LES BOUTIÈRES
Geological formation—Characteristics of the Boutières and of
the people—S. Peray and its wine—Castle of Crussol—Valley
of the Erieux—A masterpiece of engineering—La Voute—Its
decay—The chapel of the castle—Vernoux, the Geneva of the
Huguenots—The Momiens—Party feeling—Massacre of S. Bartholomew—La
Pourasse—The Cachard family—The drummer—Gorge of the Dunnière—La
Tourette—Chalençon—Diana of Poitiers—Le Cheylard.
Les Boutières have already had some sentences devoted to them. They
differ geologically, and consequently in scenery, altogether from the
high range of volcanic peaks of the mountains of the Vivarais below
Privas. They are composed of granite and gneiss, and continue the
Cévennes chain northwards. There are among them no craters, no floods
of crystallised lava. Their heights are not extraordinary; they throw
out long lateral spurs towards the Rhône. The scenery is tamer than in
any other part of the Cévennes; that portion from Annonay to S. Etienne
is given up to factories, which makes the country people prosperous but
the country unattractive.
But from Annonay south to Privas there is pleasant if not fine scenery,
and it is very rarely visited.
"It is," says Dr. Francus (A. Mazon), "a land that has a stamp of
its own; its mountains, its agriculture, its customs, even its
religion are peculiar to it. A land of steep slopes, boisterous
rivers, rude summits, with pines above and chestnut trees below,
with Biblical types of men, bullet-headed, and with brains not
altogether like other men's brains. Nature herself puts on a
severe countenance; the woods look like gloomy conspirators, the
wind seems to chant psalms, and with a little imagination it is
possible to fancy that one hears a far-off echo of some Assembly
of the Desert that Time has forgotten to sweep away in its onward
march."
Looking westward from Valence is seen the little town of S. Peray, and
towering above it the ruined castle of Crussol on a limestone cliff.
S. Peray is famous, with a limited fame, for its sparkling wine.
The white wine of S. Peray always had a certain celebrity. The wine
merchants of Burgundy and Champagne, seeing that very good juice of
the grape was to be had there cheap, bought it up and sold it as their
own _crus_, or else doctored it. They purchased whole vintages at the
time of the gathering in and crushing of the grape, and by means of the
navigation of the Rhône and Saône, were able to bring them into the
heart of France.
But after a while the owners of the vineyards of S. Peray saw their way
to selling direct to the consumer. In 1798 one of them discovered the
secret how to make the wine effervesce, and he set to work to produce
sparkling S. Peray, which soon obtained great favour.
The phylloxera came in 1874 and devastated the vineyards. But they have
been replanted with stocks from America, grafted with the indigenous
vine, and these are strong and flourishing, and yield abundantly, the
wine somewhat coarse at first, but mellowing as the vine becomes more
and more accustomed to the soil.
The huge crag surmounted by the ruins of the castle of Crussol is
extensively quarried. The stone is of a fawn colour, and receives a
polish. The huge castle, with its rifted donjon called the Horns of
Crussol, at one time contained a town within its enclosure. Now, all is
ruin.
The family of Crussol was not of much note till Louis de Crussol gained
the favour of Louis XI., and was appointed governor of Dauphiné. The
son married the heiress of Uzès, and with her the title of viscount
passed to their son Charles, whose son Antoine was created Duke of
Uzès. The ruined castle belongs still to the Uzès family.
The castle was destroyed by Richelieu in 1623.
In my book, _In Troubadour Land_, I have told the story of how the
Uzès race sprang from a strolling company of three travelling comedian
brothers, and so will not here repeat it. On a terrace above the Miolan
that enters the Rhône at S. Peray is the castle of Beauregard, formerly
a State prison, now a café restaurant with a speciality in tripe. So
the whirligig of Time brings about its revenges.
The most interesting excursion among the Boutières is up the valley of
the Erieux, that takes its rise above S. Agrève. It is a capricious
river, at one time a small stream, at another a boiling torrent. In the
great flood of 1876 it rose forty feet, and rolled down three times the
amount of water that does the Seine at Paris. It brings with it from
the granite particles of gold, but not in sufficient amount to make it
worth while searching for the precious metal.
The line up the valley is a masterpiece of engineering; in places it
is carried in cornice along the face of the gorge, now cut out of the
rock, and now on a terrace built up on arches. The river enters the
Rhône a couple of miles above La Voute, but the junction of the line
to Le Cheylard is at this place. La Voute sur Rhône is an ancient
town planted at the foot of and scrambling up a rock crowned with the
ruins of a castle of the great family of Ventadour. The old town, with
its tortuous streets, its venerable but crumbling houses, its steep,
ladder-like ascent, is almost deserted, life has run down and settled
in modern houses at the foot. But even the new town is death-struck.
The iron mines which made the place prosperous, and in 1870 yielded
60,000 tons of ore, produced but 12,683 tons in 1891, and in the
following year only 520; and now, none. Ruin has fallen on La Voute,
and it is doubtful if it will ever recover. In the old castle of the
Ventadours was set up the bureau of the company that worked the mines.
Now the offices are ruinous and deserted, like the halls and towers of
the feudal princes.
The fortress was begun in 1319, and enlarged and made splendid in 1582.
Ichabod! Its glory is departed. The beautiful Renaissance chapel with
its marbles and sculpture is crumbling away. The chapel is vaulted
with delicate ribs, and against the walls are carved a Resurrection
and statues of the Duke and Duchess of Ventadour. But all, sculptured
capitals of pilasters, dainty cornices, figures, have suffered under
the hammers of the Revolutionary fanatics.
In the valley of Erieux, where it opens out, vineyards have been staged
up the mountain sides, in narrow walled terraces, with infinite
labour, and where there are not vines there are chestnuts and cherry
trees. At S. Fortunat, the Dunière enters the Erieux, and hence a road
leads to Vernoux, the Geneva of the Protestants of Upper Ardèche. It
is mainly occupied by descendants of the Huguenots, but there are
Catholics as well, living in a separate quarter. The Protestants are
much divided among themselves. One sect is that of the Momiens, whose
head-quarters are S. Agrève and Vernoux. They represent the original
Huguenots far more truly than those who call themselves Evangelicals,
for these latter have lapsed into Freethought, Indifference,
Agnosticism, and the best are Deists. The Momiens do not attend the
"Temples Protestants," but hold their assemblies in the open air, in
fact have camp meetings. Every one brings his provisions with him; they
have exercises of prayer, psalm-singing, and exhortation, and then all
dine peaceably under the chestnut trees. They come into town only on
Sundays and market-days, and do not frequent the public-houses. They
have the character of being scrupulously honest.
Many of the Evangelicals never attend public worship. Out of eleven
thousand inhabitants of Vernoux, about eight thousand are Protestants;
they are able, accordingly, to engross all the offices and determine
the elections. Conversions one way or the other are most rare, perhaps
four or five in thirty years, and these only on account of marriages.
The Protestant young men are desirous of getting Catholic wives, as the
girls of this latter confession have a better moral character—being
more carefully looked after by the clergy and sisters than are the
others; but the curés in every way oppose mixed marriages, which
is a mistake, for no more effective missionary can be found than a
God-fearing, consistent wife.
Unhappily party feeling runs strong. An old curé of Vernoux named
Chifflet, with the help of a M. Demars, who was a large contributor,
founded a hospital, and when it was complete handed it over to the
town for general use without regard to denomination. At once the town
council elected a governing board, from which it excluded the principal
donor, M. Demars, because he was a Catholic, and struck off the name
of M. Lanthois, the only Protestant in the place who had given a sou
towards the hospital.
So when the Calvinist temple wanted rebuilding a rate was imposed on
all the citizens, and the Catholics had to contribute as well as the
Evangelicals. But when the Catholics desired to erect a church for
themselves a rate was refused. If the proportions had been the other
way on, without a doubt the Catholics would have acted with precisely
the same intolerance.
As a curé said to me the other day: "Live and let live is not a
principle we understand in France, and never have. We who are bullied
to-day, if we get the upper hand to-morrow would bully in our turn."
Charles IX. could not have made a more grateful present to French
Protestantism than the massacre of S. Bartholomew. It is to them
a perpetual and cherished grievance. They would not be without it
any more than a professional mendicant would be without his sore.
The massacre is introduced into every sermon, alluded to in every
contingency, thrown in the face of a Catholic in every dispute,
flourished even at a wedding-breakfast. A Calvinist infant is brought
up on it. It is the first historic fact he has to acquire, and often
when grown to man's estate is the only historic fact that he remembers.
The massacre has been so rubbed into the minds of the Evangelicals that
they cannot look in the face of their fellow-citizens of the other
persuasion except through blood-red glass.
This temper sometimes produces vexatious results. In a village in the
Boutières, where the meeting-house happened to possess a bell, one
Sunday an old woman went to sleep during the discourse, and did not
wake when the congregation dispersed; and being overlooked, was locked
in. When she roused from her slumber, she went to the bell-rope and
pulled long and hard. At the sound of the tocsin all the Protestants
within hearing were roused. Now at last the long-expected massacre was
coming off. Women and children fled to the woods. The men barricaded
their houses, loaded their rifles, and prepared to sell their lives
dearly. The bell pealed on, every scrap of courage save among the
most heroic sank to their stocking-soles, when the old woman, having
failed to summon relief, took to relieving herself from her situation
by flinging the rope out of a window and crawling down it. _Parturiunt
montes nascetur ridiculus mus._
In 1885, when at the election for the Legislature the Conservative
list passed in its entirety, the Protestants of Les Boutières were so
impressed with the revival of Catholic hopes and their successes that
one of these panics fell on them. Indeed, they have a name for such,
_la pourasse_.
Before the outbreak of the Revolution there were many little nobles
and landed gentry in the country whose châteaux are now in ruins or
turned into farm-houses. They lived sociably, giving dances, meeting
for shooting-parties or games of tennis.
One of these was the Monsieur de Cachard. On June 24th, 1786, he gave a
dance to his neighbours, but found a difficulty in getting musicians.
He applied to the garrison at Valence, and was offered the drummer of
the regiment, who could also play the fife, and courteously he extended
the invitation to any of the officers who would care to take a part in
the entertainment. A young lieutenant accepted, his name was Napoleon
Bonaparte, and he brought with him the drummer, Victor Beausoleil.
Towards the conclusion of the ball, M. de Cachard went to the musician
and asked how he could repay his services. "Only by letting me have a
dance with mademoiselle your daughter." "By all means," replied the
master of the house, and Beausoleil led out the young lady.
The Revolution came. The family of Cachard was dispersed; some were
guillotined, some emigrated. At the Restoration, the head of the family
went to Paris to solicit the restitution of some of the confiscated
and sold estates. He solicited an audience with Marshal Victor, Duke
of Belluno, minister of war. No sooner was he introduced, than the
Duke started forward, grasped his hand and said: "Monsieur! we have
not met since Midsummer Day, 1786, when I piped, and had the honour
to dance with mademoiselle." The minister was, in fact, the drummer
from Valence. He interested himself in the case and obtained for M. de
Cachard the recovery of the ancient château and a portion of his lands.
The Duke was wont to joke over his title. "As a drummer-boy I was
Beausoleil. I have lost, not gained, by becoming a duke, for now I am
only Belluno (Belle Lune)."
The river Dunière sweeps past Vernoux, and the road from S. Fortunat to
this town presents a succession of striking scenes. The gorge through
which the Dunière enters the Erieux has precipitous sides, above which
the mountains rise bare, or but meagrely dotted with evergreen oaks,
that grow low and stunted. Below rolls, leaps, and foams the torrent.
In the contracted throat of Pontpierre, after the bursting of storms in
the Cévennes, the water rises and writhes to escape, and issues from
it into the valley of the Erieux as from a spout. The road follows the
edge of the chasm as far as Roumézoux, after which the hills fall back
and allow of cultivation. Then again they contract, but the gorge is
less savage, and is commanded on the left bank by one of the noblest
ruins in the Vivarais. The Dunière flowing from the east receives a
torrent descending from the north, and at this point rises a mighty
crag on the top of which two lofty towers stand out sharply against
the sky. They belong to the castle of La Tourette, close to Vernoux.
According to popular tradition it was built by the Saracens; it was
the feudal centre of the district and occupied by a Marquess de La
Tourette. The castle was intact till the Revolution, and was a scene of
much hospitality extended to the bourgeoisie of Vernoux, who danced in
the great hall, hung with stamped and gilded leather. At the Revolution
the castle was unroofed and ruin set in rapidly, as every one who
wanted to build a pigsty or a factory used its walls as a quarry.
Happily of late years the family of La Tourette, that has its residence
at Tournon, has repurchased the eagle nest of its ancestors and has
put a stop to the destruction. From its isolated rock the castle was
connected by a drawbridge with a terrace, beyond which was the farm,
a building of the sixteenth century, that had not been molested. The
terrace is sustained by a wall and was originally planted with trees,
and must have been a delightful walk, suspended above the precipice,
and from which one could look down on the birds of prey darting and
fluttering in the depths, and which also had their habitations in these
rocks.
In 1671, the Marquess de La Tourette bought the barony of Chalençon to
the south of Vernoux. This was at one time one of the most powerful
baronies in the country. It extended its jurisdiction over eighty
parishes, all of which were bound to furnish men-at-arms when summoned
to do so by the Seigneur of Chalençon.
In 1523, Jean de Poitiers, father of the famous Diana, Baron of
Chalençon, was condemned to death for felony. But the beauty and the
tears of his daughter saved his life; and after her father's death
Diana became Baroness Chalençon and Privas. She seems never to have set
foot in either. This left-handed queen died in 1566, and bequeathed
the barony to the youngest of her daughters, Louise, who had married
in 1546 Claude de Lorraine, Duc d'Aumale. In the square of Chalençon
may be seen a gigantic elm, a _Sully_, one of the trees planted
in all parishes on the conversion of Henry IV. The old castle was
flanked by three towers, but was almost totally destroyed. It has been
reconstructed.
The railway from S. Fortunat, where we abandoned it, deserves to be
followed to its terminus at Le Cheylard, as it runs through some of the
finest scenery in the Boutières to the cone of Mézenc, to which the
chain hitches itself on. Moreover, it has been finely engineered the
whole way. But Le Cheylard itself is not a place of interest, being a
modern manufacturing town, created by Lyons speculators calculating on
the cheapness and abundance of labour in that part, where agriculture
is hampered by the elevation. The château of La Mothe is picturesque,
but has had the tops of its towers knocked off and rehatted.
Le Cheylard may be employed as quarters for a visit to Mézenc and the
Gerbier de Jonc, if these have not been made an object of pilgrimage
from Le Puy, and from this side they present a better appearance than
from the other.