Chateau and Country Life in France | Page 6

progress. They knew their work well,
the exact moment when the last blow had been given, and they must
spring aside to get out of the way when the tree fell with a great crash.
There were usually two or three big battues in November for the
neighbouring farmers and small proprietors. The breakfast always took
place at the keeper's house. We had arranged one room as a
dining-room, and the keeper's wife was a very good cook; her omelette
au lard and civet de lièvre, classic dishes for a shooting breakfast, were
excellent. The repast always ended with a galette aux amandes made by
the chef of the château. I generally went down to the kennels at the end
of the day, and it was a pretty sight when the party emerged from the
woods, first the shooters, then a regiment of beaters (men who track the
game), the game cart with a donkey bringing up the rear--the big game,
chevreuil or boar, at the bottom of the cart, the hares and rabbits
hanging from the sides. The sportsmen all came back to the keeper's
lodge to have a drink before starting off on their long drive home, and
there was always a great discussion over the entries in the game book
and the number of pièces each man had killed. It was a very difficult
account to make, as every man counted many more rabbits than the
trackers had found, so they were obliged to make an average of the
game that had been brought in. When all the guests had departed it was
killing to hear the old keeper's criticisms.
[Illustration: There were all sorts and kinds.]
Another important function was a large breakfast to all the mayors,
conseillers d'arrondissement, and rich farmers of W.'s canton. That
always took place at the château, and Mme. A. and I appeared at table.
There were all sorts and kinds--some men in dress coats and white
gloves, some very rough specimens in corduroys and thick-nailed shoes,
having begun life as garçons de ferme (ploughboys). They were all
intelligent, well up in politics, and expressed themselves very well, but
I think, on the whole, they were pleased when Mme. A. and I withdrew

and they went into the gallery for their coffee and cigars. Mme. A. was
extraordinarily easy--talked to them all. They came in exactly the same
sort of equipage, a light, high, two-wheeled trap with a hood, except the
Mayor of La Ferté, our big town, who came in his victoria.
I went often with W. to some of the big farms to see the sheep-shearing
and the dairies, and cheese made. The farmer's wife in France is a very
capable, hard-working woman--up early, seeing to everything herself,
and ruling all her carters and ploughboys with a heavy hand. Once a
week, on market day, she takes her cheeses to the market town, driving
herself in her high gig, and several times I have seen some of them
coming home with a cow tied to their wagon behind, which they had
bought at the market. They were always pleased to see us, delighted to
show anything we wanted to see, offered us refreshment--bread and
cheese, milk and wine--but never came to see me at the château. I made
the round of all the châteaux with Mme. A. to make acquaintance with
the neighbours. They were all rather far off, but I loved the long drives,
almost always through the forest, which was quite beautiful in all
seasons, changing like the sea. It was delightful in midsummer, the
branches of the big trees almost meeting over our heads, making a
perfect shade, and the long, straight, green alleys stretching away
before us, as far as we could see. When the wood was a little less thick,
the afternoon sun would make long zigzags of light through the trees
and trace curious patterns upon the hard white road when we emerged
occasionally for a few minutes from the depths of the forest at a
cross-road. It was perfectly still, but summer stillness, when one hears
the buzzing and fluttering wings of small birds and insects, and is
conscious of life around one.
The most beautiful time for the forest is, of course, in the autumn.
October and November are lovely months, with the changing foliage,
the red and yellow almost as vivid as in America, and always a
foreground of moss and brown ferns, which grow very thick and high
all through the forest. We used to drive sometimes over a thick carpet
of red and yellow leaves, hardly hearing the horses' hoofs or the noise
of the wheels, and when we turned our faces homeward toward the
sunset there was really a glory of colour in wood and sky. It was