obscure but
splendid genius who planned the house as something between a fortified
castle and an Italian palace; showed them the H entwined with a crescent
on those parts of the house that were built by Henry the Second; and
sketched the history of the place, talking about Marshal Saxe, Stanislas
of Poland, the Revolution of 1792, and the subsequent tenancy of
Berthier. I can tell you that when once I was started, the
absinthe-driver was bowled over. I simply sprawled all over Chambord,
talked for once as well as I knew how, directed all my remarks to Miss
Randolph, who--"though I say it as shouldn't"--seemed dazzled by my
fireworks. An English girl must have been struck with the incongruity of
a hired mechanic spouting French history like a public lecturer, but
she, I think, only put it down to some difference in the standard of
English education. Anyhow, the Frenchman was done for, and Miss Randolph
and I plunged into an interesting talk, shunting the new acquaintance
upon Aunt Mary. As she can speak no French and he no English, they must
have had a "Jack-Sprat-and-his-wife" experience.

For that happy hour while we wandered through the echoing-rooms of
Chambord, climbed the wonderful double staircase, and walked about the
intricate roof, I was no longer James Brown, the hired mechanic, but
John Winston, private gentleman and man at large, with a taste for
travel. There came a horrid wrench when I had to remember that I had
chosen to make myself one of the unclassed, one of the "others." The
autumnal twilight was falling; we had to get to Blois on a car that
might commit any atrocity at any instant. Yet, strange to say, it had a
magnanimous impulse, started easily, and ran smoothly. The somewhat
subdued Frenchman started just before us on his little Pieper, and soon
outpaced our solid chariot. We went back to St. Die, took the road by
the Loire, and as dusk was falling crossed the camel-backed bridge over
the great river, and went up the Rue Denis Pepin into the ancient city
of Blois. The Chateau does not show its best face to the riverside,
being hemmed in by other buildings, so I drove past our hotel and on to
the pretty green _place_ where the great many-windowed Chateau springs
aloft from its huge foundation. "The famous Chateau of Blois," I
remarked, waving a hand towards it. "The old home of the kings of
France." We all sat and looked up at the huge, silent building, the
glowing colours of its recessed windows