Architecture, in those dark ages of theirs, was such a light-giving passion of the heart that men gave love-names to their fortresses. Lancelot’s Joyous Gard was not a singularity in an age which has left us Beauté, Plaisance, or Malvoisin—the bad neighbour to its enemies—an age in which even an oaf like the imaginary Richard Coeur de Lion, who suffered from boils, could call his castle “Gaillard,” and speak of it as “my beautiful one-year-old daughter.”
