That is all that a historian, a traveller, and a poet, could say about Pierre-en-Cize,—not having had an opportunity of examining the place closely. To properly describe the castle, one ought to have lived there, and been a State prisoner there, as I have been, but I do not think it likely that anyone will envy me my knowledge, considering how it was attained.
The castle of Pierre-en-Cize was the country house of the Archbishops of Lyon, and as far as situation and outlook are concerned, is a pleasant residence enough. It is not like the castle of Lourdes, surrounded by cloud-capped peaks, resembling a solitary cypress tree in a chaos of rocks, a veritable battle-field of the Titans. It is not like Mont St. Michel either, where, half the year, every twelve hours, the waves beat against the walls of your prison, the tempests roll under your feet, and the cry of the shipwrecked sailors echoes through the cells. Without prejudice, I may say that, as far as the view goes, Pierre-en-Cize is infinitely more pleasant, but there is no such thing as a nice prison, and, all