THE STATUE OF KING RENÉ AND THE CHÂTEAU AT ANGERS
By permission of Messrs. Neurdein
Disenchantment awaits one on entering the castle for it is but a vast, empty shell. There is nothing for the traveller of to-day save the panorama of its outer walls, and I confess the disappointment drove me hence and away.
As we enter Brittany, the weather darkens, and rain sets in, so that we reach our stopping-place for the night, Chateaubriant, in a driving storm, not wet but very glad to get under cover. The little hotel has a blazing fire and the cook in cap and apron is enjoying a game of cards with one of the guests. He asks me to come in, but I do not care for cards, and so look on. The conversation is brisk. "Madame" joins in, and the cat takes her place by the fire, making the family complete. Outside the wind howls and the rain pours in torrents off the roofs of the old gabled houses. It is a night and place when one might hear such a story as that of "The Bells," but the faces all look friendly and we chat on until dinner, about anything save murder. It is a good night for sleep and I am not long in seeking that tonic of nature.
Next day the ride is through storm and clouds. The people are more opposed to automobiles than in the other sections and we have several conflicts with old women who, with their cattle, insist upon occupying the entire road.
We lunch at Rennes—a bustling, prosperous city of no interest save as the theatre for the trial of Dreyfus the Jew. One meets with soldiers everywhere in France and I have taken occasion to talk with many of them concerning this man, famous, or infamous, as the case may be, and from general to private I find but one opinion, "guilty." When I ask what they make of Esterhazy and Pâté du Clam, they do not hesitate to say that they were bought by the Jews, and that Dreyfus's entire case has been governed by money from the chosen people. I was not surprised at this opinion from the officers, but coming also from the rank and file it was unexpected, to say the least.
It is early in the afternoon when St. Malo is reached and there we pass the night, almost the only guests within the Hôtel de France.
All the world knows St. Malo, the ancient town on an island, where one must have a room on the third floor in order to see over the walls. Though it is picturesque as one approaches, St. Malo is gloomy and depressing when one enters within its gates. The whole town reeks with moisture and one is not tempted to remain, at least at this season.
The route from there onward lies over roads not in very good condition, at least for France, though they would be considered prime in America. In fact the sections of Brittany through which we have passed do not possess the superb highways universal all over the rest of the Republic, and her climate just now is rainy and cold, though the rain is more of a mist from the sea. Occupying the long cape-like projection lying between the stormy Bay of Biscay and the equally unquiet Channel, she is swept by the winds of both, alternately, and at times it would seem from both at the same moment. But when one enters Normandy, all the land is as smiling as Touraine, and one goes on rejoicing. Brittany is picturesque, but with a sad sort of picturesqueness. In all of her churches you will find a catafalque ready for the dead, and she knows all the wild, sad legends, and truths sadder than any legend, of the neighbouring ocean. Normandy smiles at you seemingly happy. Her valleys are all abloom with millions of fruit trees, and spring is well advanced.
As we turn out towards Mont St. Michel, a fussy little train makes great to-do over its no miles an hour and puffs indignantly as we, leaving it far behind, speed on over the broad high dyke, which connects St. Michel with the main land. On either side stretch the sands over which, when the tide races in, it outstrips a fast horse, but the sea is far out to-day, so far that its murmurs do not reach us, and there is no sound save our own on-rushing.