most
appetizing when they are taken on board. The steamers look funny when
they come back with empty baskets, quantities of them, piled up on the
decks, tied to the masts. Many little pleasure boats--flat, broad rowing
boats that take one across the harbour to the Gare Maritime (which is a
long way around by the bridge), a most uncomfortable performance at low
tide, as you go down long, steep, slippery steps with no railing, and
have to scramble into the boat as well as you can.

Of course, there are fishing-boats of every description, from the modest
little sloop with one mast and small sail to the big steam trawlers
which are increasing every year and gradually replacing the
old-fashioned sailing-boat. One always knows when the fishing-boats are
arriving by the crowd that assembles on the quay; that peculiar
population that seems natural to all ports, young, able-bodied sailors,
full of interest about the run and the cargo--old men in blue jerseys
who sit on the wall, in the sun, all day, and recount their
experiences--various officials with gold bands on their caps, men with
hand carts waiting to carry off the fish and fishwives--their baskets
strapped on their backs--hoping for a haul of crabs and shrimps or fish
from some of the small boats.

_All_ the cargo of the trawlers is sold before they arrive to the
marieurs (men who deal exclusively in fish), and who have a contract
with the big boats. There is no possibility of having a good fish except
at the Halles, where one can sometimes get some from one of the smaller
boats, which fish on their own account and have no contract; but even
those are generally sold at once to small dealers, who send them off to
the neighbouring inland towns. In fact, the proprietor of one of the
big hotels told me he had to get his fish from Paris and paid Paris

The fishwives, the young ones particularly, are a fine-looking
lot--tall, straight, with feet and legs bare, a little white cap or
woollen fichu on their heads--they carry off their heavy baskets as
lightly as possible, taking them to the Halles where all the fish must
go. They are quite a feature of Boulogne, the young fishwives. One sees
them often at low tide--fishing for shrimps, carrying their heavy nets
on their shoulders and flat baskets strapped on their backs into which
they tip the fish very cleverly. They are quite distinct from the
Boulonaises matelottes, who are a step higher in the social scale.
_They_ always wear a wonderful white cap with a high starched frill
which stands out around their faces like an auréole. They, too, wear
short full skirts, but have long stockings and very good stout
_shoes_--not sabots--which are also disappearing. They turn out very
well on Sundays. I saw a lot of them the other day coming out of
church--all with their caps scrupulously clean--short, full, black or
brown skirts; aprons ironed in a curious way--_across_ the apron--making
little waves (our maids couldn't think what had happened to their white
aprons the first time they came back from the wash--thought there had
been some mistake and they had some one's else clothes--they had to
explain to the washerwoman that they liked their aprons ironed
straight); long gold earrings and gold chains. They are handsome women,
dark with straight features, a serious look in their eyes. Certainly
people who live by the sea have a different expression--there is
something grave, almost sad in their faces, which one doesn't see in
dwellers in sunny meadows and woodlands.

We went this morning with the Baron de G., who is at the head of one of
the fishing companies here, to see one of their boats come in and
unload. It was a steam trawler, with enormous nets, that had been
fishing off the English coast near Land's End. There were quite a number
of people assembled on the quay--a policeman, a garde du port, an agent
of the company, and the usual lot of people who are always about when a
fishing-boat comes in. Her cargo seemed to be almost entirely of fish
they call here saumon blanc. They were sending up great baskets of them
from the hold where they were very well packed in ice; half-way up they
were thrown into a big tub which cleaned them--took off the salt and
gave them a silvery look. They are put by hundreds into hand-carts which
were waiting and carried off at once to the Halles. They had brought in
3,500 fish, but didn't seem to think they had made a very good haul. The
whole cargo had been sold to a marieur and was sent off at once, by
him, all over the country.

Other boats were also sending their cargo to the Halles. They had all
kinds of fish--soles, mackerel, and a big red fish I didn't know at all.
I wouldn't have believed, if I had not seen it with my own eyes, that
such a bright-coloured fish could exist. However, a very sharp little
boy, who was standing near and who answered all my questions, told me
they were rougets. We went on to the Halles--a large gray stone building
facing the sea--rather imposing with a square tower on top, from which
one can see a long way out to sea and signal incoming fishing-boats. It
was very clean--water running over the white marble slabs, and women,
with pails and brushes, washing and wiping the floor. It is evidently a
place that attracts strangers; many tourists were walking about--one
couple, American, I think, passing through in an automobile and laying
in a stock of lobsters and crabs (the big deep-sea crabs) and rougets.
The man rather hesitated about leaving his auto in the streets; they had
no chauffeur with them, tried to find a boy who would watch it. For a
wonder none was forthcoming, but two young fishwives, who were standing
near, said they would; when the man came back with his purchases he gave
each of them a five-franc piece, which munificence so astounded them
that they could hardly find words to thank him.

Quantities of fish of all kinds had arrived--some being sold à la criée,
but it was impossible to understand the prices or the names of the
fish--at least for us. The buying public seemed to know all about it.
The fishwives were very busy standing behind the marble slabs with short
thick knives, with which they cut off pieces of the large fish when the
customer didn't want a whole one, and laughing and joking with every
one. Here and there we saw a modern young person in a fancy blouse, her
hair dressed and waved, with little combs, but there were not many. We
bought some soles and shrimps. M. de G. tried to bargain a little for
us, but the women were so smiling and so sure we didn't know anything
about it, or what the current price of the fish was, that we had not
much success.

The trawlers are gradually taking away all the trade from the
old-fashioned fishing-boats. They go faster, carry more and larger nets,
and are, of course, stronger sea-boats. They are not much more
expensive. They burn coal of an inferior quality and their machinery is
of the simplest description. There is not the loss of life with them
that there must be always with the smaller sailing-boats.

Newfoundland is the most dangerous fishing ground, as the men have so
much to contend with--the passing of transatlantic liners and the cold,
thick fogs which come up off the banks--all of them prefer the Iceland
fishing. The cold is greater, but there is much less fog and very few
big boats to be met en route. Few of the Boulogne boats go to
Newfoundland. It is generally the boats from Fécamp and some of the
Breton ports that monopolize the fishing off the Banks. It seems that
men often die from the cold and exposure in these waters. From the
old-fashioned sailing-boats they usually send them off--two by two in a
dory (they don't fish from the big boats); they start early, fish all
day; if no fog comes up, they are all right and get back to their boats
at dark, but if a sudden fog comes on they often can't find their boats
and remain out all night, half frozen. _One_ night they can stand, but
_two_ nights' cold and exposure are always fatal. When the fog lifts the
little boat is sometimes quite close to the big one, but the men are
dead--frozen. M. de G. tells us all sorts of terrible experiences that
he has heard from his men, and yet they all like the life--wouldn't lead
any other, and have the greatest contempt for a landsman.

       *       *       *       *       *
There is a fruit stall at the corner of our street, where we stop every
morning and buy fruit on our way down to the beach. We have become most
intimate with the two women who are there. One, a young one with small
children about the age of ours (to whom she often gives grapes or
cherries when they pass), and the other a little, old, wrinkled,
brown-faced grandmother, who sits all day, in all weathers, under an
awning made of an old sail and helps her daughter. She has very bright
eyes and looks as keen and businesslike as the young woman. She told us
the other day she had _forty_ grandchildren--all the males, men and
boys, sailors and fishermen and "mousses"--many of the girls fishwives
and the mothers married to fishermen or sailors. I asked her why some of
them hadn't tried to do something else--there were so many things people
could do in these days to earn their living without leading such a rough
life. She was quite astonished at my suggestion--replied that they had
lived on the sea all their lives and never thought of doing anything
else. Her own husband had been a fisherman--belonged to one of the
Iceland boats--went three or four times a year regularly--didn't come
back one year--no tidings ever came of ship or crew--it was God's will,
and when his time came he had to go, whether in his bed or on his boat.
And she brought up all her sons to be sailors or fishermen, and when two
were lost at sea, accepted that, too, as part of her lot, only said it
was hard, sometimes, for the poor women when the winter storms came and
the wind was howling and the waves thundering on the beach, and they
thought of their men ("mon homme" she always called her husband when
speaking of him), wet and cold, battling for their lives. I talked to
her often and the words of the old song,

   "But men must work and women must weep,
   Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
   And the harbour bar be moaning,"

came back to me more than once, for the floating buoy at the end of the
jetty makes a continuous dull melancholy sound when the sea is at all
rough, and when it is foggy (the channel fogs come up very quickly) we
hear fog horns all around us and quite distinctly the big sirène of Cap
Gris Nez, which sends out its long wailing note over the sea. It is very
powerful and is heard at a long distance.

The shops on the quay are an unfailing source of interest to me. I make
a tour there every morning before I go down to the beach. They have such
a wonderful variety of things. Shells of all sizes--enormous pink ones
like those I always remember standing on the mantelpiece in the nursery
at home--brought back by a sailor brother who used to tell us to put
them to our ears and we would hear the noise of the sea--and beautiful
delicate little mother-of-pearl shells that are almost jewels--wonderful
frames, boxes, and pincushions, made of shells; big spoons, too, with
a figure or a ship painted on them--knives, penholders, paper-cutters
and brooches, made out of the bones of big fish--tassels of
bright-coloured sea-weed, corals, vanilla beans--curiously worked
leather belts--some roughly carved ivory crosses, umbrella handles,
canes of every description, pipes, long gold earrings, parrots, little
birds with bright-coloured feathers, monkeys--an extraordinary

I am sure one would find many curious specimens if one could penetrate
into the back of the old shops and pull the things about--evidently
sailors from all parts of the world have passed at Boulogne. Still I
don't hear many foreign languages spoken--almost always French and
English; occasionally a dark face, with bright black eyes, strikes one.
We saw two Italians the other day, talking and gesticulating hard,
shivering, too, with woollen comforters tied over their caps. There was
a cold fog and we were all wrapped up. It must be awful weather for
Southerners who only live when the sun shines and go to bed when it is
cold and gray. There are all sorts of itinerants, petits marchands, on
the other side of the quay, looking on the water--old women with fruit
and cakes--children with crabs and shrimps--dolls in Boulonaise
costume--fishwives and matelottes, stalls with every description of
food, tea, coffee, chocolate, sandwiches, and fried potatoes. The
children bought some potatoes the other day wrapped up in brown
paper--quite a big portion for two sous--and said they were very good.

The quais are very broad, happily, for everything is put there. One
morning there were quantities of barrels. I asked what was in them.
Salt, they told me, for the herring-boats which are starting these days.
Nets, coils of ropes, big sails, baskets, boxes, odd bits of iron, some
anchors--one has rather to pick one's way. An automobile has been
standing there for three or four days. I asked if that was going to
Iceland on a trawler, but the man answered quite simply, "Oh, no,
Madame, what should we do with an automobile in a fishing-boat. It
belongs to the owner of one of the ships, and has been here en panne
waiting till he can have it repaired."

We went one evening to the Casino to see a "bal des matelottes." It was
a curious sight--a band playing on a raised stand--a broad space cleared
all round it and lots of people dancing. The great feature, of course,
was the matelottes. Their costumes were very effective--they all wore
short, very full skirts, different coloured jackets, short, with a belt,
very good stout shoes and stockings, and their white frilled caps. They
always danced together (very rarely with a man--it is not etiquette for
them to dance with any man when their husbands or lovers are at sea),
their hands on each other's shoulders. They dance perfectly well and
keep excellent time and, I suppose, enjoy themselves, but they look very
solemn going round and round until the music stops. Their feet and
ankles are usually small. I heard an explanation the other day of their
dark skins, clean cut features, and small feet. They are of Portuguese
origin. The first foreign sailors who came to France were Portuguese.
Many of them remained, married French girls, and that accounts for that
peculiar type in their descendants which is very different from the look
of the Frenchwoman in general. There are one or two villages in Brittany
where the women have the same colouring and features, and there also
Portuguese sailors had remained and married, and one still hears some
Portuguese names--José, Manuel--and among the women some Annunziatas,
Carmelas, etc. We had a house in Brittany one summer and our kitchen
maid was called Dolores.


We made a lovely excursion one day to Cap Gris Nez--just at the end of a
wild bit of coast about twenty-five kilomètres from Boulogne. The road
was enchanting on the top of the cliff all along the sea. We passed
through Vimereux, a small bathing-place four or five miles from
Boulogne, and one or two other villages, then went through a wild
desolate tract of sand-hills and plains and came upon the lighthouse,
one of the most important of the coast--a very powerful light that all
inward-bound boats are delighted to see. There are one or two villas
near on the top of the cliff, then the road turns sharply down to the
beach--a beautiful broad expanse of yellow sand, reaching very far out
that day as it was dead low tide.

In the distance we saw figures; couldn't distinguish what they were
doing, but supposed they were fishing for shrimps, which was what our
party meant to do. The auto was filled with nets, baskets, and clothes,
as well as luncheon baskets. The hotel--a very good, simple one--with a
broad piazza going all around it, was half-way down the cliff, and the
woman was very "complaisante" and helpful--said there were plenty of
shrimps, crabs, and lobsters and no one to fish. She and her husband had
been out at four o'clock that morning and had brought back "quatre
pintes" of shrimps. No one knew what she meant, but it was evidently a
measure of some kind. I suppose an English pint. She gave us a cabin
where the two young matrons dressed, or rather undressed, as they
reappeared in their bathing trousers--which stopped some little distance
above the knee--very short skirts, bare legs, "espadrilles" on their
feet, and large Panama hats to protect them from the sun. The men had
merely rolled up their trousers. They went out very far--I could just
make them out--they seemed a part of the sea and sky, moving objects
standing out against the horizon.

I made myself very comfortable with rugs and cushions under the cliff--I
had my book as I knew it would be a long operation. It was
enchanting--sitting there, such a beautiful afternoon. We saw the
English coast quite distinctly. There was not a sound--no bathing cabins
or tents, nobody on the shore, but a few fishermen were spreading nets
on poles to catch the fish as the tide came up. The sea was quite blue,
and as the afternoon lengthened there were lovely soft lights over
everything; such warm tints it might almost have been the Mediterranean
and the Riviera. A few fishing-boats passed in the distance, but there
was nothing to break the great stillness--not even the ripple of the
waves, as the sea was too far out. It was a curious sensation to be
sitting there quite alone--the blue sea at my feet and the cliff rising
straight up behind me.

The bay is small--two points jutting out on each side, completely
shutting it in. There are a good many rocks--the water dashes over them
finely when the tide is high and the sea rough. I got rather stiff
sitting still and walked about a little on the hard beach and talked to
the fishermen. They were looking on amused and indulgently at our
amateurs, and said there were plenty of fish of all kinds _if_ one knew
how to take them. They said they made very good hauls with their nets in
certain seasons--that lots of fish came in with the tide and got
stranded, couldn't get back through the nets. One of them had two
enormous crabs in his baskets, which I bought at once, and we brought
them home in the bottom of the auto wrapped up in _very thick_ paper, as
they were still alive and could give a nasty pinch, the man said.

About five, I thought I made out my party more distinctly; their faces
were turned homeward, so I went to meet them as far as the dry sand
lasted. I had a very long walk as the tide was at its lowest. They came
back very slowly, stopping at all the little pools and poking their nets
under the rocks to get what they could. They had made a very fair basket
of really big shrimps, were very wet, very hungry, and very pleased with
their performance.

We had very good tea and excellent bread and butter at the hotel. They
gave us a table on the piazza in the sun which finished drying the
garments of the party. I fancy they had gone in deeper than they
thought. However, salt water never gives cold and nobody was any the
worse for the wetting. The woman of the hotel said we ought to go to see
a fisherman's hut, on the top of the cliff near the lighthouse, before
we went back. The same family of fishermen had lived there for
generations, and it was a marvel how any one _could_ live in such a
place. We could find our way very easily as the path was marked by white
stones. So we climbed up the cliff and a few minutes' walk brought us to
one of the most wretched habitations I have ever seen: a little low
stone hut, built so close to the edge of the cliff one would think a
violent storm must blow it over--no windows--a primitive chimney, hardly
more than a hole in the roof--a little low door that one had to stoop to
pass through, one room, dark and cold--the floor of beaten earth, damp
and uneven, almost in ruts. There were two beds, a table, two chairs,
and a stove--nondescript garments hanging on the walls--a woman with a
baby was sitting at the table--another child on the floor--both
miserable little, puny, weak-eyed, pale children. The woman told me she
had six--all lived there--one man was sitting on the bed mending a net,
another on the floor drinking some black stuff out of a cup--I think
the baby was drinking the same--two or three children were stretching
big nets on the top of the cliff--they, too, looked miserable little
specimens of humanity, bare-legged, unkempt, trousers and jackets in
holes; however, the woman was quite cheerful--didn't complain nor ask
for money. The men accepted two francs to drink our health. One wonders
how children ever grow up in such an atmosphere without light or air or
decent food.

The drive home was beautiful--not nearly so lonely. Peasants and
fishermen were coming back from their work--women and children driving
the cows home. We noticed, too, a few little, low, whitewashed cottages
in the fields, almost hidden by the sand-hills, which we hadn't seen
coming out.


Hardelot was a great resource to us. It is a fine domain, beautiful pine
woods running down to the sea--a great stretch of green meadow and a
most picturesque old castle quite the type of the château-fort. The
castle has now been transformed into a country club with golf-links,
tennis, and well-kept lawns under big trees which give a splendid shade
and are most resting to the eye after the glare of the beach. There is
no view of the sea from the castle, but from the top of the towers on a
fine day one just sees a quiver of light beneath the sky-line which
might be the sea.

The château has had its history like all the old feudal castles on the
sea-board and has changed hands very often, being sometimes French and
sometimes English. It was strongly fortified and resisted many attacks
from the English before it actually came into their possession. Part of
the wall and a curious old gate-way are all that remain of the feudal
days. The castle is said to have been built by Charlemagne. Henry VIII
of England lived in it for some time, and the preliminaries of a treaty
of peace between that monarch and François I were signed there--the
French and English ambassadors arriving in great state--with an endless
army of retainers. One wonders where they all were lodged, as the castle
could never have been large--one sees that from the foundations; but I
fancy habits were very simple in those days, and the suites probably
slept on the floor in one of the halls with all their clothes on, the
troopers keeping on their jack-boots so long that they had to be cut off
sometimes--the feet and legs so swollen.

The drive from the club to the plage is charming. Sometimes through
pretty narrow roads with high banks on each side, with hedges on top,
quite like parts of Devonshire, and nice, little, low, whitewashed
cottages with green shutters and red doors, much more like England than

We stopped at a cottage called the Dickens House, where Charles Dickens
lived for some time. It is only one story high--white with green
shutters--stands at the end of an old-fashioned garden filled with all
sorts of ordinary garden-flowers--roses, hollyhocks, larkspurs, pinks,
all growing most luxuriantly and making patches of colour in the green
surroundings. We saw Dickens' study, his table still in the window
(where he always wrote), looking over the garden to an endless stretch
of green fields.

The plage is very _new_. There is a nice clean hotel, with broad piazzas
and balconies directly on the sea and a few chalets are already built,
but there is an absolute dearth of trees and shade. There was quite a
strong sea-breeze the day we were there, and the fine white sand was
blown high into the air in circles, getting into our eyes and hair.
There is a splendid beach--miles of sand--not a rock or cliff--absolutely
level. The domain of Hardelot belongs to a company of which Mr. John
Whitley was the president. He had concessions for a tramway from
Boulogne to Hardelot which will certainly bring people to the plage
and club. Now there is only an auto-bus, which goes very slowly and is
constantly out of order; once the club is organized, I think it cannot
fail to be a charming resort. There is plenty of game in the forest
(they have a good piece of it), perfect golf and tennis grounds--as
much deep-sea fishing as one wants. We went often to tea at the
château. F. played golf, and we walked about and sat under the trees,
and the children were quite happy playing on the lawns where they were
as safe as in their nurseries.

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