always doing something they oughtn’t to.  He dined and slept at Falaise; rather a sketchy repast, but as he told us he could always get along with poached eggs, could eat six in an ordinary way and twelve in an emergency, we were reassured; for one can always get eggs and milk in Normandy.  He arrived in a perfectly good humour and made himself very pleasant.  He is an old soldier—­a cavalry officer—­and doesn’t mind roughing it.

The journey from Deauville to Bagnoles is usually accomplished in three or four hours.  Falaise, the birthplace of William the Conqueror, is an interesting old town, but looks as if it had been asleep ever since that great event.  The old castle is very fine, stands high, close to the edge of the cliff, so that the rock seems to form part of the great walls.  There is one fine round tower, and always the grass walk around the ramparts.

The views are beautiful.  Looking down from one of the narrow, pointed windows, still fairly preserved, we had the classic Norman landscape at our feet—­beautiful green fields, enormous trees making spots of black shade in the bright grass, the river, sparkling in the sunshine, winding through the meadows, a group of washerwomen, busy and chattering, beating their clothes on the flat stones where the river narrows a little under the castle walls, and a bright blue sky overhead.

We walked through the Grande Place—­picturesque enough.  On one side the Church of La Trinite, and in the middle of the Place the bronze equestrian statue of William the Conqueror.  It is very spirited.  He is in full armor, lance in hand, his horse plunging forward toward imaginary enemies.  They say the figure was copied from Queen Mathilde’s famous tapestries at Bayeux, but it looked more modern to me.  I remember all the men and beasts and ships of those tapestries looked most extraordinary as to shape.  Monsieur R. took over the young princesses the other day in his auto.  They were very keen to see the cradle of their race.  It was curious to see the descendants of the great rough soldier starting in an auto, fresh, pretty English girls, dressed in the trotteuses (little short skirts) that we all wear in the country, carrying their Kodaks and sketching materials.

All this part of the country teems with legends of the great warrior.  Years ago, when we were at Deauville, we drove over to Dives to breakfast—­one gets a very good breakfast at the little hotel.  We wandered about afterward down to the sea (William the Conqueror is said to have sailed from Dives), and into the little church where the names of all the barons who accompanied him to England are written on tablets on the walls.  We saw various relics and places associated with him and talked naturally a great deal about the Conqueror.  On the way home (we were a large party in a brake) one of our compatriots, a nice young fellow whose early education had evidently not been very comprehensive, turned to me, saying;