This building, after the English left, was the residence of
the seneschals of the Viscounts of Turenne down to the Revolution. In two
of the rooms are chimney-pieces very artistically carved in oak.
Notwithstanding all the demolition that has gone on, bits of picturesque
antiquity meet the eye everywhere in the old English town. Now it is a
half-ruinous watch-tower, now the Gothic doorway of a thirteenth-century
house, now a gateway that has lost its tower, but whose wounds are covered
with yellow wallflowers in spring; now a turret running up an entire front,
with little windows looking out upon the quiet street, or some high-pitched
roof curving inward under the weight of years and tiles.
The inn where I put up was like a hostelry of romance. Entering by a broad
archway, I passed along a passage vaulted and groined, where corbel-heads
grimaced from dim corners; climbed a staircase broad enough for a palace,
and, having reached the landing, saw a great room with hearth and chimney
to match, massive old furniture, pots and pans of highly-polished copper,
and a hostess stout and cheery, who welcomed me as though I were an old
friend, and not a wanderer to whom food and shelter were to be exchanged
for money.
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