Saint-Aignan, December 7, 1841.—I left my pleasant little Rochecotte yesterday morning to resume the monotonous life of high-road travel, which is the more unpleasant in consequence of the dreadful weather. We lunched at Tours with the Prefect, Alava and Vestier. As we passed by Chenonceaux I paid a half-hour's call, which I had been owing for years, upon Madame de Villeneuve. We then continued our journey here in a furious downpour of rain. When the road leaves the department of Indre-et-Loire and enters that of Loir-et-Cher it deteriorates; moreover the rain and the inundations from the Cher have spoilt the road, and we travelled through a kind of lake. I will not conceal the fact that I screamed several times. We were very kindly received by M. de Chalais, his brother and the Baron and Baronne de Montmorency: these are the only inhabitants of the residence apart from the architect who is working at it; a considerable amount of building is in progress, which is solid and even rich as far as construction goes, but unfortunately in a style which does not seem to me sufficiently akin to that of the original building; for instance, there is a heavy Saxon tower by the side of the pointed turrets of Louis XI. The castle is very cold: the hot-water pipes, the double windows, the hangings, the door curtains and the draperies at Rochecotte make any other home impossible to me, and everywhere else I am frozen.
Yesterday at Chenonceaux I saw a very pretty portrait of Queen Louise de Vaudémont and a large coloured window of modern construction which the King had just sent to the Villeneuves. The Duc de Montpensier came over to Chenonceaux from Amboise this summer and to his influence this attention is due. It is enough to show that the young Prince did not enter the bedroom of Madame de Villeneuve as I did, where the portrait of the Duc de Bordeaux, presented by Berryer, is hanging at her bedside, so that the mistress of the house can see it morning and evening.
Valençay, December 8, 1841.—I arrived here yesterday evening. I am going to hear mass with the Sisters at the tomb of our dear M. de Talleyrand. To-morrow morning we are to start again and to dine and sleep with Madame d'Arenberg at Menetou-Salon.
Menetou-Salon, December 10, 1841.—The Prince and Princesse d'Arenberg were so kind as to keep us a day longer, the weather being abominable. Fanny and my son Valençay, who joined us here yesterday, so strongly urged this additional delay, that I have resolved to remain here the whole of to-day. Yesterday it was impossible to go out of the house. We barely had the energy to go round the château which M. d'Arenberg has restored from a state of ruin to a vast and noble mansion. It has the characteristics of the hunting châteaux that I prefer, severe in style, simple and convenient, and placed in the middle of very fine forests. I much prefer Menetou to Arlay, their château in the Franche-Comté. My cousin's three children are well brought up, pleasant and cheerful. The whole of the household is very happy and everything is done upon a large scale.
The arrangements at the end of the house are not yet complete, but with handsome forests, plenty of space and money, all can easily be finished and of these three conditions the d'Arenbergs can avail themselves. The only point at Menetou that I can criticise is the horrible red, white and orange paint with which the outer walls are daubed. M. d'Arenberg says that it is in Flemish style, but I think it is hideous. The kennel is a perfect little jewel. Sporting influences are everywhere predominant and everything is done to the blast of horns and the barking of dogs; the children know the different blasts by heart and can instantly distinguish the blast which means the quarry is sighted from that which proclaims that it has broken cover and the blasts which denote an old or a young boar.
Lyons, December 14, 1841.—The day before yesterday, which was Sunday, we were escorted after mass by my son Valençay and M. d'Arenberg, to Bourges, where I visited the curious house of Cujas and the very interesting one of Jacques Coeur; then we saw the normal school which was formerly the house of Jacques Coeur's brother; after that we saw the old palace of Charles VII. which has now become a convent for the Blue Sisters and went to the cathedral. The funeral oration was being given for M. de Villèle, the last Archbishop of Bourges. Don Carlos,[ [46] his wife and his children were duly present at this honour paid to the prelate whose charity and whose care had alleviated their sad captivity. Don Carlos is less ugly and insignificant than I thought: his wife was so hidden by her hat that I could not make out her face; the hat and the shawl were those of a woman of poverty, which I was sorry to see. I passed by the sad little house which has been assigned to them and which was surrounded by soldiers on guard and policemen.
In order to change horses at Bourges infinite formalities are necessary, an authorisation from the Prefect and visas, which are invariably troublesome. After surviving these vexations, we had lunch and parted from M. de Valençay and M. d'Arenberg. We hoped to reach Moulins the same day but the weather became so frightful that we took refuge in a horrible little inn where the smoke was blinding. At daybreak yesterday we started off again and reached Lyons to-day at midday. Lyons impressed me as always, and it is the fifth time I have seen it, by its original and picturesque position; but I found it sadly changed, since I was here, fifteen years ago, in consequence of the enormous quantity of steam engines which have come into use, as the coal which they burn has blackened all the buildings. The fog common at this time of year is as black as that of London and from the general colour and the smell I could almost have thought myself in England. Lyons has greatly deteriorated in consequence and even the pretty square of Bellecour seems to me no longer to justify its reputation, since it has been coloured dark grey.
Aix-en-Provence, December 17, 1841.—Fortunately I have no accident to relate and unfortunately no interesting descriptions to give. The sky even of Provence is by no means beautiful at this moment; the ground as usual is dry and bare, the olives are wretched little trees, while we have not yet entered the zone of orange-trees. When I first visited the south my ideas of the country were very illusory and every later visit has confirmed me in the conviction that apart from the view over the Mediterranean when one has reached it and the colour of the sky when it happens not to be clouded as it now is, there is nothing beautiful to be expected from this district. We spent some time in visiting Avignon. I had known it long ago, but Fanny was curious and we had lunch there this morning. We explored the old castle of the popes which is now a barracks and the church of La Miséricorde.
Nice, December 20, 1841.—We have now reached the end of our journey which has lasted a whole fortnight. We left Aix the day before yesterday, after my niece had satisfied her archæological curiosity and started in sunshine which would have been delightful had it not been accompanied by the mistral. At nine o'clock in the evening we reached Brignoles, but were horrified by the dreadful filth of the inn and resolved to continue our journey. When we had fairly entered the mountains of the Esterel, which involve an ascent of four hours and a descent of three, the cold became cruel. At dawn the summits of the mountains showed themselves covered with snow. At the highest point, where the post house is situated, twenty mountaineers of wild appearance, all armed with guns were starting in pursuit of the wild boars and wolves which inhabit this rough district. This band of mountaineer hunters were accompanied by some policemen and customs' house officers and were firing trial shots which made the rocks re-echo; they formed a picture worthy of a painter, but we had no thoughts of the picturesque, so intense did the cold of the night seem. When we reached the valley the temperature suddenly changed; the sun was warm, the sea blue, the olive-trees tall and covered with fruit, the orange-trees laden with their golden balls and the hedges of rose-trees in flower. The town of Cannes overlooked by its old castle, stood out delightfully as a background to the landscape upon the rough mountains which we had just left; the island of St. Margaret floated peacefully upon an azure sea and was an excellent completion to a view which we badly needed to thaw our minds and recover our taste for the south, which we were much inclined to abuse. Before entering Cannes we saw on the right hand the villa Taylor and on the left the villa Brougham; these looked like country houses belonging to retired stockbrokers. Lord Brougham's villa is shut off from the road by a great iron railing, each point of which is surmounted by a large gilded fleur-de-lis.
From Cannes we had only nine leagues to cover to reach Nice and as it was only nine o'clock in the morning, we hoped we might be able to dine here yesterday, but misfortune came upon us. When we reached Antibes, the last station before Nice, at midday, there were no horses to be had and we were emphatically told none would be forthcoming before four o'clock, after which hour there is no driving to Nice because the bridge of the Var is broken down and the passage is impossible after nightfall. We were therefore obliged to remain at Antibes and sleep there; but where to sleep was a question. The inns in this town are indescribable and travellers never stop there; there are muleteer public-houses of the most disgusting appearance. A meal was served to us which revolted us so far that we ate nothing but dry bread, and instead of sleeping in beds which, after the previous night, would have been very pleasant, we returned to our carriages. Shut up in these boxes and bestowed in a stable which was half a barn, we watched for dawn which came very late. Cats were mewing all round us[ [47] and then a storm burst with as much fury as though we were in the midst of summer; thunder, lightning and rain threatened our miserable shelter. At last, at seven o'clock in the morning we were delivered from our prison and started to Saint Laurent du Var. There we were obliged to leave our carriage and embark in a little boat which brought us after much tossing to the Sardinian customs house, where two carbineers allowed us to warm ourselves at their fire. Our carriage went three-quarters of a league up stream and passed the river by a ford which was almost impracticable and very dangerous. Meanwhile we soaked a little dry bread in the very sour wine of the country and opposed our umbrellas to the gusts of wind and rain. At length we reached Nice at one o'clock, amid driving rain and by a furious sea. The hurricane continues and the waves are loudly roaring and rising so high that they almost reach the summit of the terrace on which stands the house where Fanny and myself occupy the second floor. Our windows look directly on the sea and before us to the right and to the left there is nothing else. On sunny days the reflection will be frightful and in times of rain a vast grey sheet is confused with the sky and forms the saddest possible outlook; the roar of the waves is also most dismal. We have an enormous room and though it has a fireplace, it is very cold. My room is small and might be warm but the chimney smokes; everything is very dirty, as the old houses in Nice generally are. I cannot describe the general impression of sadness and desolation which comes over us. The better side of the situation which consoles us for all the rest is to see Pauline, who is neither better nor worse than when I left her seven months ago, as she is still suffering from her throat; she is thin and looks feverish, but her illness has not been aggravated. She and her family are at one end of the quarter which is known here as La Terrasse, while I am at the other.