rs
ago to those members of her family who were still in possession. The
owner of Chenonceaux to-day[a] is the daughter of an Englishman
naturalised in France. But I have wandered far from my story, which is
simply a sketch of the surface of the place. Seen obliquely, from either
side, in combination with its bridge and gallery, the structure is
singular and fantastic, a striking example of a wilful and capricious
conception. Unfortunately all caprices are not so graceful and
successful, and I grudge the honour of this one to the false and
blood-polluted Catherine. (To be exact, I believe the arches of the
bridge were laid by the elderly Diana. It was Catherine, however, who
completed the monument.) Within, the house has been, as usual, restored.
The staircases and ceilings, in all the old royal residences of this
part of France, are the parts that have suffered least; many of them
have still much of the life of the old time about them. Some of the
chambers of Chenonceaux, however, encumbered as they are with modern
detail, derive a sufficiently haunted and suggestive look from the deep
setting of their beautiful windows, which thickens the shadows and makes
dark corners. There is a charming little Gothic chapel, with its apse
hanging over the water, fastened to the left flank of the house. Some of
the upper balconies, which look along the outer face of the gallery and
either up or down the river, are delightful protected nooks. We walked
through the lower gallery to the other bank of the Cher; this fine
apartment appeared to be for the moment a purgatory of ancient
furniture. It terminates rather abruptly; it simply stops, with a blank
wall. There ought, of course, to have been a pavilion here, though I
prefer very much the old defect to any modern remedy. The wall is not so
blank, however, but that it contains a door which opens on a rusty
drawbridge. This drawbridge traverses the small gap which divides the
end of the gallery from the bank of the stream. The house, therefore,
does not literally rest on opposite edges of the Cher, but rests on one
and just fails to rest on the other. The pavilion would have made that
up; but after a moment we ceased to miss this imaginary feature. We
passed the little drawbridge, and wandered awhile beside the river. From
this opposite bank the mass of the chateau looked more charming than
ever; and the little peaceful, lazy Cher, where two or three men were
fishing in the eventide, flo