zac was born; I've photographed the Balzac
medallion; I've stuffed my trunks with illustrated editions of Balzac's
books; and I've gone to see everything I could find, which he ever spoke
about. His _Cure de Tours_ is the most harrowing story I ever read; and
the strange little house in the shadow of the cathedral, with one of the
great buttresses planting its enormous foot in the wee garden,
fascinates me. There lived the horrible Mademoiselle Gamard, and there,
with her, lodged the wicked Cure, and the poor, good little Cure, over
whose childlike, gentle stupidity and agony I half cried my eyes out
last night. But Balzac's French discourages me. He must have had a
wonderful vocabulary. I am always finding words on every page which I
never saw before.

I don't like cathedrals much as a rule, unless there's something really
extraordinary about them; but I love the big, grey, Gothic cathedral of
Tours. It seems a different grey from any other, not cold and
forbidding, but warm and very soft, as if it were made of sealskin. I
suppose that is partly the effect of the beautiful carvings of the tall,
tall front. I feel as if I should like to smooth and caress it with my
hand. And it is beautiful inside. Somehow it is so individual that it
gives you a welcome, as if it meant to be your friend.

The streets of _old_ Tours are so intricate that Aunt Mary and I would
never have known where to go, but Brown, who has been here before, has
guided us everywhere. He took us to see the house of Tristan the Hermit,
and an adorable little convent, which is called the Petit St. Martin,
with lovely Renaissance carving, and actually a _tilleul_. He showed us
the oldest house in Tours, the quaintest building you could imagine,
standing on a corner, with lots of other very old houses on the same
street. And the Charlemagne Tower--I'm not sure, but I liked that the
best of all--and a marvellous fourteenth-century house, a perfect
lacework of carving, which has been restored, and is called the Maison
Gouin, after the rich man who lives in it. Oh, I forgot to tell you,
I have bought your favourite _Quentin Durward_, and am sandwiching
him with Balzac. Reading him over again in this country was Brown's
idea for me, and I'm obliged to him for the "tip." Speaking of tips
reminds me I really ought to give _him_ one--a very large one, I'm sure.
And yet it will be awkward offering it, I'm afraid. I know I shall
stammer and be an idiot generally; but