Europe from a Motor Car :: CHAPTER XII PERIGUEUX TO TOURS

CHAPTER XII PERIGUEUX TO TOURS

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

The ascent continued to ThiviÈrs, a tiny village of the Dordogne. One of the vieux citoyens pointed out the HÔtel de France as the best place to lunch. "On mange trÈs bien lÁbas," he said. The lunch was a chef d'oeuvre. We had never tasted such poulet au casserole or such cotelettes de mouton grillÉes. The lievre had a delicious suc de viande which went well with the pommes fritÉs. There was vin À discrÉtion, and, besides, different kinds of fromage and the French melons, golden and juicy and always the best part of the repast.

Nothing is more delightfully characteristic of these small towns like ThiviÈrs than the delicacies peculiar to them. These little communities, so different from each other in local customs and mannerisms, are just as unique and original in their cooking. It was always interesting, when we had lunch or dinner in a new place, to scan the mÉnu for some new dish that we had never tasted. Whenever the garcon or maÎtre de l'hÔtel pointed to an item on the mÉnu and said, "C'est une specialitÈ de la maison," then we knew that something good was coming. One never tires of these French delicacies. Our regret at leaving them behind was usually tempered by the consolation that something equally new and delicious was awaiting us in the next place en route. Each one of the following names recalls experiences that we shall not soon forget. These are simply samples. The list would be too long if we named them all; the truites of ChambÉry; the mushroom patties of Pierrelatte; the jambon of Bayonne; the truffes of PÉrigueux; the rillettes and vins of Tours; the miel du Gatinais of OrlÉans; the fried sole of Chartres and Dieppe. In Normandy, sweet cider was often placed on the table instead of the mild vin du pays. The cheese, patisserie, and fruits were good everywhere.

Another item, which we cannot overlook, never appeared on the mÉnu and yet always flavored the whole repast. That was the geniality, the provincial hospitality, which greeted us in every little inn and hotel. The welcome was just as hearty as the farewell. If there was some one dish that we especially liked, the patronne was never satisfied till she was sure that we had been bountifully served. After so many experiences like these, it is easy to understand why the foreign motorist feels so much at home in France.

It was a splendid run to Limoges. The long grades were scarcely noticeable, the easy curves rarely making it necessary to check our speed. Donkey carts were fashionable, and sabots, as usual, in style. There was always a shining river or green valley in sight. Haute-Vienne, arrayed in flags and evergreens, awaited the coming of the president. Here, as all along the route, we saw the same joyful picture of festal preparations. The bridge over the river Vienne was like a green arbor.

Some of the worthy citizens of these communities were probably more familiar with town affairs than the current events of the outer world. We read in a local journal of a shopkeeper who shouted a lusty "Vive FailliÈres," to greet the president's arrival. The mayor of one village threw himself in front of the presidential car, and threatened to commit suicide if the president did not make a speech, as he had done in a neighboring town. These petty municipal jealousies gave us a picture of France in miniature. What country is more torn by faction! Internal dissension is the nation's peril.

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

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

A convenient way to carry bread

After Limoges, came Tours as the goal of the day's run through the pastoral beauties of Limousin to the chÂteaux of Touraine. The air was crisp and clear. Two hours of easy running through the bright September sunshine brought us to the Palais HÔtel in Poitiers before noon—Poitiers, the city of old Romanesque churches and older traditions, where are living so many of the vieille noblesse who would rather eat dry bread than make their sons work. The echoes of Parisian rush do not penetrate these quiet streets. The people drink tilleul after lunch instead of coffee. The effect is to make them drowsy. In fact, we have seldom visited a place with such an atmosphere of slumber. After lunch the patronne offered to show us some of the hotel rooms. Most of them were connected with a private salle de bain. The price was so reasonable that we at once placed this hotel in a class by itself. As before stated, bathrooms do not enter largely into the life of the French home or hotel. Even in cities like Tours, the public bathtub still makes its round from house to house once a week, or once a month as the case may be. An Englishman, who so often places cleanliness above godliness, is unable to understand this French indifference to the blessings of hot and cold water. In Lyons, the third largest city of France, there is a popular saying that only millionaires have the salle de bain in their homes. These facts will help to explain why the HÔtel Palais, with its many bathrooms, made such an impression on us. We regret that our snapshot of this hotel did not turn out well. We would have had it enlarged and framed.

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

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

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

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

The road swept us along the bank of the Loire Page 181

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