The Maid of Honour (Historical Novel). Wingfield Lewis

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      CHAPTER IV.

      THE CHATEAU OF "LORGE."

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      In Touraine, midway between Tours and Blois, the venerable chateau of Lorge stands out from a wooded background, bathing its feet in the swiftly flowing Loire, morosely contemplating the details of its grim reflection. Profoundly interesting from an archæological point of view, the historic pile is not a lively dwelling, and it is no wonder that the jolly old maréchal should have ungrudgingly passed it to his daughter. Privileged to occupy a place in one of the most smiling provinces of France, it is within a drive of Amboise on one side and Chinon on the other, dignified castles both; and not very far away is Diane de Poictier's Chenonceaux, whimsically spanning a river, a specimen of elfin architecture straight from fairyland. Lorge dates from the iron period; not the time of prehistoric man, who had recently blossomed out of monkeydom, but of the early mediæval barons, who slept in their armour--as they still do on their tombs--whose pet pastimes were the cleaving of pates and the quaffing of usquebaugh.

      With the march of centuries Amboise, Chinon, and the rest found it advisable to polish themselves up, and modify their native harshness to be in touch with less rugged epochs; but no coaxing ingenuity of architect or landscape gardener could ever smooth the frown from the frowning face of Lorge. It seemed to say with pride, "The darkest and most cruel deeds have been perpetrated within my walls. Down below I have smothered the cries for mercy of weak women outraged, and children brutally maltreated. My favourite music is the clank of steel. I was baptised with blood, whose reek may never fade, whose stain may never be effaced."

      You cannot make a junketting house out of a fortress, and Lorge, despite changes, is a fortress still. On the façade, defended by the river, are the stately reception rooms, opening one into the other in a string; a long suite which occupies the first floor, whose heavily mullioned casements are large enough to permit the sun to gild the antique hangings. Each of these windows is adorned by a ponderous stone balcony, which can be used for purposes of defence. The other sides of the edifice seem blank and blind, the high enclosing walls being unbroken, save by a dentilated series of merlons and crenels, with cruciform embrasures below, The chambers on these sides are particularly depressing to the spirits, since they afford no prospect, save a bare paved court with the enclosing wall beyond.

      Courageous chatelaines, striving after cheerfulness, have made efforts from time to time to brighten Lorge. The drawbridge and portcullis, which jealously barred the entrance, have been removed from the double archway and replaced by wooden doors. The moat which guarded the three sides landward, with a defensive wall along the outer bank, has become a garden with trim green slopes, and a wealth of glorious roses. The ends that used to join the river have been walled up, and adorned with flights of steps which lead to decaying boat-houses. Private posterns, drilled in the masonry, afford easy access from the courtyard to the moat-pleasaunce for such as may possess the keys; but in spite of every effort, the flowering hedges and rose-bushes only serve by contrast to make Lorge more dreary--a skull bedecked with flowers. One specially brave lady had the hardihood once to plan great gardens in the Dutch style beyond the moat, on the other side of the road. There were long alleys of clipped yew and beech; tonelles or arched bowers to give grateful shade; a procession of weird animals, fashioned of holly, that cast fantastic shadows on the sward; oblong tanks where swans serenely sailed, steering among isles of water-lily. But no subsequent chatelaine was sturdy enough to carry on the hopeless war. The alleys were soon choked, the tonelles grew into thickets, the mimic menagerie degenerated into ragged rows of bushes. By the time the maréchal inherited, there was no place devoted to flowers except the moat-pleasaunce, and even that was sadly neglected.

      Though you see them not, dank dungeons honeycomb the foundations. There are noisome cells on the level of the water-line that may at will be flooded. You know that they are there, although some lord with tender nerves fastened them up long since. There they are, under your feet, audibly crooning their low song of woe unmerited, of dumb despair, of remorseless cruelty. The ancient implements of torture that still ornament the wainscot of the banquet-hall take up their parable, and sing. Time does not still that wailing chaunt which tells of robbery, and tyranny, and persecution. No skill may exorcise the train of shades, undone for greed or lust, or victims for conscience' sake, who parade the corridors of Lorge.

      Not but what it has charms of its own: a plaintive sweetness set in a minor key. The view across the Loire in summer time of emerald woodland is superb. The long drawing-rooms overlooking the stream are of stately proportions. Their immense overhanging chimney-pieces are blazoned with coats of arms sculptured in the stone. Carved crests are repeated again and again in the fretted ceilings. The tapestries, with their shadowy story of mad King Charles the Sixth and his treacherous wife, and the faithful girl, Odette, with their warm background of dimmed gold, have been pronounced by experts to be priceless. The little boudoir at the end which closes the suite is a dainty and cosy nest. Than the country round nothing can be more delightful; you may ride for hours unchecked amid the leafy woods over a velvet carpet; or you may boat and explore the erratic sinuosities of the river, dreaming out epics as you go anent the lordly, but for the most part empty, dwellings that look down on you from either bank. As an irreverent Parisian visitor once observed to a horror-stricken neighbour, "Lorge would be a charming séjour if one might pull down the castle and erect instead a villa."

      At the time which occupies us there was but one near neighbour resident. The Chateau de Montbazon was not much more than a mile away, having been built on a little bit of Lorge property beyond the Loire, which had changed hands one night at cards. The spot commanded an exceptionally fine prospect, so the owner placed a house on it. It was bought a generation later by the Baron de Vaux, who dwelt there with his wife and daughter, Angelique, and great was the СКАЧАТЬ