AUTOMOBILES IN TOURS—DEPARTURE FROM THE CITY—THE ROAD TO CHINON—ROMANCE AND HISTORY OF CHINON—THE ABBEY OF FONTEVRAULT—RICHARD CŒUR DE LION AND HIS TOMB—THE DEAD KING HENRY II.

A bright, sparkling morning. The courtyard in Tours is alive with men and machines and every moment someone departs until we are almost the only travellers left here, but our time comes, and Jean, seated in state on our red car, sails out of the garage and draws up at the main portico, where Yama directs the loading of our luggage, and then seats himself in great grandeur in the midst thereof. Then I am allowed to take my place, which is always by Jean's side in front, and we start off on our day's ride—not on the grand route towards Paris but away to the south-westward, to Chinon and Angers and so into Brittany.

Our road lies in from the Loire and through Azay-le-Rideau to where Chinon's towers circle the hilltop like a crown dominating its ancient city and wide-spreading valley. The place above is sweet and pure, while the towers with the passing rains of many centuries, glisten white in the sunlight.

Wandering up the steep ascent I clang the bell at the great entrance, kept still in good preservation. A sweet-faced little girl answers my summons and conducts me from tower to tower. There are many of them, some with dungeons under dungeons, some with one solitary oubliette; others holding chambers of state and one where the Maid slept before her departure for Tours and Orleans.

But Chinon's crown to-day is one bestowed by nature. The whole hill is embowered in lilac trees, whose bending boughs brush our hats with white and pale purple blossoms and all the air is fresh and sweet with their delicate perfume so sacred to spring. Surely a fitting bloom to adorn the spot where one so pure as the Maid offered her life and service to her country.

In contrast with the dismal, sordid Court of Louis XI. the gay court of his father Charles VII. stands forth in strong relief, and it reached its most spectacular period here in Chinon. The white chÂteau embowered in lilac blossoms formed a fairy background to the moving picture of the times. One imagines that Charles wore his gold pointed crown all the time, that his robes were of blue spangled with the silver fleur-de-lis, and that he used up many sceptres, never being without one, and that so fashioned he paced these alleys between the great white towers, the lilacs touching him now and then as though to contrast their colours with his. With him there moved the fair Agnes of Sorel in pink and silver, the many courtiers in velvets and cloth of gold, the men at arms in grim array and far above against the blue of heaven waved the white banner of France bearing its silver lilies, while from the door of yonder tower came a simple maiden to the King,—with none of the glory of his Court in her attire, but with all the glory of God in her face.

One can picture the weak, smiling countenance of the monarch, the beautiful eyes of Agnes of Sorel, the scowling, contemptuous faces of the Court as they watch the Maid approaching, all unconscious of everything save her mission to save France. Ah well! we know the whole story now, but then at Chinon there was nothing of the sadness of her after days to cloud the face of this Maid of Orleans, to dampen the spirits of Jeanne d'Arc as she moved forward to kneel at the feet of this King here under the lilacs. Here then she induced him, amidst all the jealousy and ridicule of his voluptuous Court to rise in behalf of his country. History does not tell us that Agnes of Sorel had any part in this movement but such was probably the case; neither does it state that she made any effort to save the King and France the disgrace of that death in Rouen, which almost inclines one to believe that the story of that life and death is indeed but a fable.

Leaving the castle we descend by the narrow, crooked street named for the Maid, undoubtedly the one she used four hundred and fifty years ago, though it did not bear her name at that time. This old gabled house of the town was surely here, and she may have stopped a moment by that ancient fountain which still gives its waters to the chattering women of Chinon.

In the little hotel where we luncheon there is a parrot which speaks French. That seems an outrage,—Spanish, yes, but French for a parrot should not be allowed. Leaving Chinon, we return to the banks of the Loire. As we speed along this wide road on the dykes above the river, the waters go singing along beneath us and telling of spring and life and hope, pausing ever and anon as though to call our attention to some ruin from which life and hope fled long ago,—or to some stately chÂteau where both still abide amidst the surroundings of centuries.

Reaching Candes, standing by its babbling brook whose waters rush on to the Loire, we pause a moment to inspect its quaint church of the twelfth century, where St. Martin of Tours died,—though Tours will dispute the truth of this claim,—and where they show us his tomb and recumbent effigy. Just across the brook stands the Castle of Montsoreau, once the abode of the counts of that name, who were but executioners of the bloody decree of the kings. The place to-day is an abode for the very poor, of which there appear to be many in this section.

Here we turn southward some three miles to the secluded valley where rest the town and Abbey of Fontevrault. The scene behind us is so attractive that we almost hesitate to leave it, but to all lovers of history, history in its most romantic and picturesque years, the name of Fontevrault will conjure such a series of kingly tableaux that all else will be forgotten.

Down in a valley, three miles from the Loire, the traveller comes upon the celebrated Abbey, the ancient shrine of the Plantagenets, where to-day reposes the dust of Henry II. and Richard Coeur de Lion, and while I am not tempted to do violence upon my swiftly moving machine, I certainly do enter protest against such an entrance to such a spot and command the slowest progress of which it is capable. The way should be lined with broom corn and there should be many knights and "ladyes" abroad; and towering above them all (they say he was six feet six), dressed in mail, with the sign of the Leopard on his shield—one more stately than the rest, with a lofty brow, blue eyes wide apart, reddish yellow hair and curling beard, both cut short,—Richard Coeur de Lion, Count of Anjou, King of England.

The scene was undoubtedly picturesque in his time, but it is sombre and dull to-day. The Abbey stands long, low, and gloomy in the midst of the sad little town, and where the King found a religious establishment of great importance, we find one of the largest prisons in France and must obtain a permit to visit even the church. I wait in the little place while Jean is off to the Mayor for that purpose. It is a dull, sad-looking little place, and one not often intruded upon by those who move in autos, as I discover through the attention bestowed upon my machine, though save for those imprisoned in yonder buildings, there do not seem enough people here to make a crowd. Fontevrault is as forgotten of the world as those who are sent here at the expense of the State.

It is said that King Richard came here to pray by the body of his father, King Henry, who died at Chinon, and that he was met at the head of the cathedral steps by his brother John, who succeeded him on the throne. The edifice in those days evidently stood in an open square; to-day we approach it by a covered way, through whose openings we see the prison buildings. Richard came in all humility and in deep remorse for the war he had waged upon his father, and, it is said, that when he knelt and touched the corpse it bled and shuddered. What a picture! The high altar in shadow save for its one blinking light, the many candles around the dead king on his bier, with the dark stain on his face, the living king with Count John peering in terror over his shoulder, and all the Court with the Abbess and her nuns shrinking away, while over all the great church, which even at that day (1189), had neared its century, rose dim and shadowy full of the chill taint of darkness.

Here Richard took up the Cross, and we know what followed in Palestine. To-day you must force yourself to bring to mind any of these pictures, for the church has little of romance about it. The structure is in the form of a Roman cross, with no aisles, and with short transepts having two chapels. The choir has three chapels. Where the royal dead originally slept does not appear,—certainly not in the south transept where one now finds the monuments restored after the Terrorists had done their work upon them. As for the nave, it is boarded off and divided into floors for dormitories for the prisoners. The place is more desecrated than Stirling, for that is a barrack, not a prison. The royal effigies are however of great interest, especially that of Coeur de Lion, as it is considered to be a portrait, and certainly fulfils one's idea of the appearance of that king. The traveller of to-day who does not stand long in contemplation before this figure in stone must be lacking in many ways; but the effigy of Henry II. will not hold his attention in the same degree, though he will pause a moment over that of Eleanor, queen to Henry and the mother of Richard.

The Abbey of Fontevrault was founded in 1099 by Robert of Arbrissel and held one hundred and fifty nuns and seventy monks, all under the rule of an Abbess of high degree, and the establishment existed as such throughout seven centuries to the days of the Revolution. Its cloisters and chapter house are still beautiful and in perfect preservation, and in the latter are some interesting old wall paintings. France prizes too highly her historic places to allow Fontevrault to remain long in its present state. The day will come when the traveller will find it restored almost to the state in which it stood when King Richard came over the downs and down this long avenue of poplars to visit it.

We are speeding away now and shortly are again by the placid Loire, and rolling beneath the ruins of the Castle of Dampierre, given to Margaret of Anjou by Louis XI. Louis had his weak moments (which he undoubtedly regretted) or he would never have expended fifty thousand crowns in the ransom of a woman, who could be of no possible service to him, whose day was done, and whose life was to end in sorrow and bitter tears in yonder towers.

As we move onward, the cliffs above us form a veritable rabbit warren inhabited by the poor. This stone is soft and easily cut and sawed so that many of the houses present pretentious faÇades to the highway and are nothing but dark holes behind. Now Saumur comes into view white and pleasing to look upon with its castle dominating the town—but the interest of the place is in this panorama before which we roll slowly on and, turning northward, cross the Loire.