After Limoges, came Tours as the goal of the day's run through the pastoral beauties of Limousin to the châteaux of Touraine. The air was crisp and clear. Two hours of easy running through the bright September sunshine brought us to the Palais Hôtel in Poitiers before noon—Poitiers, the city of old Romanesque churches and older traditions, where are living so many of the vieille noblesse who would rather eat dry bread than make their sons work. The echoes of Parisian rush do not penetrate these quiet streets. The people drink tilleul after lunch instead of coffee. The effect is to make them drowsy. In fact, we have seldom visited a place with such an atmosphere of slumber. After lunch the patronne offered to show us some of the hotel rooms. Most of them were connected with a private salle de bain. The price was so reasonable that we at once placed this hotel in a class by itself. As before stated, bathrooms do not enter largely into the life of the French home or hotel. Even in cities like Tours, the public bathtub still makes its round from house to house once a week, or once a month as the case may be. An Englishman, who so often places cleanliness above godliness, is unable to understand this French indifference to the blessings of hot and cold water. In Lyons, the third largest city of France, there is a popular saying that only millionaires have the salle de bain in their homes. These facts will help to explain why the Hôtel Palais, with its many bathrooms, made such an impression on us. We regret that our snapshot of this hotel did not turn out well. We would have had it enlarged and framed.

From Poitiers to Tours one is on the famous Route Nationale No. 10, that remarkable highway which Napoleon built across France into Spain when his soldiers made the long march only to meet defeat in the Peninsular campaign. We had followed it from Bayonne to Biarritz and on to San Sebastian. To see this familiar sign again seemed like the greeting of an old friend. It looks like an army road, the trees are planted with such military precision. One could almost feel the measured step to martial music. This straight-away stretch for so many miles through the country suggested the great soldier himself. Like his strategy, there was no unnecessary swerving. It was the shortest practicable line to the enemy's battle front. These magnificent routes nationales are the best illustration of the order and system that he gave to French life. We have often thought too much emphasis has been laid on the destructive side of Napoleon's career. He shook Europe, but Europe needed to be shaken. The divine-right-of-kings theory needed to be shattered. France needed to be centralized. If our motoring in that country had been limited to Route Nationale No. 10, this would have been enough to give us a new appreciation of Napoleon as a constructive force.

The afternoon's ride flew all too quickly. It was glorious, as evening approached, to watch the harvest moon growing brighter and larger on our right, while the sunset fires slowly changed from burning colors to dusky gray. Tours was in sight, Tours on the Loire, names that we had always linked with the châteaux of Touraine. A multitude of lights gleamed from the plain below. Descending the hill, we crossed the Loire to the Hôtel Metropole.

Tours was not what we had anticipated. One reads about the kings of France who resided here, from Louis IX to François I. Plundering Visigoths, ravaging Normans, Catholics and Huguenots, even the Germans in 1870, all in their turn assailed the unfortunate city. We looked for half-ruined palaces and vine-covered, crumbling walls. The reality spread a different picture. Aside from the streets and houses of mediæval Tours, little remains of great historic interest. This large, busy industrial center produces so many articles that the list resembles a section from the new Tariff Act.

We enjoyed varying our châteaux excursions with rambles in the city. There are old gabled houses in the Rue du Change, where the overhanging stories rest on brackets richly carved. One loses all sense of direction in some of these intricate streets. The cathedral compelled us to linger longer than we had intended. The ages have given such a warm, rich gray to the stones that the usual atmosphere of frozen grandeur was absent. Our interest in Gothic glass and mediæval pillars was diverted by a wedding that was going on in the cathedral. One of the priests, who was assisting in the ceremonies, left his duties to offer us his services as guide; there is always a certain magnetic power to the American tip. Of course we climbed the Royal Staircase of the North Tower, even counting the number of steps. The fact that our numbers did not correspond is all that saves this part of our story from resembling a quotation from Baedeker. The panorama showed the city spread out in a plain between the Loire and the Cher. We grew to have an intimate feeling for these old cathedral towers. When returning along the Loire from our châteaux trips, it was always a beautiful sight to see them in the distance, clear-cut and luminous, or looking like majestic shadows in the haze of twilight.

CHAPTER XIII
THE CHÂTEAUX OF TOURAINE

Tours made a convenient headquarters for our explorations in Touraine, where along the banks of the Loire and the Indre were enacted the most important events in French history from Charles VII to Henry IV. Every one would be interested in an historical course having for subjects these Renaissance homes of France's gallantry and beauty. One lingers, and imagines the scenes of magnificent revel, the court life of kings and queens when the artistic and architectural glory of France was at its zenith.

It was easy to plan our one-day trips so as to include on the same circuit several of the most famous châteaux. The first day we motored to Azay-le-Rideau, Chinon, Rigny-Ussé, and Langeais, in the order named. The distances were short, perhaps one hundred and twenty-five kilometers in all, so that we could go leisurely and yet return to Tours before dark.

With this wonderful program before us, we crossed the Loire, and traversing a wooded country with areas of vineyards and gardens, came to Azay-sur-Indre. There were not even hints of a château, nothing but the aimless cobbled streets of the typical French town. We halted beside a long wall which holds back the encroaching village and betrays no sign of the surprise in store within. Any one about to see his first château would do well to visit Azay-le-Rideau, a veritable gem of Renaissance style. This graceful pile of white architecture, as seen to-day, belongs to the early part of the sixteenth century. François I built it. That patron of the beaux arts has placed our twentieth century under lasting obligation. Every line is artistic. There is the picture of airy lightness in the turrets and carven chimneys that rise from the high sloping roofs of blue slate. In gratitude for the preservation of this perfect work one forgets the ravages of the French Revolution. Passing over a small bridge, we followed the gardien through the sculptured doorway and up the grand staircase so often ascended by François and his Parisian favorites. We were permitted to see the ancient kitchen and old kitchen utensils of wrought iron. Paintings and Flemish tapestries adorned the billiard room. The king's bedroom has a fine specimen of rare mediæval flooring. The ballroom, with its Gobelin tapestries, suggested the artistic luxury of the age. From nearly every window there were pleasing outlooks on a green woodland and on the sunny branch of the Indre, which surrounds the château on three sides. It was all a picture of peace. Azay-le-Rideau is a château of elegance, instead of defense. One could imagine it built by a king who had leisure to collect beautiful works of art and whose throne was not seriously threatened by invading armies.

Quite different from it is the château of Chinon, an immense ruined fortress built on a hill above the Vienne River. The walls are as impregnable as rocky cliffs. Chinon was the refuge of a king who had need of the strongest towers. Charles VII, still uncrowned, assembled here the States-General while the English were besieging Orléans. It was a time of despair. The French were divided, discouraged, helpless, their richest provinces overrun by English armies. At this lowest ebb of French history, a simple peasant girl came to Chinon. Only a solitary gable and chimneypiece remain of the Grande Salle du Trône where Jeanne d'Arc told the king of her visions from heaven and of mysterious voices commanding her to save the nation. We entered the tower, her rude quarters till she departed a few weeks later to lead the French troops to the victory of Orléans.

After lunch we motored through the gardens of Touraine to the magnificent château of Ussé. The elegant grounds and surrounding woods formed an appropriate setting. Terraces descended to the wall below, where our view swept over a wide range of picturesque country, watered by the Indre. Much to our regret, we were not permitted to visit the château, which is now occupied by a prominent French family.

Langeais, a few miles away, gave us a more hospitable welcome. It is a superb stronghold upon the Loire, and has dark, frowning towers and a heavy drawbridge which looks very mediæval. The widow of M. Siegfried, a Parisian millionaire, lives here part of the year with her daughter. M. Siegfried, who bought the château, was interested in art as well as in ships. He lavished his wealth to furnish the different rooms with furniture and objets d'art peculiar to the period. His will provides that after the wife's death the château is to belong to the Institute of France, and that a sum equal to six thousand dollars is to be devoted to its upkeep. Other tourists had arrived. The concierge conducted our party through the many different rooms, lavishly furnished and decorated in the period of Louis XI and Charles VIII. There were wide, open fireplaces. We were interested in the Grand Salon, where the marriage of Charles VIII and Anne of Brittany was celebrated in 1491.

The return to Tours led along the banks of the Loire. Rain was falling, a cold drizzle which the rising wind dashed in our faces. The wide sweeps of the river grew indistinct. There were few carts to check our homeward spurt through the darkening landscape. We were fortunate in having so comfortable a hostelry for a goal. The dinner, equal to the best French cuisine, proved a pleasant ending to a memorable day.

The next morning ushered in one of those golden fall days that seemed made for "châteauing." The swift kilometers soon carried us to Loches, that impressive combination of state prison, Château Royal, and grim fortress overlooking the valley of the Indre. So many horrible memories are linked with the prisons of Loches that we almost hesitate to record our impressions. We have seen the dungeon cells of the Ducal Palace in Venice and the equally gruesome chambers of the Castle of Chillon, but the dungeons of Loches are the most fear-inspiring that we have ever penetrated. Perhaps a part of this impression was due to the concierge who showed us the prisons where famous captives were incarcerated and tortured at the will of monarchs. There was one dark cell with a deep hole, purposely fashioned that the victims should stumble headlong to their fate. Our guide gave us a graphic description of this method of execution. In that gloomy hole, his sudden climax of "Très horrible," would have made any one shiver. Some of these cells extend an interminable distance underground. It is not the most cheerful experience to descend deeper and deeper into this subterranean darkness, to see the daylight growing fainter, to hear the trickle of water from the cold rocks, and then to imagine the slow, frightful death of many a political captive. Louis XI, not satisfied with the capacity of the dungeon, built a great round tower, the Tour Neuve, where he imprisoned the rebellious barons whose lives could not be taken.

Some one has written of this amiable king that "his reign was a daily battle, carried on in the manner of savages, by astuteness and cruelty, without courtesy and without mercy." In the cell occupied by Ludovico Sforza, the Duke of Milan, may be seen the paintings, sun dial, and inscriptions with which he tried to ward off approaching madness. This prisoner is said to have died from the joy of regaining his liberty. Louis XI was resourceful in his method of imprisonment. In a subterranean room of the Tour Neuve we were shown where the Cardinal Balue was suspended in a small cage. One reads that he "survived so much longer than might have been expected this extraordinary mixture of seclusion and exposure." Almost as horrible was the window cell in one of the torture chambers. The prisoner was confined on a narrow stone ledge between two rows of bars. There was barely space to stand up or lie down. A handful of straw served for a bed. On the one side, he was exposed to the elements, and on the other, he viewed the torments of fellow prisoners.

We turned with relief to less hideous scenes, to the apartments of the Château Royal, occupied by the irresolute Charles VII, the terrible Louis XI, and their successors; to the tower, from the top of which we had a commanding view of the quaint, mediæval town and the wandering Indre. Our guide did not forget to show us the tomb of Agnes Sorel, the beautiful mistress of Charles VII. Two little angels kneel at her head, while her feet rest on two couchant lambs, symbols of innocence. The monument would have made an appropriate resting place for a martyred saint.

From Loches, we motored through a deep forest to the château of Montrésor, well protected on its rocky height by a double encircling wall, flanked with towers. Once within these formidable barriers, we were delighted with the pleasant grounds and green arbors above the valley of the Indrois. The building dates from the commencement of the sixteenth century, and was small enough to look more like a home than a palace. The concierge spoke of a distinguished Polish family who occupied it part of the year. This was the first "home château" we had seen. Everything looked livable; there was warmth and coziness and refinement in the different rooms. We felt almost like intruders into this domestic atmosphere. Some of the paintings were by great artists. One was Fleury's "The Massacre of the Poles at Warsaw," on April 8, 1861. There were rare specimens of antique furniture, and, most interesting of all, the "Treasury of the Kings of Poland," consisting in part of the large gold dish and silver soup tureen presented to John Sobieski by the city of Vienna, and of the silver-gilt services of Sobieski and of Sigismond II, King of Poland. The château has a rich collection of works of art and souvenirs relating to the history of Poland.

The Hôtel de France nearby spread before us a ménu so good that we confiscated the carte du jour as a souvenir.

Eagerly we looked forward to Chenonceaux, built on the Cher, most exquisite of the French châteaux and for centuries the rendezvous of wit and beauty. Motor cars lined the roadside by the gates of the park. Some of the visitors had driven in carriages from the nearest railway stations. We sauntered down an avenue of trees to a large garden, rather a formal piece of landscape work. The drawbridge offered access to the château. François I purchased it. Later, Henry II, ascending the throne, gave it to his mistress, Diane de Poitiers. The French women of that day had a big share in the shaping of history; the conversations of the boudoir were often more influential than state councils. Diane built a bridge which connected the castle with the other side of the river. Twelve years later, the death of Henry II gave his widow, Catherine de' Medici, a chance to relieve her embittered feelings. She forced Diane to exchange Chenonceaux for another château. Upon the bridge built by her rival, Catherine erected a long gallery, surmounted by a banqueting hall. This fairy-like structure is so strangely placed, one is reminded of a fantastic ship moored in the river. It is remarkable for its celebrated Renaissance architecture and for the absence of bloody traditions. "Blois is stained with the blood of Guise; Amboise was the scene of massacre; Loches stands upon unnumbered dungeons; Chenonceaux alone has no bloodstain on its stones and no groan has ever risen from its vaults. Eight generations of kings took their pleasure there, and a long line of brilliant and beautiful women makes its history like a rope of pearls." Even the gloomy, plotting Catherine did nothing to disturb the peaceful records and gorgeous fêtes of Chenonceaux. In the "chambre de Diane de Poitiers" we saw a painting representing Catherine. Those cold, brooding eyes looked capable of anything, from the murder of the Duc de Guise to the massacre of St. Bartholomew.

Two other châteaux of our itinerary still remained, Amboise and Blois, the latter perhaps the most famous of them all. We decided to visit these châteaux en route down the valley of Loire to Orléans. The following morning we bade farewell to Tours. The road swept us along the left bank of the Loire, all aglitter in the September sunshine. What a wonderful stream it is, the longest river in France, with its basin embracing one fourth of that country! There is not a river in the world like it. One feels the breath of romance, the spell of historical associations, the beauty of its curves sweeping through a smiling land. "Perhaps no stream, in so short a portion of its course, has so much history to tell."[6] Along its banks flourished for three centuries the court of the Valois kings. There are vineyards, the remains of mediæval forests, little villages that have scarcely changed in a hundred years, and splendid châteaux like those of Blois, Chaumont, Chambord, and Amboise, almost reflecting their towers in the water and rich in the wonders of the French Renaissance.

Of all the châteaux along the Loire, Amboise enjoys the finest situation. From across the river we could see this dark Gothic mass rising from its cliff-like walls to dominate the town and far-winding stream. The panorama from the high terrace is one of the indescribable views of France. The real treasure of Amboise is the exquisite Chapelle de Saint Hubert, due to Charles VIII. His artistic zeal was tragically interrupted. We saw the low doorway where, according to tradition, he struck his head and killed himself while hastening to play tennis. On the terrace is a bust of Leonardo da Vinci, who died here in 1519. The name of Catherine de' Medici is connected with a frightful scene that occurred in the courtyard. A Huguenot conspiracy to capture the youthful François II was discovered. The fierce Catherine not only witnessed the executions from a balcony, but insisted upon the company of her horrified daughter-in-law, Mary Stuart. Twelve hundred Huguenots were butchered. One writer[7] makes the following grim comment: "It was a long job, of course, to kill so many, and the company could hardly be expected to watch it all, but the noble victims were reserved for their special entertainment after dinner." Catherine seems to have had a peculiar fondness for these innocent and edifying spectacles. We descended the spiral roadway of the colossal tower up which Emperor Charles V rode on horseback when he visited François I. This inclined plane was so perfect and gradual that our motor car could have climbed it with ease.

Recrossing the Loire, we rode on to Blois for lunch at that famous hostelry, the Hôtel d'Angleterre, close by the river's edge. To the château of Blois belongs historical preëminence. This great castle was the center of French history in the sixteenth century. Elaborate and imposing, Blois recalls the splendor of the age as well as its crimes. Such fireplaces and such ceilings! The colors are crimson and gold. Amid this gloomy grandeur moved Catherine de' Medici. The memory of her presence alone is enough to make the air heavy with intrigue and murder, with all the passions that inflamed the religious wars. Joining the usual tourist crowd, we visited her apartments, including the bedroom where she died in 1589, at the age of seventy, the most infamous of French queens. To us, the strangest fact in the life of this fierce, blood-loving queen is that she was permitted to die a natural death. In one of the chambers were curious secret cupboards where she may have concealed her jewels. The floor above suggested a terribly realistic picture of the assassination of the Duc de Guise, whose popularity and influence had aroused the jealousy of Catherine and Henry III. The concierge explained all the tragic details. This was the salle du conseil, where, on the morning of the assassination, the duke was summoned by the queen to a council; that, the cabinet neuf, where the king remained while the fatal blows were being struck. And there, in the king's chamber, at the foot of the bed, the spot where the body lay when the king exclaimed, "He seems greater in death than in life."

CHAPTER XIV
ORLÉANS TO DIEPPE

Leaving the châteaux country, we proceeded to Orléans in the lower part of the Loire valley, spending the night at the Hôtel Saint Aignan. The general appearance of the city is prosperous and modern. The walls which once surrounded it have been turned into promenades. Everything in Orléans seems connected with Jeanne d'Arc. There is a bronze equestrian statue with bas-reliefs of the "Maid" who, clad in white armor, led her soldiers from victory to victory. We hope sometime to be present at the brilliant "Fête de Jeanne d'Arc," which is held every year on May 8, in commemoration of her raising the siege of Orléans in 1429. Small shops display postal cards representing scenes from her life. The Musée is filled with interesting souvenirs. In the cathedral, where the people worship her as a saint, we saw on the walls votive tablets bearing inscriptions of gratitude to her for recovery from sickness. In the same street is the "Maison de Jeanne d'Arc" where she was received by the Duc d'Orléans during the eventful siege. That morning was filled with an interesting series of historical sidelights.

From the vineyards of Touraine to the wheat fields of Normandy; the change was complete. Like an endless white ribbon, the road stretched straight through the vast plain of La Beauce, the granary of France. What far reaches of level fields! There were no telegraph poles, no hedges, no fences. We seemed to be moving through a strange solitude, empty of human face or habitation. The distant farmhouses and windmills were too much like specks on the horizon to seem real. There is, after all, no scenery to compare with the beauty of the lowlands, where every mood of heaven, every change of sky, is part of a wonderful picture. The weather, which was threatening when we left Orléans, now looked more and more like a storm. No shelter was in sight, nothing but the open country, the great dome of heaven, and the road ever narrowing ahead of us until its indistinct thread merged into a faint blur. Swift clouds took on a greenish, copper-colored hue, which deepened into black as they swirled toward us. Then the hailstones began to fall with a stinging force that increased with every movement. It was one of those furious hailstorms of northern France which are as characteristic of that region as the mistral is of the Midi. There were no mitigating influences. The wind was pitiless, untempered even by the shelter of a tree or barn. By stopping the car and crouching behind it, we secured a little protection from the biting blasts. The sun soon burst through the cloud barriers. We continued toward Chartres, stopping for a moment at a railway crossing to "kodak" a passing freight train.

The approach to Chartres was impressively picturesque. The double spires of its vast Gothic cathedral, growing more distinct, finally towered above the moat and the Porte Guillaume, the fourteenth-century gateway of the city. Our hotel, the Grand Monarque, gazed upon the turmoil of a village fair. The din was deafening. A merry-go-round added the blare of brazen music; several hand-organs were in discordant evidence. We mingled with the peasants around the small booths, and were almost enticed by a jolie paysanne into buying a pair of small sabots. Our ride in the small motor car of the merry-go-round was the dizziest burst of speed on our whole trip.

Little Chartres is overshadowed by its mighty cathedral. All interest concentrates there. Many consider it the finest in France. Every one would agree that the interior is incomparable. Nowhere can we find a more sublime expression of Gothic art. Those who fashioned this "sacred rock-work set to music" belong to the great unknown; their names are buried somewhere back in the early part of the thirteenth century when the cathedral was built. At least, they have given us a picture of their times; such structures could not be erected now. Our age is attuned to a different key; there are too many distracting influences. Then, there were no popular theaters, and few books or forms of amusement. The church was the natural center of thought and life. Only the religious inspiration of a people naturally artistic could have created the immortal works which the cathedral builders have bequeathed.

For a few miles outside of Chartres we were again on Route Nationale No. 10. The blue-and-white advertisements of various productions appeared close to the road signs. This is a common practice of the French advertisers, who wish to catch the eye of the voyageur. We had no idea there were so many different makes of pneus and chocolats. In the roadside hamlets the French advertiser makes use of the sides of barns and the corners of houses, but there is very little landscape advertising. Being Americans, we were impressed by this absence of disfiguring advertisements along the countryside in Normandy and other parts of France. The "Bull Durham" herd, so often found in American meadows, would not thrive in French pastures. It would be taxed out of existence.

Hardly had we sat down to lunch in the Hôtel du Grand Cerf of Nonancourt when there was a great shouting and beating of drums outside. A group of conscripts marched noisily by. They wore red, white, and blue cockades, and neckties of the same color, in curious contrast to their simple peasant dress. In accordance with the provincial custom, it was a day of feasting to signalize their admission to the army. In two weeks they were to leave their homes to begin the long, tedious period of military service. A young cuirassier whom we met in Limoges, and who had just completed his first year of service in the cavalry, related interesting experiences of life in the French army. The discipline is severe. The German soldier is not subjected to a more rigorous training. The rising hour is 5 a.m. in the spring, and 4 a.m. in the summer. There are long, exhausting marches. As often as two or three times a week the recruits are awakened in the middle of the night to make a long march. Life is made to conform as closely as possible to the conditions of actual war. A day's work of eighteen hours is not unusual. Naturally, this means hardship, but it also means good soldiers. The French army is very democratic. Rich and poor are treated alike. Both live together in the barracks. There are no privileges. Even if a recruit is wealthy, he is not allowed to keep a valet. Every man is his own domestic. The German army is not nearly so democratic. There, if the recruit has means, he can keep a servant and may live out of barracks in a comfortable apartment.

The conscripts whom we saw in Nonancourt were destined to anything but an easy, inactive life. For infantry as well as cavalry there is the same grueling routine. The three hours of drilling in the morning do not include gymnasium exercises for three-quarters of an hour. Such menial duties as peeling potatoes, or washing dishes and clothes, form part of the morning's work. The short noon respite is followed by three hours of military exercises. During this period of training the recruits receive only one cent a day, besides clothing, guns, and very simple fare. The term of service has recently been extended from two to three years, to offset the increases of the German army. The average age of enlistment is about eighteen years, an age when the American boy is entering college or laying the foundation for a business career. In comparison, the French boy is heavily handicapped. Even if his school days end at the age of sixteen, he can do little in business. The French business man does not think it worth while to prepare the boy for an important position, since his military service is so close at hand. France pays a terrible price for national security. The financial cost, burdensome though it is, is the smallest item. Frenchmen who have lived in the United States often speak of the great advantages enjoyed by the young American who can devote to his education or to his life work those three precious years which the French youth must give to the army.

Anatole France, the distinguished French writer, was among those who protested against the new military law. "This addition of a year to the conscription comes on us just when France is moving forward with a new energy, both in science and industry. It will be a grave blow to all our higher life. Medicine especially will be injured, for the medicine of the army is not the medicine of the civil state. French science requires the time of its young students, and that will be gravely curtailed. The demand for another army year from all young Frenchmen, imposed without any exemptions, will draw off the best from every field of life. It comes at a moment of great industrial development. It will check that development. It comes at a moment of expansion in our arts, especially in sculpture. It will be a heavy blow. Sculpture is not practiced on the battlefield."

We wonder if there is any help for Europe! How will it all end? So far as we can now foresee, the peace conference at The Hague, to have been held in 1915, has been indefinitely postponed. Instead of this gathering of the nations to establish some practical basis for limitation of armaments, there is the prospect of increased armaments. The burdens, already so crushing, are apparently only the prelude to what is coming. England is the pacemaker on the sea. Mr. Winston Churchill, in his recent speech before the House of Commons, urged that the naval budget for 1915 be raised to over a quarter billion dollars. He said: "The naval estimates for the next year are the largest in British history, $257,750,000. The causes which might lead to a general war have not been removed. The world is arming as it never armed before. All attempts at arresting it have been ineffectual." Germany is more than ever a nation in arms. At the present rate of increase, her standing army in time of peace will soon number more than a million men. France, which less than a year ago passed the Three Years' Service Bill, already faces the possible necessity of adding still another year to the term of military service.

Count Witte, the Russian statesman, has estimated that forty per cent of the total income of the great powers is absorbed by their armies and navies. He said: "Unless the great states which have set this hideous example agree to call a halt and to knit their subjects into a pacific, united Europe, war is the only issue I can perceive. And when I say war, I mean a conflict which will surpass in horror the most brutal armed conflicts known to human history, and entail distress more widespread and more terrible than living men can realize."

Russia is making sweeping military reforms. The disastrous war with Japan taught valuable lessons. The reorganization of the army includes vast increases of men, and especially the improvement in facilities of transportation. The railroad network in process of construction on her western frontier will probably be completed in 1915. When the plans of the Czar are realized in 1917, Russia will have one of the most formidable armies in the world, a war machine with a fighting strength of over four million men.

"Throughout Austria-Hungary there is just now a feeling of considerable dread of Russia's ulterior motives in a number of measures, military and otherwise, that are being discussed in political circles here. Of greatest moment in that connection is a short but vigorous speech made by the Hungarian premier, Count Tisza, before the Parliament. It was delivered while advocating the new army increase bill (since adopted by a large majority), which raises considerably the annual quota of recruits. After bewailing the necessity of imposing new burdens on a nation impoverished and already staggering under its load, he termed the contemplated increase in the fighting strength of the army an absolute necessity. 'The shadows of a coming big war are thrown ahead, and the losing side will forfeit its national life, or at least expect a painful amputation,' he cried."

In every country where we motored there was scarcely an hour which did not bring the sound of drums, the sight of barracks, of soldiers drilling or on the march. Whether in Germany, Austria, Italy, or France, there were the same sights of preparation for war. The sacrifices of peace in 1914 are hardly less exhausting than were the sacrifices of war in 1813.

"What a reflection on modern diplomacy the whole situation casts! A policy which men like Gray and Asquith have repeatedly characterized as one of madness, as one leading to bankruptcy, as one that makes a mockery of peace by throwing away half its benefits, is pursued because the diplomats can't agree on a plan of armament limitation. It is admitted that the frenzied rivalry in armament increase adds nothing to the relative strength of any power or group of powers, yet the frenzied rivalry continues at the expense of industry and constructive social and economical reforms. If the 'causes of a general war' in Europe have not been removed, what has diplomacy been doing and of what use are the alliances, the ententes, and understandings among the powers? Might not a little courage and boldness in pushing the armament-limitation idea and appealing to public, business, and democratic sentiment force the hands of the routine-ridden diplomats?"

For nearly twenty miles the road cut a white swath through the treeless plain of St. André to the cathedral town of Evreux. The wheat fields and cathedrals of Normandy should be mentioned in the same sentence. France, so full of the picturesque, has few finer sights than the view of these airy cathedral spires while one is still miles away from any town. We zigzagged into the valley of Iton, climbed, swooped downward, and crossing that hurrying stream, ran beside the river Eure into the main street of Louviers. The warning, "Allure modère," was unnecessary. The cobble stones were sufficient to make us slacken speed. The beauty of the church of Nôtre Dame served to stop us completely. The church, with its profuse embroidery of rich, delicate carving, shone like a jewel amid the motley and jumbled houses. It was like finding a rosebush blooming in the gutter of some neglected street. Through the forest of Pont de l'Arche to the town of the same name, where we crossed the Seine, past bright little Norman cottages, our route shot ahead to Rouen, the center of cotton manufacturing for France, the most interesting mediæval city in Normandy, and renowned the world over for splendid Gothic churches. After inspecting the rooms of two or three hotels, we chose the Hôtel d'Angleterre, close by the crowded traffic of the Seine.

Sight-seeing in Rouen is more convenient by carriage than by motor car. We moved from the abbey church of St. Ouen to the church of St. Maclou. If Europe had no other remains of Gothic art, Rouen would be enough to describe all the splendor of that style of architecture. The cathedral is a whole library of description in itself. Curious is the legend of the Tour de Beurre, built by money received from indulgences sold, and permitting the people to eat butter in Lent.

"At the base of the Tour St. Romain, there still stands the lodge of the porter whose duties from very early times right up to 1760, included the care of the fierce watchdogs who were at night let loose in the cathedral to guard its many precious treasures from robbers. How much would we give for a glimpse of one of those porters walking through the cavernous gloom of these echoing aisles, with his lamp throwing strange shadows from the great slouching dogs!"[8]

The central tower rises into a great spire of open iron work, more than one and a half times as high as the steeple of Trinity Church in New York. One seldom sees anything so quaintly picturesque as the little wooden cloister, Aître Saint-Maclou. From its courtyard, the burial ground for so many victims of the Black Death of 1348, one sees mediæval spires which rise in all directions. Another vivid reminder of the past is the archway of the Grosse Horloge, with its huge clock in colors of blue and gold and dating from the sixteenth century.

But the impressions of Rouen that thrilled us most related to the sad closing days of Jeanne d'Arc. At Orléans we saw her in the hour of victory, a young girl dictating to experienced generals, cutting her way through the English army around the city and bringing provisions and succor to the beleaguered inhabitants. Our cocher escorted us to the tower where, with instruments of torture around her, she faced and baffled her brutal inquisitors. In the old market place, the scene of her martyrdom, one is shown a simple slab which reads, "Jeanne d'Arc, 30 Mai, 1431." This marks the spot where she was burned at the stake.

The last lap of the trip, the ride to Dieppe on the English Channel, was past many large Norman farms. Neat haystacks dotted the rolling acres. Nowhere else had we seen so many horses,—big, powerful creatures. Normandy breeds and exports them. Apple orchards were in constant view. Coasting down a long hill into the city, we left the car in the garage of the Grand Hôtel, and joined an enthusiastic crowd which was watching a football game between Dieppe and Rouen.

The new France is keenly interested in sports and games. In 1912 there was held in Paris the International Congress for Physical Culture, the idea being to impress upon the young the need for physical development. The extent to which the idea of physical culture has captured France will be evident from the following figures: in 1896 the various athletic societies had less than fifty thousand members; to-day, they have more than three hundred thousand members. France has indeed entered upon a new era. The chief characteristic of it is not literary but practical, self-assertive, and everywhere for action. The young Frenchman of to-day is more interested in sports than in art or literature. A French professor recently said: "I have lived my life in my library. There I have passed through my intellectual crises. There I have experienced my most fervent emotions. In the lives of my sons I notice that books play a very little part, or if they read, it is biography, and especially the biography of men of action like Napoleon."

Now comes the pang of keen regret. We are close to the end. These weeks of unmingled joy stand around us like a group of friends, as if to stay our leaving. Four thousand miles of motoring, in five countries, and without an accident! Our car has taken on personality. Here, climbing a mountain to the very summit whose far-away vistas held us enchanted, or rushing down on the other side, we skirted some quiet lake that lay embosomed in its own loveliness; there, a wild glen with its mysterious depths beckoning us to halt! We have seen the peasantry, as in France, looked upon their quaint costumes and customs, and caught the simple melody of their songs. We have gone close to palaces, and wondered whether prince or peasant were the happier. We have seen châteaux that were tragedies and cathedrals that were poems. We have seen the conscripts file slowly past, each surrendering three years of the most important period of his life. Then, we have contrasted a nation as a military camp with our own great republic, without a large standing army, but safe. And now, homeward bound to the freest land beneath the sun, America!

CHAPTER XV
EXPENSES AND SUGGESTIONS

The purchase of the car at the Benz factory in Mannheim, Germany, plunged us at once into a maze of police regulations. It was necessary to secure a driving license. With us in the United States this is hardly more than a matter of routine. Not so in Germany, where the examination is really a formidable affair. It is especially difficult for a foreigner to secure a driving license. He may be able to give evidence proving that he has driven a car for years in his own country. This fact makes no difference. It is not even taken into consideration. Every possible opportunity is given the candidate to make mistakes, and thus to prove that he is not qualified to receive the desired certificate. No detail of motormanship is overlooked. There is an age requirement of eighteen years. First came the physical examination. Then it was necessary to spend two hours a day in the shop for five and a half weeks so as to become thoroughly acquainted with the various parts of the motor car. The candidate is given an opportunity to see motor cars taken apart and put together. In this way he is made familiar with the use and purpose of every part of the car. The crucial test begins when he is called upon to show his skill as chauffeur. It is customary to drive one hundred miles in the city and surrounding country. The official police inspector who accompanies him is resourceful in his tests. Under his supervision the car is driven through crowded streets, and made to back up and turn around in difficult places,—in fact, to meet all the emergencies of motor travel. Even after the examination has been passed successfully, there is a delay of several days before the license is given the final stamp of official approval. The license for which we made application on February 22 was not secured until April 10. It cost one hundred marks (about twenty-five dollars). Of this amount, one half goes to the state and the balance to the shop giving the candidate his instruction in motor-car mechanics. The inspector receives ten dollars for his services. There is also a customary charge of one dollar and a half for the number plate.

Americans who have lived for a considerable time in Germany are always impressed with the numerous occasions when the state interferes in the private life of the individual; the foreign motorist is no exception to this rule of coming at once into contact with the state. He no sooner crosses the frontier than the state compels him to pay a tax. Even though he remains in the country but a single day, he is forced to secure a tax license which costs three marks (about seventy-five cents). These tax licenses are issued to cover periods of from one to ninety days, the license good for three months costing fifty marks. If one remains longer than ninety days it is necessary to renew this license or Steuerkarte. The annual tax on motor cars varies according to the power of the car. A car of 13.9 horse power (German rating) would be taxed one hundred and twenty marks. The German tax net spreads everywhere. At the time of our sojourn in that country the city of Munich was considering the introduction of a tax on cats. Such a tax would without doubt be the first of its kind in the world. In southern Germany the small towns still continue to exact imposts of ten pfennigs (three cents) from the motor cars passing over their roads. In spite of the complaint that this tax is a serious obstacle to trade and traffic, there is no immediate prospect of its being removed. France, in contrast to Germany, does not subject the foreign motorist to a tax unless his sojourn exceeds a period of four months.

The annual dues of the Rheinische Automobile Club amounted to forty marks. Membership in an organization of this kind is necessary to secure the triptyques which are so indispensable to the motorist whose itinerary includes several countries of Europe. The usefulness of this important document has been described so often that we do not feel called upon to make further comment here. Our international driving permit based upon the special license issued by the state was also secured for a small fee from the automobile club above mentioned.

Among the incidental expenses, the cost of repairs is apt to figure largely, particularly when one is motoring along mountain highways. Such services are much cheaper in Europe than in the United States. In our case the item was so small as to be almost negligible. The car was so carefully overhauled and inspected before leaving the factory that we suffered little inconvenience or delay. Our tire troubles were limited to a single puncture. Continental tires in the rear and Excelsior in the front gave excellent service. Notwithstanding the wear and tear of mountain motoring, we found it necessary to use only one of the two reserve tires.

Gasoline was everywhere obtainable. In Germany and France the price is about thirty-seven cents a gallon, but in Austria and Spain it is much higher, generally approximating eighty cents a gallon. In Italy, where bargaining is necessary, the price usually dropped from eighty cents to less than forty-eight cents a gallon. A Bosch magneto greatly increased the speed and climbing ability of the car, and enabled us to average about twenty-one miles to every gallon of gasoline. In France the cost of this necessary article is not fixed. Neighboring towns often showed a difference of several cents in the cost per gallon. But although the price is not uniform, the fine quality is, and always gave excellent results. As a part of our equipment we carried as reserve a five-gallon sealed can of gasoline and a similar quantity of oil. On these it was occasionally necessary to pay a duty of a couple of cents at the numerous octroi stations in France. The inconvenience of these imposts was usually more burdensome than the amount of the tax. For our oil, which would have cost about forty cents a gallon in the United States, we averaged one dollar and ten cents a gallon.

Our hotel bills were not high. We had expected to find them much higher. Two dollars or two dollars and a half was sufficient as a rule to cover dinner, chamber, and breakfast. For instance, our rooms at the Hôtel de France cost one dollar each, the dinner table d'hôte seventy-five cents each, and breakfast thirty cents, the usual prices which secured us satisfactory accommodations nearly everywhere in France. Every hotel had its garage, a fact which we did not always find to be true of the hotels in Germany. The garage was often not much more than a shed or lean-to, but it always offered the shelter and protection necessary for our one-or two-night stops. Sometimes there was a garage charge of one franc (nineteen and one half cents) a day, but this was exceptional. If the car was washed we were expected to pay from thirty-five to fifty cents for this extra service. The scale of prices in Germany and Austria was possibly twenty per cent higher, but nowhere was there any attempt to take advantage of the fact that we were foreigners.

The motor tourist is such a familiar sight abroad that the stopping of a motor car before a provincial hotel does not excite unusual interest. It is rather an everyday occurrence, an accustomed detail of the day's routine. France especially, more than any other country in Europe, has become a land of motor tourists. The large well-to-do class turns naturally to motoring for recreation and diversion.

The Frenchman practices thrift in his hours of leisure and travel as well as in his business. This fact probably explains in great part the comparatively low level of hotel charges to be found in that country. Contrary to the popular idea, there are not two sets of charges, one for the European and a higher one for the American. We were never expected to pay for services that were not rendered in more than ample measure. On the contrary, we had daily opportunities to observe the effort made to give us the best possible service for the prices charged. This was true not only of the hotels but of the restaurants as well. Of course, for a dollar a day we did not expect to have a chambre de luxe. It is really a constant surprise to see how much one can get in the way of clean, comfortable rooms and appetizing meals for a small outlay.

France is a country by itself in this respect. There is perhaps no country where the traveler can get so much for his money. In no other land of Europe can one motor so cheaply. It is always possible to avoid the big towns as sleeping places and at meal times, and yet run no risk of not enjoying the finest cooking and a comfortable night's lodging. Austria is the most expensive country for the motorist. Spain and central and southern Italy are so little patronized by motor traffic that they do not need to be included in our comparison.

The consideration of incidental expenses brings us to the question of tipping, without doubt the most perplexing and the most misunderstood of all the problems that confront the foreign motorist in Europe. Long before his steamer touches the shore of the Old World, he has visions of an extended line of servants standing with outstretched hands to receive the expected shower of coins. For the majority of tourists it is almost an ordeal to leave a European hotel. How often we have heard the question, "What shall I give?" The average American has such an instinctive sense of fairness, of wanting to do the right thing, that a matter of this kind assumes an importance out of all proportion to the value of the tip. He is willing to be liberal; on the other hand, he is not eager to pose as a philanthropic and charitable institution created to satisfy the needs of every hotel employee who says "Guten Tag" or "Bon jour" to him when he enters the hotel. The trouble is that in borrowing this custom from Europe we have so Americanized it that we find it difficult to get the European viewpoint and to adapt ourselves readily to the practice as it exists to-day across the water. The American voyageur is so accustomed to doing things in a large way that it is not easy for him to appreciate the European system of small percentages. His common mistake is to give larger tips than are expected and overlook the small tips which do not seem to be so important. He hesitates to give a small tip, and in such cases would prefer to give none at all.

We have read somewhere the story of a Frenchman who was visiting the United States for the first time. He ate a sixty-cent meal in a New York restaurant. Following the custom in Paris, he left five per cent of the bill, three cents, for the waiter. Many of us could probably confess to an equal uncertainty and helplessness in the presence of our first tipping experience in Europe. Baedeker's classic rule of ten per cent of the total amount of the bill seems strangely inadequate when a traveler has stayed only one night at a hotel and finds that his bill is about two dollars. The problem of dividing twenty cents so that every one will be satisfied is a task that he would willingly turn over to somebody else. As a matter of fact, while there is no arbitrary rule, it does not take long to discover that the pourboire and Trinkgeld are fixed and permanent institutions, as solid in their reality as the Credit Lyonnais or the Reichsbank. One is expected to give at least something, even if the service rendered has been merely nominal. The French and German systems of coinage, with their 5-centime and 10-pfennig pieces, fit in so conveniently to the European standards of tipping. Judging from our experience, the tourist will be most quickly at ease who observes the custom as it is practiced by the inhabitants of the country, and then makes his own scale of tips slightly larger. Foreigners are expected to be a little more liberal. The quality of service received will ordinarily more than compensate for this slight increase. In Valence, where we stayed only one night, the bill, including chamber, dinner, and breakfast, amounted to twenty francs for two people. Our tips were itemized as follows: