'Tis a pity that the crossings are so prominent; their nudity enhances the ill-effect of the debauch of whitewash that renders the interior so cold. One of the few good monuments is a fifteenth-century, south-eastern, transeptal chapel, with the remains of the gothic canopied tomb of the Seigneurs of Digoin. The windows, doors and niches of the chapel are satisfactory, but the ribbed vaulting is clumsy, and much too heavy for so small a roof. I believe that the figures are all modern.
As we left by the north transept, we noticed a lady standing before the statue of St. Peter. Rising upon her toes until her bonnet feathers nodded, she was just able, with an effort, to kiss the toe of the Saint. I examined that toe; it was bright with the salutes of the faithful.
Nowhere do I remember to have seen so many appeals and warnings against blasphemy and desecration as are displayed in the church of Paray. No doubt they are needful and salutary; but it struck us, that, before enforcing too severely their observance, the ecclesiastical authorities would do well to set their own house in order, and, once for all, to sweep the precincts of their basilica clear of all rubbish, human and inanimate, that now defiles it. I wonder, sometimes, whether those who are responsible for the condition of affairs at Paray, and other great French churches, have ever seen the close of Salisbury, or of Wells, or can ever have realized how enhancing to the dignity and grandeur of mediæval architecture, and how seemly, as settings to a sacred building, are the delicious haunts of peace, upon whose trim, green lawns and ancestral elms, those ancient cathedrals look down. That, having done so, they can be content to let the towers of Paray rise from among tawdry booths and a howling wilderness of filth and débris, is something I do not care to believe. That is why, having visited in hope Cluny's lovely daughter, we left her with little other feeling than one of sadness that such things should be.
The country around Paray is not particularly interesting; but some fine views of the Church are to be had from the other side of the Bourbince. Having set forth on bicycles to explore the land, we halted on a little bridge that crosses the Canal du Centre. The waterway was lined, on our side, for about a hundred yards, with small tumble-down cottages and sheds. The other bank was alive with washerwomen all thumping mercilessly at soapy garments. As we appeared, the thumping ceased. Every scrubbing-brush was put down, or remained poised in mid-air, and all eyes turned towards the two figures, who, even at that distance, bore the stamp of aliens.
We approached a cottage labelled "Café." Before it was a perambulator containing a howling baby, whom a very serious little maid of about fourteen was trying unsuccessfully to hush. We sat down on a rickety bench, and ordered things. The little maid was so shy that her lips refused to part; but her ears were open; she fetched and carried willingly, though dumbly. We sat sipping, and contemplating nature. The washers returned to their thumping; the baby howled.
Presently a lanky mule, into whom the spirit of devilment had entered, broke from a neighbouring shed, and made for the bridge. The girl left her charge, and endeavoured to "shoo" the beast to his stall again. He would neither be coerced nor cajoled, but, with a wicked gleam in his eye, turned his back upon her blandishments, and, to the great peril of the baby, lashed out fiercely with both heels. The girl rushed to the perambulator. Conscious of victory, the ass lay down upon the towing path, and rolled and kicked, until the washers across the water were screened from us by clouds of dust. Then, in due season, he arose and walked quietly back to his stable. As my wife observed: "He is a very young mule; and there is no fun in being naughty, if nobody minds."
A moment later, we saw coming towards us with swinging strides over the bridge, a tall, swarthy, handsome figure, dressed as a stage bandit, in copper-coloured leather coat, of the same tint as his face, a dark slouch hat, and black leather gaiters. From each capacious side pocket projected the neck of a large, white-glass, wine bottle. He called for a drink, and sat down near us on a bench before the café; then, removing one of the bottles from his coat, he revealed two snakes wriggling within it. Holding the bottle by the neck, he shook it before the eyes of the howling baby, who promptly fell into such strong convulsions that my wife feared for its life.
"What are those?" I asked, pointing to the bottle.