der from the
splendid wing of Francis I.--which is the last word of free and joyous
invention--to the ruled lines and blank spaces of the ponderous pavilion
of Mansard, one makes one's reflections upon the advantage, in even the
least personal of the arts, of having something to say, and upon the
stupidity of a taste which had ended by becoming an aggregation of
negatives. Gaston's wing, taken by itself, has much of the _bel air_
which was to belong to the architecture of Louis XIV.; but, taken in
contrast to its flowering, laughing, living neighbour, it marks the
difference between inspiration and calculation. We scarcely grudge it
its place, however, for it adds a price to the rest of the pile.

We have entered the court, by the way, by jumping over the walls. The
more orthodox method is to follow a modern terrace which leads to the
left, from the side of the edifice that I began by speaking of, and
passes round, ascending, to a little square on a considerably higher
level, a square not, like the rather prosaic space on which the back (as
I have called it) looks out, a thoroughfare. This small empty _place_,
oblong in form, at once bright and quiet, and which ought to be
grass-grown, offers an excellent setting to the entrance-front of the
palace--the wing of Louis XII. The restoration here has been lavish; but
it was perhaps but an inevitable reaction against the injuries, still
more lavish, by which the unfortunate building had long been
overwhelmed. It had fallen into a state of ruinous neglect, relieved
only by the misuse proceeding from successive generations of soldiers,
for whom its charming chambers served as barrack-room. Whitewashed,
mutilated, dishonoured, the castle of Blois may be said to have escaped
simply with its life. This is the history of Amboise as well, and is to
a certain extent the history of Chambord. Delightful, at any rate, was
the refreshed facade of Louis XII. as I stood and looked at it one
bright September morning. In that soft, clear, merry light of Touraine,
everything shows, everything speaks. Charming are the taste, the happy
proportions, the colour of this beautiful front, to which the new
feeling for a purely domestic architecture--an architecture of security
and tranquillity, in which art could indulge itself--gave an air of
youth and gladness. It is true that for a long time to come the castle
of Blois was neither very safe nor very quiet; but its dangers came from
within, from t