The September morning was crystal-clear. The old fortifications at St. Malo, violet in shadow, lay wrapped in sunlight as from the crest of the hill we turned for a farewell glimpse of Dinard and the sea, before turning eastward on our long proposed trip to some Brittany hospitals.
Our motor was packed in every corner with hospital supplies—tins of ether, rolls of absorbent cotton, hundreds of compresses and bandages, surgical supplies and instruments, cigars, cigarettes, chocolate, hospital-shirts and slippers, sponges, socks—all we could think of, capable of mending the broken bodies or healing the spirits of those brave poilus we were to visit in various hospitals during the next few days.
The motor looked top-heavy, with great hampers strapped on its roof, as we (my husband, the singer and I) squeezed ourselves in between the bulky supplies, but in these days of almost priceless tires and rare gasoline one must manage with little personal pretentions to comfort. The first place of call was the Chateau of Combourg. As we bowled along roads now much in need of repair after three years of forced neglect, we recalled something of its history.
The vast pile, buried in its own forests, was built, before the Norman Conquest, of immense blocks of granite hewn from nearby quarries; its five great towers, with deep slate roofs, ornamented with forged iron "grilles" and weathervanes, its massive keep, its crenelated walls and outlying bastions, have apparently withstood the vicissitudes of centuries. Wars, revolution, fire, siege, storms, have left it unharmed. As we approached, the castle loomed up above the surrounding groves, looking much as it must have appeared to the Crusaders as they left its doors for the Holy Land.
We rolled through a sordid village lying at its base, and soon stopped before an iron gate in a high stone wall for the concierge to open, and then a lovely scene met our eyes.
Great avenues of oaks and chestnuts stretched in all directions, interspersed with long stretches of greensward and clumps of bushes. It required slight imagination to see Robin Hood and his men, or catch a glimpse of them fleeting through the sun-wrapped distance—or hear their horns sounding in the forest.
The young chatelaine was awaiting us at the head of a great flight of stone steps, "Tescalier d'honneur," large and broad enough for a regiment to ascend. The drawbridge and moat, formerly occupying this side, were removed by order of Cardinal Richelieu, who, fearing the belligerent spirit of the Brittany nobles, and determined to destroy their feudal privileges for all time, conceived the idea of turning their castle-fortresses into harmless country-houses, and they, themselves, into extravagant courtiers.
For two and one-half years these walls have sheltered wounded from the battlefields of Picardie and Lorraine, nursed back to health by the Comtesse who, as "infirmière Majeure," does all the dressing of wounds herself—50 beds in all. She has three assistant nurses and a doctor, but all the expense of this private hospital is borne by the Comte and Comtesse de Durfort. No small item, when everything has doubled in price, and hospital supplies, as well as food, are necessarily difficult to obtain. The question of lighting and heating alone is a hard one. No coal to be found anywhere, so trees are sacrificed in the Park. Candles and kerosene lamps being the only way of lighting, these immense halls must be gloomy and depressing enough in the long dark afternoons of winter, with the wind howling around the towers and the rain lashing the casements.