Castle of Bazoche--Maréchal de Vauban--Relics of the old
Marshal--Memorials of Philipsburg--Hôtel de Bazarne--Madame de
Pompadour's maître d'hôtel--Proof of the _curés'_ grief--Farm of
St. Hibaut--Youthful recollections--Monsieur de Cheribalde--Navarre
the Four-Pounder--His culverin.
Each of the Radcliffian horrors narrated in the last chapter, though
vastly marvellous, most probably originated in some dreadful deed of
blood, on which the vulgar and superstitious admiration of excitement of
those days delighted to enlarge. We shall now turn to the castle of
Bazoche, where, in former days, dukes, counts and barons assembled every
September with their hunting-train, to enjoy the pleasures of _la grande
chasse_ and all its attendant revelry. The château in later years
belonged to the renowned engineer, Sebastian-le-Prêtre, Maréchal de
Vauban, who was a native of Le Morvan, and born in 1633 in the village
of St. Leger de Foucheret. The humble roof under which this celebrated
man first saw the light is now inhabited by a _sabot_-maker.
Brought up, like Henry IV., amongst the peasants of his native
province, like him he loved the remembrance of all connected with it and
them; and when he died in Paris (1707), he desired that he might be
buried at his beloved Château de Bazoche, where he had so often,
sauntering under the noble _platanes_, sought and found relaxation from
the turmoil and fatigue of a soldier's life, and forgotten the
jealousies and injustice of the court. In the southern part of the
building is the gallant old veteran's sleeping apartment--there still
stands his bed: and his armour, with several swords and other articles
which belonged to him, are still preserved. On the rampart, now probably
silent for ever, are four pieces of cannon of large calibre, which
thundered at the siege of Philipsburg, and were subsequently presented
to the Marshal by Monseigneur, the brother of Louis XIV.
Great were the works accomplished by the genius and perseverance of this
famous general--famous, not only in his own profession, but as one of
the honest characters of an age when honesty was rare indeed. He
improved and perfected the defences of three hundred towns, and entirely
constructed the fortifications of thirty-three others; was present at
one hundred and forty battles, and conducted fifty-three sieges. The
body of this eminent man was, in literal compliance with his orders,
interred in a black marble tomb, under the damp flagstones of the castle
chapel; but his heart, in melancholy violation of the spirit which
dictated them, is enclosed in a monument, surmounted by his bust, in the
church of the Hôtel des Invalides. Opposite to it is the tomb of
Turenne, and under the same roof at last repose the mortal remains of
Napoleon. Could their spirits perambulate this church at the hour when
the dead only are said to be awake, and we could muster the courage to
listen to their whispered communings, what should we hear? How severely
would this tremendous triumvirate judge some of the so-called great men
of our own time!
But there are more modern edifices in Le Morvan, with far more agreeable
episodes attached to them: take, for example, the Hôtel de Bazarne, a
celebrated hostel, built among the green lanes on the borders of a wood
of acacias--a beautiful flowery wood, which, when the merry month of May
has heralded the perfumed pleasures of spring, dispenses them on every
breeze over the adjacent country.
Bazarne, in its healthy situation and splendid environs, boasts the best
of cookery. The last owner of Bazarne was--Reader, the utmost exercise
of your lively imagination will never supply you with the right
name--was an _ancien maître d'hôtel_ of Madame la Marquise de
Pompadour--Madame de Pompadour's steward! What could he have to do in
the wilds of Le Morvan? Grand Jean was a curious little man, lively and
brisk as a bird or a squirrel, powdered, curled, and smelling of rose
and benjamin as if he were still at Versailles or Choisi. Grand Jean
decorated the back of his head with a little pigtail, which much
resembled a head of asparagus, and was always jumping and frisking from
one shoulder to the other. His snuff-box was of rare enamel, his ruffles
of point-lace, and his artistic performances in the culinary art were
all carried on in vessels of solid silver. He was, from the point of his
toe to the tips of his hair, the aristocrat of the saucepan and the
stove.
Grand Jean acquired, in our provincial district, a reputation perfectly
monumental for the richness of his venison pasties, the refined flavour,
the smoothness and the exquisite finish of his _omelettes aux truffes_
and _au sang de chevreuil_. All the world of Le Morvan used to visit
him. And the good _curés_? The good _curés_?--ah! they all went to visit
him by caravans, as the faithful wend their way across the deserts to
Mecca to pray at the tomb of the Prophet. And, when he died, they
mourned indeed; the worthy divines, incredible as it may be, drank water
for three days, in proof of the sincerity of their woe. Who would have
doubted it?
To the north of Bazarne, and on the road to the best district for sport,
is seen at the foot of the gray mountains peeping cheerily, and like a
white flower amidst the sombre foliage of the chestnut-trees, St.
Hibaut, an immense farm, situated in an isolated spot, and built of the
lava from an extinct volcano. Saint Hibaut, ah! the moment the pen
traces that dear name my aching heart beats and throbs within my
breast--before my eyes pass to and fro the memories of a vanished
world--I seem to feel the fresh and odorous breezes from thy flowers,
thy mossy banks and scented shrubs, and hear thy murmuring rills and the
dash of thy wild torrents. St. Hibaut! lovely spot where flew so swiftly
and so sweetly the brightest and gayest hours of my early years--St.
Hibaut, the memory of thee burns within my heart: but those within thy
walls, do they still think of me?
Alas! in this world of tears and deception, of moral tortures and often
of physical suffering--what is there more delightful, more consolatory
than to sip, nay plunge the lips, and drink, yes, drink deep from that
fresh and blessed spring, the memory of by-gone days. How great the
burden of the man who has been the sport of fortune, whose life has been
one continued sorrow, who, never satisfied with the present moment, is
always hoping for better and happier days, and always regretting those
which have been and are now no more. O! Reader--if many griefs have been
your portion, if it has been your sad fate to tread with naked feet the
thorny paths of life, if the foul passions of envy, rage, and hatred
have found a place in your heart, close your eyes, forget your
miseries--open, open for a moment that golden casket called the memory,
in which are preserved, embalmed and imperishable, all those happy
incidents which were the delight of your youth. Yes! open wide that
casket, ponder well, and with renewed fondness o'er these treasures of
the mind, and believe me after such holy reflections you will feel
yourself more able to meet the contumely of the world, and find yourself
a happier and a better man.
Saint Hibaut, situated in a wild country, surrounded by lonely heaths
and deep ravines, and water-courses whose sides are covered by almost
impenetrable thickets, was at the time I speak of, that is to say, when
I was eighteen years of age, the property of Monsieur de Cheribalde,
the most intrepid, determined and ardent sportsman, who ever winded a
horn, wore a huntsman's knife, or whistled a dog.
Distant very nearly twenty miles from any human habitation, it was at
times, the favourite rendezvous, the head-quarters of a great number of
chevreuil, boar and other denizens of the forest. In winter, when the
snow covered the earth for several weeks, the famished and furious
wolves assembled in the neighbourhood in packs, carrying off in the
broad daylight everything they could lay their teeth on; sheep and
shepherd, dogs and huntsman, horse and horseman, bones, hair, and skins
half-tanned, old hats and shoes--even the corrupt bodies of the dead
were torn from their resting-places, and eaten by these horrid animals.
On moonlight nights, these brutes would come fearlessly up to the very
walls of the farm, dancing their sarabandes in the snow, howling like so
many devils, shrieking and showing their long white teeth, and demanding
in unmistakable terms something or somebody to devour; their yells,
their cries of rage, of victory, and of love, intermingled with the
funereal song of the screech-owl, and the lugubrious melodies which the
current from the blast without caused in the large open chimneys,--was
the concert, which from December to April lulled the inmates of St.
Hibaut to sleep; music that would I doubt not have reduced even the
formidable proportions of the inimitable Lablache, and made Mario sing
out of tune.
But these were the good old times, the good old times! Well do I
remember, when the shadows of those winter evenings lengthened, when
nightfall came, and when at last the moon arose, bringing out in light
and shade every object within the court-yard, and at some distance from
the house, then it was that Monsieur de Cheribalde went his rounds. I
see him in my mind's eye now, with his gun on his shoulder, followed by
his five enormous bloodhounds strong and fierce as lions, and Navarre,
surnamed the Four-Pounder, who walked a few paces to the right and left,
opening his large saucer eyes, poking and squinting into every bush and
corner.
Navarre, for forty years the head gamekeeper of the domain, was his
master's right hand, his _alter ego_. He had never in his whole life
been beyond his woods,--had never seen the church-steeple of a great
town. To him, the dark belt of firs that skirted the horizon, was the
limit of the world; and when told that the sun never set, and that when
it sank behind the mountains, it was only continuing its course, to beam
bright in other skies and on other lands, and to ripen other
harvests,--Navarre smiled, and did not believe a word. Happy Navarre!
what did it signify to him what was done, or what happened behind those
hills? He was thin and dry as a match, and tall as a Norwegian spruce,
with a face covered with hair; he smoked, and tossed off glass after
glass of brandy, like a Dutchman. In addition to these peculiarities,
Navarre was lame of the right leg, a boar having one day kindly applied
his tusky lancet to his thigh, and gored him seriously, before, hand to
hand, he managed to finish him with his hunting-knife.
At the first glance, Navarre's aspect appeared strange and forbidding,
and savage as the locality in which he lived. The fact was, that, like
Robinson Crusoe, he was frequently arrayed in a suit of skins of which
he had been the architect, on a fantastic pattern, that his own queer
imagination had created.
On great occasions the veteran keeper donned a helmet, or a gray
three-cornered hat, of so ridiculous a shape--so royally absurd--that
for my life, when he was thus attired, I could not, even in the presence
of his master, refrain from laughter; then he would tell you, with a
gravity it was impossible to disturb, that it had taken him fifteen
days, eight skins of wild cats, and twelve squirrel's tails, to achieve
this happy _chef-d'oeuvre_ of the tailoring art. But I once said to
him, "My good Navarre, in the name of heaven tell me, from what Japanese
manuscript did you fish out that odious hat? Why, with such a shed, you
might very well be mistaken for Chin-ko-fi-ku-o, high-priest of the
temple of Twi. Do give me the address of your hatter, my dear friend."
Navarre, furious, gave no reply.
But the time really to admire him--to see the head gamekeeper in all his
splendour--was in winter, in a hard frost, when, covered with skins and
motionless, he lay in ambush in a black ravine, waiting for a boar. Oh!
then, for certain, the sight of him was anything but encouraging; for he
looked like some unknown animal, some variety of the species _Bonassus_,
a crocodile on end, a crumpled-up elephant, or a great bear on the
watch. And when he loaded his rifle--a sort of culverin or wall-piece,
which no one but himself knew how to manage--gracious powers! he was
something to see. His first movement was to seize the gigantic weapon in
the middle, as a policeman would fasten upon a favourite thief; and then
he set himself to blow into the barrel with such fury, that had there
been an ounce of wadding left, the blast would have blown it all through
the enormous touch-hole. Being well assured after this that neither an
adder nor a slow-worm had taken up his domicile within the barrel, he
began to load. One charge--two charges--then a third, "as a compliment,"
and after this, a fourth, "for good luck." On this infernal
charge--imperial, as he called it--this Vesuvius, this volcano of
saltpetre, he threw half-a-dozen balls, or, if he was out of them, a
handful of nails; and then he rammed--rammed--rammed away, like a
pavior.
My hair stood on end, and every limb trembled when he fired it off--holy
St. Francis!--the very forest bent, and coughed, and sighed; and it made
as much flame, smoke, noise, and carnage, as a battery of horse
artillery. One might have heard it all over Burgundy, or Provence for
what I know; and hence, no doubt, his _sobriquet_ of "the Four-Pounder."
I always thought his shoulder must be made of heart of oak. On one
occasion he did me the incomparable favour of loading my gun in this
fashion, but luckily for me, informed me of this piece of civility
before we started; and greatly was he chagrined when I declined to fire
it. In the common occurrences of life, Navarre was a right good fellow;
he had great good sense, could take a joke, was simple and modest in
his manners, and very kind-hearted and retiring. But once in the forest,
the dogs uncoupled, and the business of the chase commenced, he bounded
to the front; his eyes flashed, his nostrils dilated, he took a deep
breath, listened, and snuffed the air; he limped no longer; and as his
courage was unequalled, and his knowledge of wood-craft profound, the
proudest of every rank were content to follow where he led.