Part 14

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, 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.

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.

VIII

A CORNER OF NORMANDY

BAGNOLES DE L'ORNE, July-August.

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 baths.