But Mr. Molloy claims for Amboise something rarer in France than
loveliness or romance, something which no French town has ever yet
been known to possess,--a slumberous and soul-satisfying silence.
"We dropped under the very walls of the Castle," he writes, "without
seeing a soul. It was a strange contrast to Blois in its absolute
stillness. There was no sound but the noise of waters rushing through
the arches of the bridge. It might have been the palace of the
Sleeping Beauty, but was only one of the retrospective cities that
had no concern with the present."

Quiet brooded over the ivied towers and ancient water front.
Tranquillity, unconcern, a gentle and courteous aloofness
surrounded and soothed the intrepid travellers. When, in the early
morning, the crew pushed off in their frail boat, less than a dozen
citizens assembled to watch the start. Even the peril of the
performance (and there are few things more likely to draw a crowd
than the chance of seeing four fellow mortals drown) failed to awaken
curiosity. Nine men stood silent on the shore when the outrigger shot
into the swirling river, and it is the opinion of the chronicler that
Amboise "did not often witness such a gathering." Nine quiet men were,
for Amboise, something in the nature of a mob.

It must be remembered that Mr. Molloy's book is not a new one; but
then Touraine is neither new nor mutable. Nothing changes in its
beautiful old towns, the page of whose history has been turned for
centuries. What if motors now whirl in a white dust through the heart
of France? They do not affect the lives of the villages through which
they pass. The simple and primitive desire of the motorist is to be
fed and to move on, to be fed again and to move on again, to sleep
and to start afresh. That unavoidable waiting between trains which
now and then compelled an old-time tourist to look at a cathedral
or a chateau, by way of diverting an empty hour, no longer retards
progress. The motorist needs never wait. As soon as he has eaten,
he can go,--a privilege of which be gladly avails himself. A month
at Amboise taught us that, at the feeding-hour, motors came flocking
like fowls, and then, like fowls, dispersed. They were disagreeable
while they lasted, but they never lasted long. Replete with a
five-course luncheon, their fagged and grimy occupants sped on to
distant towns and dinner.

But why should we, who knew well that there is not, and never has
been, a quiet c