house where Balzac was born; I've photographed the Balzac medallion; I've stuffed my trunks with illustrated editions of Balzac's books; and I've gone to see everything I could find, which he ever spoke about. His Curé de Tours is the most harrowing story I ever read; and the strange little house in the shadow of the cathedral, with one of the great buttresses planting its enormous foot in the wee garden, fascinates me. There lived the horrible Mademoiselle Gamard, and there, with her, lodged the wicked Curé, and the poor, good little Curé, over whose childlike, gentle stupidity and agony I half cried my eyes out last night. But Balzac's French discourages me. He must have had a wonderful vocabulary. I am always finding words on every page which I never saw before.
I don't like cathedrals much as a rule, unless there's something really extraordinary about them; but I love the big, grey, Gothic cathedral of Tours. It seems a different grey from any other, not cold and forbidding, but warm and very soft, as if it were made of sealskin. I suppose that is partly the effect of the beautiful carvings of the tall, tall front. I feel as if I should like to smooth and caress it with my hand. And it is beautiful inside. Somehow it is so individual that it gives you a welcome, as if it meant to be your friend.
The streets of old Tours are so intricate that Aunt Mary and I would never have known where to go, but Brown, who has been here before, has guided us everywhere. He took us to see the house of Tristan the Hermit, and an adorable little convent,
