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

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

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

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

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

Hardly had we sat down to lunch in the HÔtel du Grand Cerf of Nonancourt when there was a great shouting and beating of drums outside. A group of conscripts marched noisily by. They wore red, white, and blue cockades, and neckties of the same color, in curious contrast to their simple peasant dress. In accordance with the provincial custom, it was a day of feasting to signalize their admission to the army. In two weeks they were to leave their homes to begin the long, tedious period of military service. A young cuirassier whom we met in Limoges, and who had just completed his first year of service in the cavalry, related interesting experiences of life in the French army. The discipline is severe. The German soldier is not subjected to a more rigorous training. The rising hour is 5 a.m. in the spring, and 4 a.m. in the summer. There are long, exhausting marches. As often as two or three times a week the recruits are awakened in the middle of the night to make a long march. Life is made to conform as closely as possible to the conditions of actual war. A day's work of eighteen hours is not unusual. Naturally, this means hardship, but it also means good soldiers. The French army is very democratic. Rich and poor are treated alike. Both live together in the barracks. There are no privileges. Even if a recruit is wealthy, he is not allowed to keep a valet. Every man is his own domestic. The German army is not nearly so democratic. There, if the recruit has means, he can keep a servant and may live out of barracks in a comfortable apartment.

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

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

We wonder if there is any help for Europe! How will it all end? So far as we can now foresee, the peace conference at The Hague, to have been held in 1915, has been indefinitely postponed. Instead of this gathering of the nations to establish some practical basis for limitation of armaments, there is the prospect of increased armaments. The burdens, already so crushing, are apparently only the prelude to what is coming. England is the pacemaker on the sea. Mr. Winston Churchill, in his recent speech before the House of Commons, urged that the naval budget for 1915 be raised to over a quarter billion dollars. He said: "The naval estimates for the next year are the largest in British history, $257,750,000. The causes which might lead to a general war have not been removed. The world is arming as it never armed before. All attempts at arresting it have been ineffectual." Germany is more than ever a nation in arms. At the present rate of increase, her standing army in time of peace will soon number more than a million men. France, which less than a year ago passed the Three Years' Service Bill, already faces the possible necessity of adding still another year to the term of military service.

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

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

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

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

"What a reflection on modern diplomacy the whole situation casts! A policy which men like Gray and Asquith have repeatedly characterized as one of madness, as one leading to bankruptcy, as one that makes a mockery of peace by throwing away half its benefits, is pursued because the diplomats can't agree on a plan of armament limitation. It is admitted that the frenzied rivalry in armament increase adds nothing to the relative strength of any power or group of powers, yet the frenzied rivalry continues at the expense of industry and constructive social and economical reforms. If the 'causes of a general war' in Europe have not been removed, what has diplomacy been doing and of what use are the alliances, the ententes, and understandings among the powers? Might not a little courage and boldness in pushing the armament-limitation idea and appealing to public, business, and democratic sentiment force the hands of the routine-ridden diplomats?"

For nearly twenty miles the road cut a white swath through the treeless plain of St. AndrÉ to the cathedral town of Evreux. The wheat fields and cathedrals of Normandy should be mentioned in the same sentence. France, so full of the picturesque, has few finer sights than the view of these airy cathedral spires while one is still miles away from any town. We zigzagged into the valley of Iton, climbed, swooped downward, and crossing that hurrying stream, ran beside the river Eure into the main street of Louviers. The warning, "Allure modÈre," was unnecessary. The cobble stones were sufficient to make us slacken speed. The beauty of the church of NÔtre Dame served to stop us completely. The church, with its profuse embroidery of rich, delicate carving, shone like a jewel amid the motley and jumbled houses. It was like finding a rosebush blooming in the gutter of some neglected street. Through the forest of Pont de l'Arche to the town of the same name, where we crossed the Seine, past bright little Norman cottages, our route shot ahead to Rouen, the center of cotton manufacturing for France, the most interesting mediÆval city in Normandy, and renowned the world over for splendid Gothic churches. After inspecting the rooms of two or three hotels, we chose the HÔtel d'Angleterre, close by the crowded traffic of the Seine.

Sight-seeing in Rouen is more convenient by carriage than by motor car. We moved from the abbey church of St. Ouen to the church of St. Maclou. If Europe had no other remains of Gothic art, Rouen would be enough to describe all the splendor of that style of architecture. The cathedral is a whole library of description in itself. Curious is the legend of the Tour de Beurre, built by money received from indulgences sold, and permitting the people to eat butter in Lent.

"At the base of the Tour St. Romain, there still stands the lodge of the porter whose duties from very early times right up to 1760, included the care of the fierce watchdogs who were at night let loose in the cathedral to guard its many precious treasures from robbers. How much would we give for a glimpse of one of those porters walking through the cavernous gloom of these echoing aisles, with his lamp throwing strange shadows from the great slouching dogs!"[8]

The central tower rises into a great spire of open iron work, more than one and a half times as high as the steeple of Trinity Church in New York. One seldom sees anything so quaintly picturesque as the little wooden cloister, AÎtre Saint-Maclou. From its courtyard, the burial ground for so many victims of the Black Death of 1348, one sees mediÆval spires which rise in all directions. Another vivid reminder of the past is the archway of the Grosse Horloge, with its huge clock in colors of blue and gold and dating from the sixteenth century.

But the impressions of Rouen that thrilled us most related to the sad closing days of Jeanne d'Arc. At OrlÉans we saw her in the hour of victory, a young girl dictating to experienced generals, cutting her way through the English army around the city and bringing provisions and succor to the beleaguered inhabitants. Our cocher escorted us to the tower where, with instruments of torture around her, she faced and baffled her brutal inquisitors. In the old market place, the scene of her martyrdom, one is shown a simple slab which reads, "Jeanne d'Arc, 30 Mai, 1431." This marks the spot where she was burned at the stake.

The last lap of the trip, the ride to Dieppe on the English Channel, was past many large Norman farms. Neat haystacks dotted the rolling acres. Nowhere else had we seen so many horses,—big, powerful creatures. Normandy breeds and exports them. Apple orchards were in constant view. Coasting down a long hill into the city, we left the car in the garage of the Grand HÔtel, and joined an enthusiastic crowd which was watching a football game between Dieppe and Rouen.

The new France is keenly interested in sports and games. In 1912 there was held in Paris the International Congress for Physical Culture, the idea being to impress upon the young the need for physical development. The extent to which the idea of physical culture has captured France will be evident from the following figures: in 1896 the various athletic societies had less than fifty thousand members; to-day, they have more than three hundred thousand members. France has indeed entered upon a new era. The chief characteristic of it is not literary but practical, self-assertive, and everywhere for action. The young Frenchman of to-day is more interested in sports than in art or literature. A French professor recently said: "I have lived my life in my library. There I have passed through my intellectual crises. There I have experienced my most fervent emotions. In the lives of my sons I notice that books play a very little part, or if they read, it is biography, and especially the biography of men of action like Napoleon."

Now comes the pang of keen regret. We are close to the end. These weeks of unmingled joy stand around us like a group of friends, as if to stay our leaving. Four thousand miles of motoring, in five countries, and without an accident! Our car has taken on personality. Here, climbing a mountain to the very summit whose far-away vistas held us enchanted, or rushing down on the other side, we skirted some quiet lake that lay embosomed in its own loveliness; there, a wild glen with its mysterious depths beckoning us to halt! We have seen the peasantry, as in France, looked upon their quaint costumes and customs, and caught the simple melody of their songs. We have gone close to palaces, and wondered whether prince or peasant were the happier. We have seen chÂteaux that were tragedies and cathedrals that were poems. We have seen the conscripts file slowly past, each surrendering three years of the most important period of his life. Then, we have contrasted a nation as a military camp with our own great republic, without a large standing army, but safe. And now, homeward bound to the freest land beneath the sun, America!