in the sixteenth century the study of
the Roman law and professed it during the close of his life in the
university of the capital of Berry. The learned Cujas had, in spite of
his sedentary pursuits, led a very wandering life; he died at Bourges in
the year 1590. Sedentary pursuits are perhaps not exactly

[Illustration: BOURGES--THE HOUSE OF JACQUES COEUR]

what I should call them, having read in the "Biographie Universelle"
(sole source of my knowledge of the renowned Cujacius) that his usual
manner of study was to spread himself on his belly on the floor. He did
not sit down, he lay down; and the "Biographie Universelle" has (for so
grave a work) an amusing picture of the short, fat, untidy scholar
dragging himself _a plat ventre_, across his room, from one pile of
books to the other. The house in which these singular gymnastics took
place, and which is now the headquarters of the gendarmerie, is one of
the most picturesque at Bourges. Dilapidated and discoloured, it has a
charming Renaissance front. A high wall separates it from the street,
and on this wall, which is divided by a large open gateway, are perched
two overhanging turrets. The open gateway admits you to the court,
beyond which the melancholy mansion erects itself, decorated also with
turrets, with fine old windows and with a beautiful tone of faded red
brick and rusty stone. It is a charming encounter for a provincial
by-street; one of those accidents in the hope of which the traveller
with a propensity for sketching (whether on a little paper block or on
the tablets of his brain) decides to turn a corner at a venture. A
brawny gendarme in his shirtsleeves was polishing his boots in the
court; an ancient, knotted vine, forlorn of its clusters, hung itself
over a doorway and dropped its shadow on the rough grain of the wall.
The place was very sketchable. I am sorry to say, however, that it was
almost the only "bit." Various other curious old houses are supposed to
exist at Bourges, and I wandered vaguely about in search of them. But I
had little success, and I ended by becoming sceptical. Bourges is a
_ville de province_ in the full force of the term, especially as
applied invidiously. The streets, narrow, tortuous, and dirty, have
very wide cobble-stones; the houses for the most part are shabby,
without local colour. The look of things is neither modern nor
antique--a kind of mediocrity of middle age. There is an enormous number
of blank walls--walls