Paris, March, 1917.
Dearest Father:—
I have never told you enough about our trip up from Bordeaux, and so many things happened that were interesting and the effects of the trip have been so lasting that I want very much to put you au courant.
We left on a Wednesday for Angoulême, which was a beautiful day’s run. The weather was superb, and it seemed too good to be true that we were actually flying down the famous poplar-edged roads of France in our own little car. We reached Angoulême at sunset-time. If you have ever been there, you will remember the wonderful situation of the city. It rises high in the center of a plain and the walk around the walls affords a beautiful view. After getting settled in the hotel, we made the circuit of the town and watched the shades of a pink and gold sunset slowly deepen into the purple of twilight.
I rose early the next morning, before the others were up, and took a few pictures. I had a lovely ramble among the old churches.
It was on leaving Angoulême that I cleverly took the wrong road, which added fully fifty kilometres to our day’s run. We found ourselves at about two o’clock in La Rochefoucauld. Everywhere we were in search of essence, and as we found plenty of it there, Marje forgave my stupidity. As we knew we could make Poitiers that night, anyway, Mrs. Shurtleff said that it made no difference. After having given one look at the lovely château, I felt personally very pleased with myself. We had luncheon at a funny little inn, which was so stuffy inside that we insisted upon having them serve our omelets on the front porch. They thought, of course, that we were crazy and the windows were crowded with faces showing ill-concealed curiosity.
We went up to the château and found an old woman there who was glad to take us around. The present Duke and Duchess of La Rochefoucauld have not lived in the château since the beginning of the war. She is an American with millions who has restored most lavishly but in the best possible taste the interior of the fine old castle. The only son and heir died, at the age of seven, a few years ago. A charming marble bust of the child placed in the chapel gave a pathetic note to the whole place. We stopped at Ruffec that afternoon, having been advised not to miss the place where they manufacture pâtés de foie gras and truffles. The fattest woman I ever saw has a little shop in a courtyard where the finest canned goods are put up. She showed us her storeroom of thousands of cans, and I felt like buying a couple of thousand until I found out how much she charged. As it was, we bought six or seven cans, arguing that it was pure economy to eat pâté with bread at the side of the road instead of going to a hotel for luncheon every day.
We made Poitiers that night just after dark, dead tired. We slept late in the morning and had a terrific time making the car start. We had time to stop only at a few stores before going on our way, so that at the present writing I can’t tell you the difference in the general topography between Poitiers and Jersey City. One thing I do remember is that Harold made a careful note, on the guide that he wrote out for me, that the Field of the Cloth of Gold was near Poitiers; and as I am a perfect sight-seeing fiend I was bound that I would see it. While manicuring the car in the garage and pouring gasoline and oil into every joint and crevice, I tried to find out from the garage-man where I could find (and here Marje disappeared inside the bonnet) “le champs de l’étoffe d’or.” He thought it was a part of the car and said that he was sure that it was not that that was out of order. I gave up the search and found when I reached Paris that such Field is near Dieppe, a good three hundred miles from Poitiers.
I have mentioned stores, I believe. Well, it was here that Folly for the first time in many well-ordered months jumped out of my pocket. I have always been crazy about leopards, as you know; especially this winter I have wanted to get a leopard’s skin, but I did not think that even the “miscellaneous” column in my accounts would justify the purchase of any jungle trophies. I asked at Revillon’s one day the price of a perfect beauty that was in the window, and found that it was three hundred francs. In Poitiers Marje and I were walking innocently down a side street looking for some crackers and jam and a chamois skin through which to strain the gasoline, when, suddenly, I saw in the window a little yellow leopard that just twined himself around my heart! I soon had him spread out on the counter and was haggling with the woman over the price. She said sixty francs, with tears in her eyes. I objected strenuously and Marje walked off in the other direction. She hates me when I am trying to “marchander” and suddenly pretends that she is not with me and doesn’t know me, which is absurd when we are often the only two American girls in the town. Well, I bought the leopard—“Leo” on further acquaintance—for forty francs, and this time tears were in the very voice of his former mistress. We left Poitiers in a cloud of dust, not having seen one building, one church, or one view. Baedeker lay sulking in the back of the car, but Marje was correspondingly exultant. There is a certain antipathy between Marje and a statistic which may be noticed. We had luncheon by the side of the road with Leo as guest of honor. I thought Mrs. Shurtleff would die of laughter when she saw him and when she discovered a large bald spot on his left shoulder. We all laughed so that we could hardly negotiate another truffle! I must tell you that weeks afterwards, when I told Aunt Ella that I had bought a leopard skin in Poitiers, expecting her to throw up her hands at such foolishness, she sat up straight and said: “You did? Oh! I wish I had known there were leopard skins in Poitiers,—I just love them.”
