We spent yesterday in the Forêt de C——. As the Emperor had guests we were not admitted at the Château, but we tramped for long through the woods. The grassy roads run beneath the embowering beeches straight from carrefour to carrefour. The gnarled and twisted trunks give to each tree a personal character and make it a master-piece of Nature. Of a sudden we came on the Imperial hunt winding in gay procession through the forest to its rendezvous. Hunting horns in triple rings of brass encircled the leading horsemen. From time to time we heard from them the familiar strains which echo through the Latin Quarter at Mi-Carême. Then followed in brilliant liveries a troop of lackeys, grooms, and other servants, and the pack of staghounds held in leash but sniffing and yelping. Next came the hunters themselves on high-bred mounts and in court costumes of ancient design. Lastly there were barouches and landaus carrying the ladies of the Court "en grande tenue." The sunlight flickering through the beech branches enlivened this brilliant train as it wound through the forest glades and disappeared down a green allée.
We had continued our walk for scarce a mile when, but a short distance from us, a stag crossed our path—stood startled—with head erect,—and then with confident leaps vanished in the forest just as the distant hounds became aware of him and joined in a wild chorus. In a few moments the pack came in a rush across our path. Up the different allées rode the horsemen in haste—asking of us news of the stag. We on foot joined in the pursuit,—but at last the forest swallowed one after the other, stag, and hounds, and hunters, and the sound of dog and horn.
XXI
ROCHER-ST.-POL
The Château Beaumesnil
On leaving the forest we passed the small Château. Its conical turret roofs and lofty chimneys, and its flashing finials and girouettes make a brave show above the forest trees. The terraces overlook wide meadow lands through which the river winds until it is lost in the hazy distance.
Roberts, Letters from France.
CLOTILDE
In Geraudun were brothers three,
They had one sister dear;
The cruel Baron her lord must be,
And the fellest and fiercest knight is he
In the country far or near.
He beat that lovely lady sore
With a staff of the apple green,
Till her blood flowed down on the castle floor,
And from head to foot the crimson gore
On her milk-white robe was seen.