But, after all, is not Rouen best known to the world because of its connection with the strange figure of Jeanne d’Arc? Indeed, her career savors of myth and legend—not the sober fact of history—and it is hard to conceive of the scene that took place around the fatal spot in the Vieux-Marche, now marked with a large stone bearing the inscription, “Jeanne d’Arc, 30 Mar. 1431.” Here a tender young woman whose only crime was an implicit belief that she was divinely inspired, was burned at the stake by order of a reverend bishop who, surrounded by his satellites, approvingly looked on the dreadful scene. And these men were not painted savages, but high dignitaries of Christendom. Much of old Rouen stands to-day as it stood then, but what a vast change has been wrought in humankind! Only a single ruinous tower remains of the castle where the Maid was confined. While imprisoned here she was intimidated by being shown the instruments of torture; but she withstood the callous brutality of her persecutors with fortitude and heroism that baffled them, though it only enraged them the more.
We acknowledge the hopelessness of getting any adequate idea of a city of such antiquity and importance in a day and the Captain says we may as well quit trying. He suggests that we take the tram for Bonsecours, situated on the steep hill towering high over the town from the right bank of the river. Here is a modern Catholic cemetery with many handsome tombs and monuments and, in the center, a recently erected memorial to Joan of Arc. This consists of three little temples in the Renaissance style, the central chapel enclosing a marble statue of the Maid. There is a modern church near by whose interior—a solid mass of bright green, red and gold—is the most gorgeous we have seen. The specialty of this church is “votive tablets”—the walls are covered with little marble placards telling what some particular saint has done for the donor in response to a vow. A round charge, the Captain says, is made for each tablet, so that the income of Bonsecours Church must be a good one.
But one will not visit Bonsecours to see the church or the memorial, though both are interesting in their way, but for the unmatched view of the city and the Seine Valley, which good authorities pronounce one of the finest panoramas in Europe. From the memorial the whole city lies spread out like a map—so far beneath that the five-hundred-foot spire of Notre Dame is below the level of our vision. The city, with its splendid spires rising amidst the wilderness of streets and house-roofs, fills the valley near at hand and the broad, shining folds of the Seine, with its old bridges and wooded shores, lends a glorious variety to the scene. The view up and down the river is quite unobstructed, covering a beautiful and prosperous valley bounded on either side by the verdant hills of Normandy. This view alone well repays a visit to Bonsecours, whether one’s stay in Rouen be short or long.
In leaving Rouen we cross the Seine and follow the fine straight road which runs through Pont Audemer to Honfleur on the coast. This was not our prearranged route, but the Captain apparently gravitates toward the sea whenever possible, and he is responsible for the diversion. From Honfleur we follow the narrow road along the coast—its sharp turns, devious windings, short steep hills and the hedgerows which border it in places recalling the byways of Devon and Cornwall. We again come out on the shore at Trouville-sur-Mer, a watering place with an array of imposing hotels. It is not yet the “season” and many of the hotels are closed, but the Belvue, one of the largest, is doing business and we have an elaborate luncheon here which costs more than we like to pay.
Out of Trouville our road still pursues the coast, running through a series of resorts and fishing villages until it swings inland for Caen—a quaint, irregular old place which, next to Rouen, declares Baedeker, is the most interesting city in Normandy. We are sorry that many of its show-places are closed to us, for it is Sunday and the churches are not open to tourist inspection. In St. Stephen’s we might have seen the tomb of William the Conqueror, though his remains no longer rest beneath it, having been disinterred and scattered by the Huguenots in 1562. Caen has two other great churches—St. Peter’s and Trinity, which we can view only from the outside.
It is Pentecost Sunday and the streets are thronged with young girls in white who have taken part in confirmation services; we have seen others at many places during the day. It is about the only thing to remind us that it is Sunday, for the shops are open, work is going on in the fields, and road-making is in progress; we note little suspension of week-day activities. The peasants whom we see by the roadside and in the little villages are generally very dirty but seem happy and content. The farm houses are usually unattractive, often with filthy surroundings—muck-heaps in front of the doors—not unlike what we saw in some parts of Ireland.
The road from Caen to Bayeux runs as straight as an arrow’s flight, broad, level and bordered—as most main roads are in France—by rows of stately trees. We give the motor full rein and the green sunny fields flit joyously past us. What a relief to “open her up” without thought of a policeman behind every bush! Is it any wonder that the oft-trapped Englishman considers France a motorist’s paradise?
The spires of Bayeux Cathedral soon rise before us and we must content ourselves with the exterior of this magnificent church. Not so with the museum which contains the Bayeux Tapestry, for the lady member of our party is determined to see this famous piece of needlework, willy nilly. The custodian is finally located and we are admitted to view the relic. It is a strip of linen cloth eighteen inches wide and two hundred thirty feet long, embroidered in colored thread with scenes representing the Conquest of England by William of Normandy. It is claimed that the work was done by Queen Matilda and her maidens, though this is disputed by some authorities; but its importance as a contemporary representation of historic events of the time of William I. far outweighs its artistic significance.
The main road from Bayeux to St. Lo is one of the most glorious highways in France. It runs through an almost unbroken forest of giant trees for a good part of the distance—a little more than twenty miles—and the sunset sky gleaming through the stately trunks relieves the otherwise somber effect.
By happy accident we reach St. Lo at nightfall and turn into the courtyard of the Hotel de Univers, a comfortable-looking old house invitingly close to the roadside. I say by happy accident, for we never planned to stop at St. Lo and but for chance might have remained in ignorance of one of the most charming little cathedral towns in France. Indeed, we feel that St. Lo is ours by right of discovery, for we find but scant mention of it in the guide-books. After an excellent though unpretentious dinner, we sally forth from our inn to view our surroundings in the deepening twilight. The town is situated on the margin of a still little river which wonderfully reflects the ancient vine-covered houses that climb the sharply sloping hillside. The huge bulk of the cathedral looms mysteriously over the town and its soaring twin spires are sharply outlined against the dim moonlit sky. The towers are not exact duplicates, as they appear from a distance, but both exhibit the same general characteristics of Gothic style. The whole scene is one of enchanting beauty; the dull glow of the river, the houses massed on the hillside, with lighted windows gleaming here and there and and crowning all the vast sentinellike form of the cathedral—a scene that would lose half its charm if viewed by the flaunting light of day. And we secretly resolve that we shall have no such disenchantment; we shall steal quietly out of St. Lo in the early morning with never a backward glance. We do not, therefore, see the interior of the church, which has several features of peculiar interest, and we may be pardoned for adopting the description of an English writer: