became restless to make its acquaintance.
I happened one day to speak of having, in
former years, gone to the strange old castle
of Loches, about thirty miles from Tours; and,
struck instantly with his usual desire for
exploring, he proposed a journey to the spot,
inviting me to be his guest and guide.

I have always observed that the French,
although by no means what we call rich, are
very generous, according to their means, and
if they cannot do a thing in grand style, they
do it equally well on a small scale. Hector
had long wished to give a treat to his hostess
and her family, and this he felt was a good
opportunity. Our party, therefore, was
formed of Madame Tricot, a black-eyed little
widow; her sister Euphrosine and her young
lover the militaire—just arrived on leave to
visit his betrothed—and Achille, the widow's
eldest son; a sharp boy of thirteen,
distinguished by his half-military college uniform,
more perhaps than by the progress he was
making in those studies which Madame
Tricot felt sure would lead him to
immortality; and which she herself superintended
with unwearied zeal, forcing her refractory
pupil to rise before daybreak every morning
and repeat his Greek arid Latin lessons to her
previous to school hours, although, when I
questioned her with surprised awe, she replied
by saying with a knowing nod:

"No, no, I do not understand all this; but
Achille imagines I do; and, at all events, he
is obliged by this means to learn his lessons.
They are very severe at college, and he is such
a gamin!"

As I had seldom seen Achille occupied, in
his leisure hours, in the absence of his mamma,
in any other way than teazing a peculiarly
uproarious parrot whose discordant shrieks
regularly awoke me from early slumber,
I could easily believe that some difficulties
lay in the way of the future hero's advancement,
had he been left entirely to his own
plan of pursuing knowledge.

Seven persons, large and small, besides the
driver, one fine October morning filled the
large rumbling vehicle which Madame Faye
had engaged for our expedition to the old
ruined castle of Loches; and very merry
we all were as we saw the baskets of eatables
stuffed tinder the seats, and wedged ourselves
inside and out preparatory to setting forth,
which we did at last in the midst of a shower
of precautionary words from Madame Tricot,
sent after the two staring, laughing rosy-faced
maids who stood helping and enjoying our
prospect of a fête, and flirting with our smart
driver up to the very last moment. At length
we rattled away along the leafy avenue of the
Boulevard Heurteloup, at Tours, and were
soon on the long level road which conducts to
the old town, which we made our goal.

Situated just at the entrance of the luxuriant
garden of Touraine; full to overflowing
of grapes and melons, and plums and peaches,
of incredible size; on the banks of the river
Indre (here spanned by several pretty bridges),
rises the craggy hill, on the sides of which
was built, at a period too remote to be
ascertained even by a hand-book, the rugged,
stony, impassable, confused, fossil-looking
town, crowned at its extreme summit by the
grimmest, strangest, oldest, and most
inexplicably constructed castle that exists in
France. Probably its like would be sought in
vain in Europe. Such another series of towers,
and spires, and long and high walls,
terraces, battlements, staircases, and dungeons,
was never brought together by the hand of
man. The castle was constructed by order
of a certain Count of Anjou, named Foulques
Nera, to become—long after his valorous
fame had passed away or had merged into
the reputation of an ogre—a ponderous
plaything.

The inn where our party stopped at Loches,
is very characteristic of the place; for it is,
though modernised and beautified outwardly,
a maze of galleries, and corridors, and turrets,
and secret staircases, and rooms with vaulted
ceilings, so that the world of the present day
seems shut out the moment the façade is lost
sight of. It has an odd effect in such a place
to see smart handmaids flitting about, and
a chattering hostess coming out to welcome
guests to her antique dwelling, which has all
the trouble in the world to look young and
inviting, in spite of the paint and frippery in
which French taste has striven to disguise its
feudal reality.

We very soon arranged ourselves and our
repast (with but little addition from the
larder of our nevertheless civil hostess) on
a sort of platform, on the walls of what is
now a terrace, and was once no doubt a war-like
spot, where if people " drank the red
wine," it was probably " through the helmet
barred." The hostess merrily uncorked our
bottles of Loire wine, observing candidly
that it was much better than her cellars
produced; and, addressing herself to me,
adroitly began a eulogy on the character of
the English in general, remarking, that it was
astonishing how many of my countrymen
made her hotel their home for six months
together.

A ramble through the streets showed us
that it was market day at Loches. From
the lower range of rugged walls to the
rocky summit where the castle toppled over,
—comprising the narrow, high street, which
ascends through the whole length, winding
and twisting like a snake pursued—was
one mass of vegetables, fruit, and flowers,
whose bright hues, and the gay colours of
the vendors' dresses, contrasted strangely
with the lofty houses with overhanging roofs,
frowning down on the groups that dared to
disturb the solemn gloom which had been
theirs for centuries.

Monsieur Faye stopped every moment to
talk to the market women, to cheapen melons,
and to accept bouquets from girls whose bright