Now do you think le Père Battin's story was true?
[CHAPTER IV]
À TRAVERS BAR-LE-DUC
Whether it was or not, it has come rather too soon in my narrative, I am afraid. It has carried me far away from the days when the quaint individual charm of Bar-le-Duc began to assert itself, little by little, slowly, but with such cumulative effect that in the end we grew to love it.
Our work took us into every lane and street, but it was the Ville-Haute that I loved best. I wish I could describe it to you as it lies on the hill; wish I could take you up the steep narrow lane that leads to the rue St Jean, and then into the rue de l'Armurier which bends like a giant S and is so narrow you fancy you could touch the houses on either side by stretching out your arms. Small boys tobogganed down it in the great frost last year. It was rare sport for the small boys, but disastrous to sober-minded propriety which occasionally found that it, too, was tobogganing—but not on a tray—and with an absence of grace and premeditation that were devastating in their results.
Indeed, the Ville-Haute was a death-trap during those weeks. There were slides everywhere. The Place St Pierre was scarred with them, the wonderful Place which, pear-shaped, wide at the top, narrowing to its lower end, lies encircled in the arms of the rue des Dues de Bar and of the rue des Grangettes. And at the top, commandingly in the centre stands the church of St Pierre—once St Maze—where the famous statue, the "Squelette," is now buried so many fathoms deep in sandbags nothing can be seen of it at all. It is said that Mr. Edmund Gosse once came to spend a night in Bar and was so bewitched by its beauty he remained for several weeks, writing a charming little romance about it in which the "Squelette" plays a prominent part. And, indeed, the only way to know Bar is to live in it. It would be quite easy to tell you of the Tour de l'Horloge standing on guard on the hill; of the fifteenth-and sixteenth-century houses; of the Pont Nôtre Dame; of the Canal des Usines which always reminded me of Bruges; of the river winding through the Lower Town, tall poplars standing sentinel along the banks; of the great canal that cuts a fine almost parallel to that of the river and which, if only you followed it far enough, would bring you at last to the Rhine; of winding Polval that is so exquisite in snow and on a moonlit night, with its houses piled one above the other like an old Italian town; or of the fine arched gate that leads to the Place du Château and that led there when the stately Dukes of Bar held court in the street that bears their name, and led there, too, when Charles Stuart lived in the High Town and dreamed perhaps of a kingdom beyond the seas. Of all these things and of the beautiful cloistered sixteenth-century College in the rue Gilles de Trêves one might speak, exhausting the mines of their adjectives and similes, but would you be any closer to the soul of the town? I doubt it, and so I refrain from description. For Bar depends for its beauty and its distinctive charm on something more than mere outline. Colour, atmosphere, some ghostly raiment of the past still clinging to its limbs, and over all the views over the valley—yes, the soul is elusive and intangible; you will find it most surely under the white rays of the moon.
The views are simply intoxicating, but if you want to see one of the finest you must make the acquaintance of a certain Madame—Madame, shall we say, Schneider? Any name will do if only it is Teutonic enough. She loomed upon our horizon as the purveyor of corduroy trousers. Oh, not for a profit. She, bien entendu, was a philanthropist disposing of the salvage of a large shop, the owner of which was a refugee. The trousers being much needed at the moment we bought them, but many months afterwards she came with serge garments that were not even remotely connected with a refugee, so I am prone to believe that she was not quite so disinterested as she would have had us believe.
To visit her you must climb to the Ville-Haute, and there in a house panelled throughout (such woodwork—old, old, old—my very eyes water at the thought of it), you will find a long low room with a wide window springing like a balcony over the gulf that lies under the rue Chavé. And from the window you can look far over the town which lies beneath you, over the silver path of river and canal to the Côte Ste Catherine, the steep hill, once a vineyard, that rises on the other side; you can see the aviation ground, and you can follow the white ribbon of road that runs past Naives to St Mihiel. And you can look up and down the valley for miles—to Fains, to Mussey and beyond, on one hand to Longeville, and Trouville on the other. And Marbot lies all unlocked under your eyes, and Maestricht, and the beautiful hill over which, if you are wise, you will one day walk to Resson.