Be careful what you order

We get a good start on the morning. The buffet breakfast downstairs is absolutely the best we have yet encountered -- croissants, breads, peaches, kiwis, oranges for hand-squeezing, four varieties of cheeses, cereal, jams, yogurts, apples, bananas -- even a pot of warm milk for the coffee. The cat Micheaux purred on Antonia's lap through the meal.

During the previous day's visit to the cathedral, we learned that one John Duke of Bedford, who died in 1435, was buried there, near one of he massive pillars behind the altar. He was regent of France when Jeanne d'Arc was tried and burned in 1431. Rumors swirled among the choir of my illustrious ancestor, though he was one I didn't necessarily care to claim. Looking into it further in the cold light of the Internet, I learned that his name was really John of Lancaster, Duke of Bedford, and even appeared in one of Shakespeare's histories. One writer said that by and large his rule was one of fairness and rectitude, other than that little affair in 1431. I will not be revising my genealogy.

Being of sound knowledge that I didn't have to carry the burden of an ancestor's guilt on my shoulders, I was able to visit Jeanne d'Arc's church and monument with equanimity. The church is modern, taking its inspiration nautically. Darien was enthusiastic about it, Antonia and I less so. Some parts were extremely effective, such as the solid wall of stained glass panels behind the altar, or the planked ribbing on the soaring ceiling, a rich brown.

We didn't have any luck finding a replacement for the water bottle Darien left on the stairs up to the bell tower in Chartres, when halfway up she feared that she might need both hands free to clutch the walls.

An older choirister was sitting outside on a bench with her cane. A young French girl took her for a beggar and tried to giver her a coin. The elderly woman refused. The girl returned to her parents and brought the chorister even more coins. The choir should view this as a funding opportunity.

Darien and I wanted to visit the Musee de Beaux-Arts, where there was a major exhibition of impressionists who worked in the Rouen vicinity. An entire room was given over to studies of the cathedral by Monet. I chose one of these, although a street scene by Gauguin competed for my affections.

We met Antonia for lunch at a little place we had spied near our hotel called Taverne Saint-Amant, across the street from a former abbey and run by a charming older couple who seemed to enjoy their guests as much as the guests enjoyed the fare. Saint Amant was evidently quite a drinker, so the tavern was devoted to his memory and ideals. His love of the good life eventually caught up with him, and he spent his final years racked with gout and pain. The good life also caught up with the sisters of the abbey, who in the eighteenth century were told they could no longer wear their taffeta dresses and hats or entertain visitors in their quarters. They were likewise required to cut back on their drinking. Being a bride of Christ just wasn't as much fun as it used to be.

Darien and Antonia wanted to share their meal, but an imperfect command of the language left them staring at their plates in mild horror. Note to self: do not order boudin in France unless you have a fondness blood sausage. Darien ventured a nibble, but Antonia soldiered on and finished both their portions, even claiming she enjoyed it, although it is suspected she was simply maintaining the honor of the family name.

The two rushed off to rehearse in the cathedral. I arrived later, shortly before four. There was a good crowd of some 200 people. They were very receptive and gave the choir warm applause. A little French girl of eight approached Antonia afterward and told her she had a beautiful voice. Her voice does certainly give the choir a sharp edge it would otherwise lack. The spirituals the choir customarily ends with are the crowd pleaser. When she gets going, Antonia would probably hold her own in a black baptist church.

On the steps, still in her robes and looking very ecclesiastical, Antonia was asked in some detail by a long-haired young Frenchman about the choir's schedule. He persisted in asking about it, then finally left. Antonia said he seemed more interested in her personal schedule than in the choir's.

We timed how long it would take us to walk to the train station in the morning, then decided we should take a taxi instead. Darien and I had wanted to tour the permanent exhibition at the Musee, but that part was already closed. Antonia opted to view the impressionists, and I followed shortly behind to get a second look. Darien decided she would do better settling in the park to read. By the time we finished, the two were starting to melt down, so we walked back to our first Rouen restaurant. Antonia and I shared  a bowl of mussels. Darien had tried one earlier, so she declined the oportunity to sample again. We strolled around a bit more to enjoy the fading light of our last night in Rouen.