By this time the weather had become the chief topic of conversation. A storm was swiftly approaching. Tall cypress trees creaked and swayed in the wind; the dark clouds, nearly above us, shot out murky, ominous streamers, like the tentacles of a gigantic octopus; a few big drops fell; then the floodgates burst. The drenching downpour was so sudden that there was no time to put up the top of the car. A tall tree offered refuge, but soon each separate leaf had a tiny waterfall of its own. Fortune did not entirely desert us, for a small farmhouse, near by, promised a more substantial shelter. It was just the kind of peasant's home that we had often seen from the roadside: an exterior of rustic quaintness, built of stone and rough timbers, and artistically framed in rustic vines and flowers. What would the interior look like? We knocked. A barefooted peasant woman opened the door. She was surprised to see three dripping apparitions, apparently swept in by the rage of the elements, but her invitation to enter could not have been more cordial. The "salon" served the purposes of kitchen, bedchamber, and dining room. There was no trace of carpet or rug on the cobble-stoned floor. The heap of straw in the corner did not disclose whether it was for dog or goat. On the wall hung a cheap color-print of Napoleon. The hospitable "Asseyez-vous" called our attention to a single decrepit chair. There was not even a wooden table. The rain, pattering down the chimney, had almost extinguished the blaze in the small open fireplace. Could anything have been more barren or forlorn! Judging from the appearance of our hôtesse, the bathtub either did not exist or had long since ceased to figure prominently in the domestic life of the household. Two other peasant women of the same neglected appearance entered without knocking. One of them was barefooted; the other would have been if she had not worn heavy sabots. Both of them greeted us, but their dialect was unintelligible. The sun coming out we said good-by with all the polite French phrases at our command. The three peasant women stood in the doorway and waved their ragged aprons till we disappeared over the hill.
The bridge spanning the Dordogne into cheerful Bergerac showed a town busy with festal preparation for the coming of President Poincaré. Pine branches were being wound around telephone poles; festoons of green decorated the houses; windows were bright with flags; the streets overhung with arches bearing inscriptions of welcome. We stopped at a tea shop which was also a boulangerie.
It was interesting to discover, from the local papers, that our route for the next two days was to be part of the itinerary selected by President Poincaré for his tour through the French provinces.
This trip resulted from the president's desire to know his people better, to become acquainted with their local life, to visit their industries, and especially to attract the attention of the motor world to beautiful and interesting regions of France which had too long been neglected,—these slumberous small towns of the Dordogne, Limousin and Périgord, hidden from the broad travel track, rich in local traditions and peculiarities, wrapped in their old-world atmosphere, surrounded by exquisite landscapes with marvelous horizons. For these towns, the president's coming was a big event. Some of them recalled that since the days of Louis XI no ruler of the state had visited their village.
We were to see Périgueux, with its precious relics of Roman life and of the Middle Ages; Limoges, noted for its beautiful enamels and the center of the porcelain industry. It was this part of France, so little visited even by the French themselves, that President Poincaré chose for his week of motoring. For him, as well as for us, it was to be a delightful voyage of discovery.
The twenty-nine miles to Périgueux proved a memorable motor experience. Much of the way was among steep, tree-covered slopes. No one met us along the road.
It is surprising how far one can motor in France without seeing any trace of human life; areas of deserted country are so common; abandoned farmhouses appear so frequently. The reason lies not alone in the drift of population to the larger towns and cities, but in the fact that the French birth rate is failing to hold its own. France, so rich in other respects, is actually threatened by a decreasing population. In 1911 the number of deaths exceeded the number of births by 33,800. In the first third of the last century, when the death rate was much higher than now, there were six births to every death; in 1871 the ratio had fallen to two births to each death; in 1901 it was even. If we consider the number of births per 10,000 inhabitants during the decades of the last century, we find the series to be an invariably decreasing one—from 323 in 1800 to 222 in 1900. In 1870 Germany and France had each about 38,000,000. Germany now has over 67,000,000, a gain of 27,000,000 over the present French population of 39,340,000. France is thus placed at a great disadvantage in the matter of national defense. If we assume the German army to be only 750,000 soldiers, there would be one soldier to every 89 inhabitants; France, to have the same army, would be obliged to have one soldier to every 52 or 53 inhabitants. The fact that the French soldiers will now be compelled to serve three years in the army, as compared with two years in Germany, shows how France is now paying the penalty for neglecting that vital national problem of population.
Our ride to Périgueux gave vivid emphasis to the above figures. There was little evidence of peasant life. One had the impression of roaming through a vast, uninhabited country.
From the top of a hill the town, and the valley of the Isle, stretched beneath us a lovely view; the windings of the river Isle, its bridges mirrored in the crimson flood. Wooded hills faded slowly into the blue depths of twilight. The graceful Byzantine campanile and domes of St. Front reminded us of the church of St. Marks in Venice. Europe has few more romantic corners. Descending the hill, we motored over the river and into the town, under arches of electric lights arranged in letters to spell words of greeting to the president.
The Grand Hôtel du Commerce should have been torn down years ago. It was a good example of how poor a provincial hotel can be. Even the recommendation of the Touring Club of France could not make us forget the musty smells that filled rooms and corridors. We opened wide all the windows. After a few minutes, the fresh air revived us.