Chapter 8

Without fastidiousness, it was fair to declare, on
the other hand, that the little inn at Azay-le-Rideau
was very bad. It was terribly dirty, and it was in
charge of a fat _megere_ whom the appearance of four
trustful travellers - we were four, with an illustrious
fourth, on that occasion - roused apparently to fury.
I attached great importance to this incongruous
hostess, for she uttered the only uncivil words I heard
spoken (in connection with any business of my own)
during a tour of some six weeks in France. Breakfast
not at Azay-le-Rideau, therefore, too trustful traveller;
or if you do so, be either very meek or very bold.
Breakfast not, save under stress of circumstance; but
let no circumstance whatever prevent you from going
to see the admirable chateau, which is almost a rival
of Chenonceaux. The village lies close to the gates,
though after you pass these gates you leave it well
behind. A little avenue, as at Chenonceaux, leads to
the house, making a pretty vista as you approach the
sculptured doorway. Azay is a most perfect and
beautiful thing; I should place it third in any list of
the great houses of this part of France in which these
houses should be ranked according to charm. For
beauty of detail it comes after Blois and Chenon-
ceaux; but it comes before Amboise and Chambord.
On the other hand, of course, it is inferior in majesty
to either of these vast structures. Like Chenonceaux,
it is a watery place, though it is more meagrely
moated than the little chateau on the Cher. It consists
of a large square _corps de logis_, with a round tower
at each angle, rising out of a somewhat too slumberous
pond. The water - the water of the Indre - sur-
rounds it, but it is only on one side that it bathes its
feet in the moat. On one of the others there is a
little terrace, treated as a garden, and in front there
is a wide court, formed by a wing which, on the right,
comes forward. This front, covered with sculptures,
is of the richest, stateliest effect. The court is ap-
proachcd by a bridge over the pond, and the house
would reflect itself in this wealth of water if the water
were a trifle less opaque. But there is a certain
stagnation - it affects more senses than one - about
the picturesque pools of Azay. On the hither side of
the bridge is a garden, overshadowed by fine old
sycamores, - a garden shut in by greenhouses and by
a fine last-century gateway, flanked with twin lodges.
Beyond the chateau and the standing waters behind
it is a so-called _parc_, which, however, it must be con-
fessed, has little of park-like beauty. The old houses
(many of them, that is) remain in France; but the old
timber does not remain, and the denuded aspect of