CHAPTER XV.

BERRY AND GEORGE SAND'S COUNTRY

Whether one enters Berry through the valley of the Cher or the Indre or through the gateway of Sancerre in the mid-Loire, the impression is much the same. The historic province of Berry resounds again and again with the echoes of its past, and no province adjacent to the Loire is more prolific in the things that interest the curious, and none is so little known as the old province which was purchased for the Crown by Philippe I. in 1101.

With the interior of the province, that portion which lies away from the river valleys, this book has little to do, though the traveller through the region would hardly omit the episcopal city of Bourges, and its great transeptless cathedral, with its glorious front of quintupled portals. With the cathedral may well be coupled that other great architectural monument, the Maison de Jacques Coeur. At Paris one is asked, "_Avez-vous vu le Louvre?_" but at Bourges it is always, "_Etes-vous alle a Jacques Coeur?_" even before one is asked if he has seen the cathedral.

From the hill which overlooks Sancerre, and forms a foundation for the still existing tower of the chateau belonging to the feudal Counts of Sancerre, one gets one of the most wonderfully wide-spread views in all the Loire valley. The height and its feudal tower stand isolated, like a rock rising from the ocean. From Cosne and beyond, on the north, to La Charite, on the south, is one vast panorama of vineyard, wheat-field, and luxuriant river-bottom. At a lesser distance, on the right bank, is the line of the railroad which threads its way like a serpent around the bends of the river and its banks.

Below the hill of Sancerre is a huge overgrown hamlet--and yet not large enough to be called a village--surrounding a most curious church (St. Satur), without either nave or apse. The old Abbey of St. Satur once possessed all the lands in the neighbourhood that were not in the actual possession of the Counts of Sancerre, and was a power in the land, as were most of the abbeys throughout France. The church was begun in 1360-70, on a most elaborate plan, so extensive in fact (almost approaching that great work at La Charite) that it has for ever remained uncompleted. The history of this little churchly suburb of Sancerre has been most interesting. The great Benedictine church was never finished and has since come to be somewhat of a ruin. In 1419 the English sacked the abbey and stole its treasure to the very last precious stone or piece of gold. A dozen flatboats were anchored or moored to the banks of the river facing the abbey, and the monks were transported thither and held for a ransom of a thousand crowns each. As everything had already been taken by their captors, the monks vainly protested that they had no valuables with which to meet the demand, and accordingly they were bound hand and foot and thrown into the river, to the number of fifty-two, eight only escaping with their lives. A bloody memory indeed for a fair land which now blossoms with poppies and roses.

Sancerre, in spite of the etymology of its name (which comes down from Roman times--Sacrum Caesari), is of feudal origin. Its fortress, and the Comte as well, were under the suzerainty of the Counts of Champagne, and it was the stronghold and refuge of many a band of guerilla warriors, adventurers, and marauding thieves.

At the end of the twelfth century a certain Comte de Sancerre, at the head of a coterie of bandits called Brabacons, marched upon Bourges and invaded the city, killing all who crossed their path, and firing all isolated dwellings and many even in the heart of the city.

Sancerre was many times besieged, the most memorable event of this nature being the attack of the royalists in 1573 against the Frondeurs who were shut up in the town. The defenders were without artillery, but so habituated were they to the use of the _fronde_ that for eight months they were able to hold the city against the foe. From this the _fronde_ came to be known as the "_arquebuse de Sancerre_."

Sancerre is to-day a ruined town, its streets unequal and tortuous, all up and down hill and blindly rambling off into _culs-de-sac_ which lead nowhere. Above it all is the fine chateau, built in a modern day after the Renaissance manner, of Mlle. de Crussol, proudly seated on the very crest of the hill. Within the grounds, the only part of the domain which is free to the public, are the ruins of the famous citadel which was bought by St. Louis, in 1226, from the Comte Thibaut. The only portion of this feudal stronghold which remains to-day is known as the "Tour des Fiefs."

One may enter the grounds and, in the company of a _concierge_, ascend to the platform of this lone tower, whence a wonderful view of the broad "_ruban lumineux_" of the Loire spreads itself out as if fluttering in the wind, northward and southward, as far as the eye can reach. Beside it one sees another line of blue water, as if it were a strand detached from the broader band. This is the Canal Lateral de la Loire, one of those inland waterways of France which add so much to the prosperity of the land.

Above Sancerre is Gien, another gateway to Berry, through which the traveller from Paris through the Orleannais is bound to pass.

At a distance of five kilometres or more, coming from the north, one sees the towers of the chateau of Gien piercing the horizon. The chateau is a most curious affair, with its chainbuilt blocks of stone, and its red and black--or nearly black--_brique_, crossed and recrossed in quaint geometrical designs. It was built in 1494 for Dame Anne de Beaujeau, who was regent of the kingdom immediately after the death of Charles VIII. This building replaced another of a century before, built by Jean-sans-Peur, where was celebrated the marriage of his daughter with the Comte de Guise. Gien's chateau, too, may be said to be a landmark on Jeanne d'Arc's route to martyrdom and fame, for here she made her supplication to Charles VII. to march on Reims. In Charlemagnian times this old castle had a predecessor, which, however, was more a fortress than a habitable chateau; but all remains of this had apparently disappeared before the later structure made its appearance. Louis XIV. and Anne of Austria, regent, held a fugitive, impoverished court in this chateau, and heard with fear and trembling the cannon-shots of the armies of Turenne and Conde at Bleneau, five leagues distant.

At Nevers or at La Charite one does not get the view of the Loire that he would like, for, in one case, the waterway is masked by a row of houses, and in the other by a series of walled gardens; but at Gien, where everything is splendidly theatrical, there is a tree-bordered quay and innumerable examples of those coquettish little houses of brick which are not beautiful, but which set off many a French riverside landscape as nothing else will.

In Gien's main street there are a multitude of rare mellowed old houses with sculptured fronts and high gables. This street twists and turns until it reaches the old stone and brick chateau, with its harmoniously coloured walls, making a veritable symphony of colour. Each turn in this old high-street of Gien gives a new vista of mediaevalism quite surprising and eerielike, as fantastic as the weird pictures of Dore.

Gien and its neighbour Briare are chiefly noted commercially for their pottery. Gien makes crockery ware, and Briare inundates the entire world with those little porcelain buttons which one buys in every land.

Crossing the Sologne and entering Berry from the capital of the Orleannais, or coming out from Tours by the valley of the Cher, one comes upon the little visited and out-of-the-way chateau of Valencay, in the charming dainty valley of the Nahon.

There is some reason for its comparative neglect by the tourist, for it is on a cross-country railway line which demands quite a full day of one's time to get there from Tours and get away again to the next centre of attraction, and if one comes by the way of the Orleannais, he must be prepared to give at least three days to the surrounding region.

This is the gateway to George Sand's country, but few English-speaking tourists ever get here, so it may be safely called unknown.

It is marvellous how France abounds in these little corners all but unknown to strangers, even though they lie not far off the beaten track. The spirit of exploration and travel in unknown parts, except the Arctic regions, Thibet, and the Australian desert, seems to be dying out.

The chateau of Valencay was formerly inhabited by Talleyrand, after he had quitted the bishopric of Autun for politics. It is seated proudly upon a vast terrace overlooking one of the most charming bits of the valley of the Nahon, and is of a thoroughly typical Renaissance type, built by the great Philibert Delorme for Jacques d'Etampes in 1540, and only acquired by the minister of Napoleon and Louis XVIII. in 1805.

The architect, in spite of the imposing situation, is not seen at his best here, for in no way does it compare with his masterwork at Anet, or the Tuileries. The expert recognizes also the hands of two other architects, one of the Blaisois and the other of Anjou, who in some measure transformed the edifice in the reign of Francois I.

The enormous donjon,--if it is a donjon,--with its great, round corner tower with a dome above, which looks like nothing so much as an observatory, is perhaps the outgrowth of an earlier accessory, but on the whole the edifice is fully typical of the Renaissance.

The court unites the two widely different terminations in a fashion more or less approaching symmetry, but it is only as a whole that the effect is highly pleasing.

Beyond a _balustrade a jour_ is the Jardin de la Duchesse, communicating with the park by a graceful bridge over an ornamental water. In general the apartments are furnished in the style of the First Empire, an epoch memorable in the annals of Valencay.

By the orders of Napoleon many royalties and ambassadors here received hospitality, and in 1808-14 it became a gilded cage--or a "golden prison," as the French have it--for the Prince of the Asturias, afterward Ferdinand VII. of Spain, who consoled himself during his captivity by constructing wolf-traps in the garden and planting cauliflowers in the great urns and vases with which the terrace was set out.

There is a great portrait gallery here, where is gathered a collection of portraits in miniature of all the sovereigns who treated with Talleyrand during his ministerial reign, among others one of the Sultan Selim, painted from life, but in secret, since the reproduction of the human form is forbidden by the Koran.

In the Maison de Charite, in the town, beneath the pavement of the chapel, is found the tomb of the family of Talleyrand, where are interred the remains of Talleyrand and of Marie Therese Poniatowska, sister of the celebrated King of Poland who served in the French army in 1806. In this chapel also is a rare treasure in the form of a chalice enriched with precious stones, originally belonging to Pope Pius VI., the gift of the Princess Poniatowska.

The Pavillon de la Garenne,--what in England would be called a "shooting-box,"--a rendezvous for the chase, built by Talleyrand, is some distance from the chateau on the edge of the delightful little Foret de Gatine.

Varennes, just above Valencay, is thought by the average traveller through the long gallery of charms in the chateau country to be wholly unworthy of his attention. As a matter of fact, it does not possess much of historical or artistic interest, though its fine old church dates from the twelfth century.

Ascending the Cher from its juncture with the Loire, one passes a number of interesting places. St. Aignan, with its magnificent Gothic and Renaissance chateau; Selles; Romorantin, a dead little spot, dear as much for its sleepiness as anything else; Vierzon, a rich, industrial town where they make locomotives, automobiles, and mechanical hay-rakes, copying the most approved American models; and Mehun-sur-Yevre, all follow in rapid succession.

Mehun-sur-Yevre, which to most is only a name and to many not even that, is possessed of two architectural monuments, a grand ruin of a Gothic fortress of the time of Charles VII. and a feudal gateway of two great rounded cone-roofed towers, bound by a ligature through which a port-cullis formerly slid up and down like an act-drop in a theatre.

Wonderfully impressive all this, and the more so because these magnificent relics of other days are unspoiled and unrestored.

Charles VII. was by no means constant in his devotions, it will be recalled, though he seems to have been seriously enamoured of Agnes Sorel--at any rate while she lived. Afterward he speedily surrounded himself with a galaxy of "_belles demoiselles vetues comme reines_." They followed him everywhere, and he spent all but his last sou upon them, as did some of his successors.

One day Charles VII. took refuge in the strong towers of the chateau of Mehun-sur-Yevre, which he himself had built and which he had frequently made his residence. Here he died miserable and alone,--it is said by history, of hunger. Thus another dark chapter in the history of kings and queens was brought to a close.

If one has the time and so desires, he may follow the Indre, the next confluent of the Loire south of the Cher, from Loches to "George Sand's country," as literary pilgrims will like to think of the pleasant valleys of the ancient province of Berry.

The history of the province before and since Philippe I. united it with the Crown of France was vivid enough to make it fairly well known, but on the whole it has been very little travelled. It is essentially a pastoral region, and, remembering George Sand and her works, one has refreshing memories of the idyls of its prairies and the beautiful valleys of the Indre and the Cher, which join their waters with the Loire near Tours.

If one would love Berry as one loves a greater and more famous haunt of a famous author, and would prepare in advance for the pleasure to be received from threading its highways and byways, he should read those "_petits chefs-d'oeuvre_ of sentiment and rustic poesy", the romances of George Sand. If he has done this, he will find almost at every turning some long familiar spot or a peasant who seems already an old friend.

Chateauroux is the real gateway to the country of George Sand.

Nohant is the native place of the great authoress, Madame Dudevant, whom the world best knows as George Sand; a little by-corner of the great busy world, loved by all who know it. Far out in the open country is the little station at which one alights if he comes by rail. Opposite is a "_petite route_" which leads directly to the banks of the Indre, where it joins the highway to La Chatre.

Nohant itself, as a dainty old-world village, is divine. Has not George Sand expressed her love of it as fervidly as did Marie Antoinette for the Trianon? The French call it a "_bon et honnete petit village berrichon_." Nude of artifice, it is deliciously unspoiled. A delightful old church, with a curious wooden porch and a parvise as rural as could possibly be, not even a cobblestone detracting from its rustic beauty, is the principal thing which strikes one's eye as he enters the village. Chickens and geese wander about, picking here and there on the very steps of the church, and no one says them nay.

The house of George Sand is just to the right of the church, within whose grounds one sees also the pavilion known to her as the "_theatre des marionettes_."

In a corner of the poetic little cemetery at Nohant, one sees among the humble crosses emerging from the midst of the verdure, all weather-beaten and moss-grown, a plain, simple stone, green with mossy dampness, which marks the spot where reposes all that was mortal of George Sand. Here, in the midst of this land which she so loved, she still lives in the memory of all; at the house of the well-lettered for her abounding talent--second only to that of Balzac--and in the homes of the peasants for her generous fellowship.

Through her ancestry she could and did claim relationship with Charles X. and Louis XVIII.; but her life among her people had nought of pretence in it. She was born among the roses and to the sound of music, and she lies buried amid all the rusticity and simple charm of what may well be called the greenwood of her native land.