the Principality of Wagram, Chambord was presented by a national subscription to the infant Duke of Bordeaux, the "child of the miracle," the prospective Henry V. It was only after forty years of exile that the Comte de Chambord (he had assumed the title in recognition of the gift) visited his château and continued there his fruitless attempts to arouse national support for his pretensions.

As our first château, Chambord made its own impression, not to be displaced by any later experience. But aside from this distinction of priority, although the charm of Chambord faded for M'dame before the beauty of Blois and the historic thrill of Chinon, M'sieur remained true to his first enthusiasms. He admits freely that he enjoyed his visit to Chambord better than that to any other of the Touraine châteaux.

In the two hours that it took us to reach Blois we experienced the buffetings of March and the smiles (a few) and tears of April. Variety, however, is always welcome, and we had long since become waterproof.

Martial music heralded our approach to the old gray town. The military band or whatever it was that produced it remained invisible, but the effect of the animated strains was inspiring, and assisted us to round the corner of a Blois wash-house in truly dashing style. One wash-house, sometimes two or three, ornaments the water-front of every considerable town that borders the Loire. On the lower deck, almost level with the water, of an anchored barge, twenty kneeling women viciously pound and scrub defenseless garments, rinsing them in the turbid water between attacks. Then, thoroughly subdued, the wash is hung to dry on the upper deck, where the sweet air of Touraine does its best for it.

As we swung into quiet water we looked up at the huddled roofs of the town rising steeply from the water's edge, hoping for a glimpse of the famous castle. It is visible, indeed, but not impressive, from that point of view, rather melting into the general picturesque effect than giving the dominant note to the scene. We found a man to take charge of Gray

Brother, and a carriage to take us to the hotel. Consciousness of our bedraggled and tramp-like appearance smote us suddenly as we drew up before the Grand Hôtel de Blois. At the little hostelries of Meung and St. Dyé our rain-battered hats and brigand capes had seemed sufficiently respectable, but here, welcomed by an impressive hostess and attended by liveried servants, it was quite another matter. M'dame stifled a wild desire to secrete the lunch-basket among the folds of her cape, and endeavored to assume an air of nonchalance. But peculiarity of dress and equipment were evidently accounted for by our nationality, and we ascended to our room unchallenged.

The next morning (in the rain, of course) we visited the château. First we made a tour of the outside, rejoiced in the free, bright beauty of the façade of the François I. wing, and bemoaned the dull and heavy plainness of the more modern addition by Gaston d'Orléans. At the same time, we could not but thank the good Providence that removed that worthy gentleman before he had had time to put into effect his intention of tearing down all of the earlier building and replacing it with a continuation of the dreary Mansard creation. His death has preserved to us one of the most perfect specimens of the beautiful Renaissance architecture. Seen from the street, the François I. wing delights by reason. of its thrilling buoyancy, while from the court it charms by its delicacy, grace, and variety. Although the château has been much restored since the devastations of the Revolution, the work has been done with scrupulous care and fidelity, and has preserved to a wonderful degree the ancient spirit. The third and oldest portion of the castle, known as the Louis XII. wing, is now used as a museum. All that remains there of interest are two or three elaborately decorated and brilliantly restored mantels. On each appear a crowned L and a porcupine, the cipher and emblem of Louis XII., balanced by a crowned A with an ermine and twisted rope, the symbols of his wife, Anne de Bretagne. By a gateway piercing this wing, with an equestrian statue of Louis above it, one

enters the court and sees, opposite, the entrance to Gaston's wing-if the traveler be wise he will not enter, unless for the pleasure of the contrast between its massive ugliness and the airy lightness of its right-hand neighbor, the wing of François I. Here the master craftsmen of their age have set their seal, as flowing line and flowering stone attest. It is even rumored (and we chose to believe) that Leonardo da Vinci, the greatest artistic genius of all time, designed the beautiful outside staircase, the crowning triumph of the wonderful façade. Certain it is that it rises in lovely curves, exactly reproducing the inner spiral of a sea-shell, while the outer railing descends in lines corresponding to the lines on the outside of the shell. And we know that Leonardo was a student of nature and its relation to art as no other man of his time was. The

central shaft round which the staircase winds is covered with panels carved in exquisite traceries of marvelous variety and perfect harmony. The whole wing is a vision of beauty-strange setting for the dark intrigues and bloody deeds which there took place. Now a graceful Renaissance doorway calls forth a thrill of admiration; again it is a Gothic portal, stately and aspiring, through which we pass. We linger and marvel in Catherine de' Medici's jewel-like oratory, or we shrink with a shudder from crime-stained dungeons. Our guide, endowed with keen dramatic sense, led us from gorgeous apartments to gloomy oubliettes, recalling for us the old scenes, repeopling the ancient halls. As we strolled back into the crooked, climbing streets of the town, surprise fell upon us at the absence of doublet and hose, plumed hat, sword and dagger.