THE PONT-NEUF AND THE STATUE OF HENRI IV.
The Oldest Bridge in Paris--Henri IV.--His Assassination by
Ravaillac.--Marguerite de Valois--The Statue of Henri IV.--The
Institute--The Place de Grève.
Paris in 1886 contained, according to the census of that year, 2,344,550
inhabitants, of whom 1,714,956 (or 73.15 per cent.) lived on the right
bank of the Seine. So much more important indeed by the number of its
population as well as by its manifestations of life in every form is
the right bank than the left, that a man might live all his life in the
former division of Paris and, without ever having crossed the Seine, be
held to know the French capital thoroughly. One may indeed be a thorough
Parisian without ever having quitted the Boulevards.
Ancient Paris, as represented by the "Cité" of to-day, the Paris of the
left bank, and the Paris of the right bank are bound together by the
Pont-Neuf: the one structure which they have all three in common. The
Pont-Neuf may, therefore, be made a convenient starting-point from which
to approach the right bank, the left bank, and finally the "City."
The Pont-Neuf is, in spite of its name, the oldest bridge in Paris;
and it is almost the only one which retains without alteration its
original form. From time to time it has been partially repaired, but
the lines on which it was originally constructed were never changed.
Parisians have for the last three centuries regarded the Pont-Neuf as
the type of solidity; and a Parisian who does not aspire to originality
in conversation will not hesitate, even to this day, when asked how he
is, to reply that he is "as strong as the Pont-Neuf." The first stone
of the bridge was laid on Saturday, May 31, 1578, by King Henri III.,
in presence of his mother, Queen Catherine de Medicis, his wife, Queen
Louise, and the principal officials of the kingdom. As the king had just
been assisting at the obsequies of his favourites, Quélus and Maugiron,
killed in a duel, he was very melancholy, and the bridge acquired
everywhere the name of the Bridge of Tears. The idea of connecting the
left bank with the island and the island with the right bank had been
entertained by King Henri II. Henri III. undertook to defray the cost of
construction. But this he did only in a theoretical way; for three years
after his death, in 1592, the chief builder of the bridge, Guillaume
Marchand, was still unpaid. The work, meanwhile, was far from complete,
interrupted as it had been by the troubles of the League; and it was not
until Henri IV. had established his power at Paris and throughout France
that, in May, 1598, it was resumed. Three arches of the principal arm
had yet to be reared, and it was only in 1603 that the king was able to
perform the ceremony of crossing the bridge from left bank to right;
part of the journey even then having to be made on a temporary plank,
so insecurely fixed that it was by a mere piece of royal luck that the
venturesome monarch did not go over into the Seine. In undertaking the
hazardous passage, he indicated to the friends who tried to dissuade
him his belief in the "divinity that doth hedge a king;" and he, in
any case, failed on this perilous occasion either to break his neck
or drown. The builder of the Pont-Neuf, Guillaume Marchand, was also
its architect: so, at least, asserts his epitaph in the Church of St.
Gervais: "The celebrated architect," he is called, "who created two
admirable works: the Royal Castle of St. Germain and the Pont-Neuf of
Paris." Marchand, however, died in 1604, so that although the bridge
may have been originally planned by him, it is quite possible that the
design may have been completed by another hand, and that the official
title of "architect to the bridge" may have belonged to Baptiste du
Cerceau, for whom it is often claimed.
What is called the Pont-Neuf consists really of two bridges: one
connecting the left bank with the island, the other stretching from
the opposite side of the island shore to the right bank. According to
its original plan, the Pont-Neuf, like all the old Paris bridges, was
to support a number of houses for which cellars had been constructed
beforehand among the piles on which the bridge rested. Henri IV.,
however, refused to allow the intended houses to be built, determined
not to spoil the view of the Louvre, which he had just constructed.
Many years afterwards, however, in the reign of Louis XV., a number of
little shops were raised on the Pont-Neuf, occupied by match-sellers,
sellers of hot and cold drinks, dog-shearers, second-hand booksellers,
chestnut-roasters, makers of pancakes and apple fritters, shoeblacks,
quacks, and musicians more or less blind. These shops and stalls
were maintained until the first days of the Second Empire, when they
disappeared.
Henri IV. was determined to proclaim to future ages his connection with
the bridge of which he considered himself in some sense the author; and
on its completion he adorned it with an equestrian statue of himself in
bronze which is almost as celebrated as the bridge itself. The statue
stands on the promontory of the island between the two spans of the
structure; and from this point a magnificent view may be obtained of
the course of the Seine above and below bridge. The original statue was
the work of Jean de Bologne, and of his pupil, Pierre Tacca. It was
unveiled on August 23rd, 1613, at which time the corners of the pedestal
were adorned by four slaves, since removed, but still preserved in the
museum of the Louvre. Three years later the populace dragged to the
Pont-Neuf the maimed and lacerated body of Marshal d'Ancre, and having
cut it into pieces, burnt it before the statue. The so-called Marshal
d'Ancre--Concini, by his family name--had come to Paris in the suite
of Marie de Medicis, wife of Henri IV. He married one of the queen's
attendants, and by intrigues and speculations of every kind succeeded in
gaining a position of great influence, together with enormous wealth.
He was known to be guilty of all sorts of abuses, and was suspected of
having been privy to some of the attempts made upon the life of Henri
IV. On the accession of Louis XIII., after the assassination of Henri
IV. by Ravaillac, an ambush, not without the knowledge of Louis XIII.,
was laid for the marshal; and, to the delight of the people of Paris, he
fell into it. According to a legend of the period, his heart, after he
had been slain, was cut out, roasted, and eaten!
Henri IV., the first of the royal house of Bourbon, was the greatest of
all the French kings, and at least the best of the kings of the Bourbon
line. Such faults as undoubtedly belonged to him seem to have had no
effect but to increase his popularity; perhaps because, in a degree,
they belonged also to the great mass of his subjects.
This doubtful husband, good friend, and excellent ruler, beloved with
warmth by his subjects, was nevertheless made the object of numerous
attempts at assassination, the last of which proved fatal. His would-be
murderers were for the most part religious fanatics--as dangerous in
that day as the fanatics of revolution in ours; and to this class
belonged Ravaillac, at whose hands Henri was destined to perish.
Francis Ravaillac, the son of an advocate, was born and educated at
Angoulême. When very young, he lived with one Rosières, also a lawyer,
whom he served as clerk and valet. He afterwards lived with other
legal practitioners, and at length, on the death of his last master,
conducted lawsuits for himself. This profession he continued for
several years, but to such small advantage that he finally quitted it,
and gained his living by teaching. At this time his father and mother
lived apart, and were so indigent that both subsisted chiefly on alms.
Ravaillac, now thirty years old, and unmarried, lodged with his mother,
and, becoming insolvent, was thrown into prison for debt.
[Illustration: BY THE PONT-NEUF.]
He was naturally of a gloomy disposition, and while under the depression
of trouble was subject to the strangest hallucinations. In prison he
often believed himself surrounded with fire, sulphur, and incense; and
such fancies continued after he was released. He asserted that on the
Saturday night after Christmas, 1609, having made his meditations, as
he was wont, in bed, with his hands clasped and his feet crossed, he
felt his mouth and face covered by some invisible agent, and was at the
same time urged by an irresistible impulse to sing the Psalms of David.
He therefore chanted the psalms "Dixit Dominus," "Miserere," and "De
profundis" quite through, and declared that he seemed to have a trumpet
in his mouth, which made his voice as shrill and loud as that instrument
in war.
[Illustration: SEINE FISHERS.]
Whilst his mind was thus unhinged by fanaticism, he often reflected on
the king's breach of promise in not compelling the Huguenots to return
to the Catholic Church, and determined to go to Paris to admonish him to
neglect this duty no longer. Arrived at Paris, he went frequently to the
Louvre, and in vain begged many persons to introduce him to his Majesty.
One of those applied to was Father Daubigny, a Jesuit, whom he informed
not only of his desire to speak to the king, but of his wish to join
the famous Order. Daubigny advised him to dismiss all these thoughts
from his mind and to confine himself to bead-telling and prayer; but
Ravaillac profited little by the counsel, and, under the conviction
that Henri ought to make war on the Huguenots, took to loitering
constantly about the Court, in hope of a chance interview with his
Majesty.
[Illustration: QUAI DU LOUVRE.--ÎLE DE LA CITÉ.--L'INSTITUT.
VIEW FROM THE PAVILLON DE FLORE.]
Some days later he happened to meet the king driving in a coach near St.
Innocents' Church. His desire to speak to him grew more ardent at the
prospect of success, and he ran up to the coach, exclaiming, "Sire, I
address you in the name of our Lord Jesus and of the Blessed Virgin."
But the king put him back with his stick, and would not hear him. After
this repulse, despairing of being able to influence his Majesty by
admonition, he determined to kill him. But he could come to no decision
as to the mode of executing his design, and after a time returned to
Angoulême.
[Illustration: THE PONT-NEUF AND THE MINT.]
He continued in a state of intense anxiety, sometimes considering his
project of assassination as praiseworthy, sometimes as unlawful. Shortly
afterwards he attended Mass in the monastery of the Franciscan Friars
at Angoulême, and going afterwards to confession, admitted, among other
things, an intention to murder, though without saying that Henri was the
proposed victim. Nor did the confessor inquire as to the details of the
crime. Still restless and disturbed, Ravaillac went back to Paris, and
on entering the city, found his desire to kill the king intensified. He
took lodgings close to the Louvre: but not liking his rooms, went to an
inn in the neighbourhood to see if accommodation could be had there. The
inn was full; but whilst Ravaillac conversed with the landlord, his eye
happened to be attracted by a knife, sharp-pointed and double-edged,
that lay on the table; and it occurred to him that here was a fit
instrument for his purpose. He accordingly took occasion to convey it
away under his doublet, and having had a new handle made for it, carried
it about in his pocket.
But he faltered in his resolution, and abandoning it once more, set out
on his way home. As he went along he somehow broke the point of his
knife. At an inn where he stopped for refreshment he heard some soldiers
talking about a design on the part of the king to make war against the
Pope, and to transfer the Holy See to Paris. On this, his determination
returned strong upon him and going out of the inn, he gave his knife
a fresh point by rubbing it against a stone, and then turned his face
towards Paris.
Arrived at the capital a third time, he felt an inclination to make a
full confession of his design to a priest; and would have done so had he
not been aware that the Church is obliged to divulge any secrets which
concern the State.
Henceforth he never once relinquished his purpose. But he still felt
such doubts as to whether it were not sinful that he would no longer
receive the Sacrament, lest, harbouring his project all the while, he
should unworthily eat.
Without hope of gaining admission to the king in his palace, he now
waited for him with unwearied assiduity at the gates. At last, on the
17th of May, 1610, he saw him come out in a coach, and followed him
for some distance, until the vehicle was stopped by two carts, which
happened to get in the way. Here, as the king was leaning his head to
speak to M. d'Epernon, who sat beside him, Ravaillac, in a frenzy,
fancied he heard a voice say to him, "Now is the time; hasten, or it
will be too late!" Instantly he rushed up to the coach, and standing on
a spoke of the wheel, drew his knife and struck the king in the side.
Finding, however, the knife impeded by one of the king's ribs, he gave
him another--and this time a fatal--blow near the same place.
The king cried out that he was slain, and Ravaillac was seized by a
retired soldier of the guard. When searched, he was found to have upon
him a paper painted with the arms of France, and with a lion on each
side, one holding a key, the other a sword. Above he had written these
words: "The name of God shall not be profaned in my presence." There
was also discovered a rosary and a piece of a certain root in the shape
of a heart, which he had obtained as a charm against fever from the
Capuchins, who assured him that it had inside it a piece of the real
cross of the Saviour. "This, however," says an ingenuous chronicler,
"when the heart was broken, proved to be false."
Ravaillac was first examined by the President of the Parliament and
several commissioners as to his motives for committing the crime, and as
to whether he had accomplices. During the interrogation he often wept,
and said that though at the time he believed the assassination to be
a meritorious action, he now felt convinced that this was a delusion
into which he had been suffered to fall as a punishment for his sins.
He expressed the deepest contrition for his offence, and implored the
Almighty to give him grace to continue till death in firm faith, lively
hope, and perfect charity.
He denied that he had any confederate, and on being requested to say
at whose instigation he did the deed, replied indignantly that it
originated entirely with himself, and that for no reward would he have
slain his king. He answered all other questions with great calmness and
humility, and when he signed his confession, wrote beneath the signature
these lines:--
"Que toujours en mon coeur
Jésus soit le vainqueur."
In spite, however, of Ravaillac's protests, at this and at a subsequent
examination, that he was quite without advisers, abettors, or
accomplices, the examiners would not believe him, and he was ordered to
be put to the torture of the _brodequin_, or boot. This instrument, like
its English counterpart, was a strong wooden box, made in the form of a
boot, just big enough to contain both the legs of the criminal. When his
legs had been enclosed, a wedge was driven in with a mallet between the
knees; and after this had been forced quite through, a second, and even
a third wedge was employed in the same way.
Ravaillac, having been sworn, was placed on a wooden bench, when the
_brodequin_ was fitted to his legs. On the first wedge being driven in,
he cried out: "God have mercy upon my soul and pardon the crime I have
committed; I never disclosed my intention to anyone." When the second
wedge was applied he uttered horrid cries and shrieks, and exclaimed:
"I am a sinner: I know no more than I have declared. I beseech the
Court not to drive my soul to despair. Oh God! accept these torments in
satisfaction for my sins." A third wedge was then driven in lower, near
his feet, on which his whole body broke into a sweat. Being now quite
speechless, he was released, water was thrown in his face, and wine
forced down his throat. He soon recovered by these means, and was then
conducted to chapel by the executioner. But religious exhortation only
caused him to repeat once more that he had no associate of any kind in
connection with his crime.
At three in the afternoon of the 27th of May, 1610, he was brought from
the chapel and put into a tumbril, the crowd in all directions being so
great that it was with the utmost difficulty that the archers forced a
passage. As soon as the prisoner appeared before the public gaze he was
loaded with execrations from every side.
After he had ascended the scaffold he was urged by two spiritual
advisers to think of his salvation while there was time, and to confess
all he knew; but he answered precisely as before. As there seemed to
be a prospect of the murderer getting absolution from the Church, a
great outcry was raised, and many persons cried out that he belonged
to the tribe of Judas, and must not be forgiven either in this world
or the next. Ravaillac argued the point thus raised, maintaining that
having made his confession he was entitled to absolution, and that the
priest was bound by his office to give it. The priest replied that the
confession had been incomplete, and, therefore, insincere, and that
absolution must be refused until Ravaillac named his accomplices. The
criminal declared once more that he had no accomplices; and it was at
last arranged that he should be absolved on certain conditions.
"Give me absolution," he said: "at least conditionally, in case what I
say should be true."
"I will," replied the confessor, "on this stipulation: that in case
it is not true your soul, on quitting this life--as it must shortly
do--goes straight to hell and the devil, which I announce to you on the
part of God as certain and infallible."
"I accept and believe it," he said, "on that condition."
Fire and brimstone were then applied to his right hand, in which he had
held the knife used for the assassination, and at the same time his
breast and other fleshy parts of his body were torn by red-hot pincers.
Afterwards, at intervals, melted lead and scalding oil were poured into
his wounds. During the whole time he uttered piteous cries and prayers.
Finally, he was pulled in different directions for half-an-hour by four
horses, though without being dismembered. The multitude, impatient to
see the murderer in pieces, threw themselves upon him, and with swords,
knives, sticks, and other weapons, tore, mangled, and finally severed
his limbs, which they dragged through the streets, and then burned in
different parts of the city. Some of these wretches went so far as to
cut off portions of the flesh, which they took home to burn quietly by
their firesides.
Apart from his own violent death, more than one tragic story is
connected with the memory of Henri IV. Close to the Hôtel de Ville
stands the Hôtel de Sens, where, in December, 1605, lived Marguerite
de Valois, the divorced wife of Henri IV. Already in her fifty-fifth
year, this lady had by no means abandoned the levity of her youth. She
had two lovers, both of whom were infatuated with her. The one she
preferred, Saint-Julien by name, had a rival in the person of a mere
boy of eighteen, named Vermond, who had been brought up beneath the
queen's eyes. On the 5th of April, 1606, Marguerite, returning from
Mass, drove up to the Hôtel de Sens at the very moment when Vermond and
Saint-Julien were quarrelling about her. Saint-Julien rushed to open the
carriage door, when Vermond drew a pistol and shot him dead. The queen
"roared," according to a contemporary account, "like a lioness." "Kill
him!" she cried. "If you have no arms, take my garter and strangle him."
The people whom her Majesty was addressing contented themselves with
pinioning the young man. The next morning a scaffold was raised before
the Hôtel de Sens, and Vermond had his head cut off in the presence of
Marguerite, who, from one of the windows of her mansion, looked on at
the execution. Then her strength gave way, and she fainted. The same
evening she quitted the Hôtel de Sens, never to return to it.
At the time of the Revolution the mob attacked the statue of Henri
IV. on the Pont-Neuf, overturned it from its pedestal, and virtually
destroyed it. The present monument was erected by public subscription
after the Restoration in 1814, and on the 25th of August, 1818, was
inaugurated by Louis XVIII. In the pedestal is enclosed a magnificent
copy of Voltaire's epic "La Henriade." The low reliefs which adorn the
pedestal of this admirable equestrian statue represent, on the southern
side, Henri IV. distributing provisions in the besieged city of Paris;
on the northern side, the victorious king proclaiming peace from the
steps of Notre-Dame.
It has been said that the Pont-Neuf is traditionally famous for its
solidity. In spite of this doubtless well-deserved reputation, the
ancient bridge seemed, in 1805, on the point of giving way. Changes
in the bed of the river had led to a partial subsidence of two of the
arches supporting the smaller arm of the bridge. The necessary repairs,
however, were executed, and the bridge's reputation for strength
permanently restored.
Among the many interesting stories told in connection with the Pont-Neuf
may be mentioned one in which a famous actress of the early part of
this century, Mlle. Contat, plays a part. She happened to be out in
her carriage, and after a fashion then prevalent among the ladies of
Paris, was driving herself, when, holding the reins with more grace
than skill, she nearly ran over a pedestrian who was crossing the
bridge at the same time as herself. In those days, when side-walks for
pedestrians were unknown, the whole of the street being given up to
people with carriages, it was easy enough to get run over; and Mercier,
in his "Tableau de Paris," speaks again and again of the accidents that
occurred through the haughty negligence and recklessness of carriage
folk, and even of hirers of hackney coaches. A sufferer in these rather
one-sided collisions was generally held to be in the wrong, and Mlle.
Contat reproached her victim with having deliberately attempted to throw
himself under her horses' feet. The pedestrian took the blame gallantly
upon himself, bowed to the ground, offered the lady an apology, paid her
a graceful compliment, and disappeared. Scarcely had he done so when
the actress felt convinced, from his courtly manners and distinguished
air, that she must have been on the point of mangling some personage
of high rank, and for a long time she felt extremely curious to know
who he could be. One night, about a month after the incident, when she
was at the theatre, a letter from the gentleman whom she had accused of
getting in the way of her horses was delivered to her. He proved to be
not merely a person of high quality, as she had guessed, but a real live
prince: Prince Henry, brother of the King of Prussia. He was a friend,
moreover, of the drama; and he had written to beg "the modern Athalie"
to do him the honour to preside at the rehearsal of a new piece in which
he was interested. Partly for the sake of the piece, but principally
for that of the man whom she was so near running over, Mlle. Contat
complied with the prince's request. The piece was a comedy, with airs
written by Baron Ernest von Manteuffel, and set to music by a composer
of the day. The subject was extremely interesting, and Mlle. Contat saw
that this musical comedy might prove an immense success at the Théâtre
Français, where, being duly produced, it fully realised the actress's
anticipations. "Les deux Pages" it was called; and the author, Prussian
as he was, had written it in the French language, with which at that
time the Court and aristocracy of Prussia were more familiar than with
their own tongue. It will be remembered that Frederick the Great (who,
by the way, was the leading personage in "Les deux Pages") wrote the
whole of his very voluminous works in French.
[Illustration: STATUE OF HENRI IV. ON THE PONT-NEUF.]
Mercier, in his "Tableau de Paris," published at London in 1780
(its publication would not have been permitted at Paris), gives an
interesting account of the Pont-Neuf as it existed in his time. "This,"
he says, "is the greatest thoroughfare in Paris. If you are in quest
of anyone, native or foreigner, there is a moral certainty of your
meeting with him there in the space of two hours, at the outside. The
police-runners are convinced of this truth; here they lurk for their
prey, and if, after a few days' look-out, they do not find it, they
conclude with a certainty nearly equal to evidence that the bird is
flown. The most remarkable monument of popular gratitude may be seen
on this bridge--the statue of Henri IV. And if the French cannot boast
of having in reality a good prince, they may comfort themselves in
contemplating the effigy of a monarch whose like they will never see
again. At the foot of the bridge, a large phalanx of crimps--commonly
called dealers in human flesh--have established their quarters,
recruiting for their colonels, who sell the victims wholesale to the
king. They formerly had recourse to violent means, but are now only
permitted to use a little artifice, such as the employment of soldiers'
trulls for their decoy-ducks, and plying with liquors those youngsters
who are fond of the juice of the grape. Sometimes, especially at
Martinmas and on Shrove Tuesday, which are sacred in a peculiar manner
to gluttony and drunkenness, they parade about the avenues leading to
the bridge, some with long strings of partridges, hares, etc.; others
jingling sacks full of half-crowns to tickle the ears of the gaping
multitude; the poor dupes are ensnared, and, under the delusion that
they are going to sit down to a sumptuous dinner, are in reality
hastening to the slaughter-house. Such are the heroes picked out to be
the support and pillars of the State; and these future great men--a
world of conquerors in embryo--are purchased at the trifling price of
five crowns a head."
Among the remarkable incidents which the Pont-Neuf has witnessed during
its three centuries of existence must be mentioned certain amateur
robberies, committed by gentlemen of the highest position. The Duke of
Orleans is said to have set the fashion, which, one stormy night, after
prolonged libations, was imitated by the Chevalier de Rieux, the Count
de Rochefort, and a number of friends more unscrupulous than themselves.
The count and the chevalier, though the only ones of the party who got
arrested, played the mild part of lookers-on, taking their seats on
Henri IV.'s bronze horse, while the actual work of highway robbery was
being done by their companions. In due time, however, after several
of the passers-by had been plundered of their cloaks, the watch was
called, when the active robbers took to flight, whereas their passive
accomplices, unable to get down all at once from the back of the bronze
horse, were made prisoners, and kept for some time in confinement.
Mazarin, indeed, was so glad to have his enemy, the Count de Rochefort,
in his power, that he could scarcely be prevailed upon to let him out at
all.
[Illustration: THE INSTITUTE.]
On the left bank of the Seine, at the very foot of the Pont-Neuf, stands
the Institute of France, with its various academies, of which the most
famous is that devoted to literature, the Académie Française, where,
said Piron, "there are forty members who have as much learning as four."
"This establishment," writes Mercier somewhat bitterly, but with much
truth, "was set on foot by Richelieu, whose every undertaking constantly
tended to despotism. Nor has he in this institution deviated from the
rule, for the Academy is manifestly a monarchical establishment. Men of
letters have been enticed to the capital like the grandees, and with the
same object: namely, to keep a better watch over them. The consequence
is fatal to the progress of knowledge, because every writer aspiring
to a seat in that modern Areopagus knows that his success depends on
Court favour, and therefore does everything to merit this by sacrificing
to the Goddess of Flattery, and preferring mean adulation that brings
him academical honours to the useful, manly, and legitimate employment
of his talents in the instruction of mankind. Hence the Academy
enjoys no manner of consideration either at home or abroad. Paris is
the only place where it can support any kind of dignity, though it is
even there sorely badgered by the wits of the capital, who, expecting
from it neither favour nor friendship, point all their epigrammatical
batteries against its members. There is, in fact, but too much room for
pleasantry and keen sarcasm. Is it not extremely ridiculous that forty
men, two-thirds of whom owe their admission to intrigue or fawning,
should be by patent created arbiters of taste in literature, and enjoy
the exclusive privilege of judging for the rest of their countrymen? But
their principal function has been to circulate and suppress new-coined
words; regulating the pronunciation, orthography, and idioms of the
French language. Is this a service or injury to the language? I should
think the latter.
"Instead of becoming, as they ought to do, the oracle of the age and
their nation, our men of letters content themselves with being the echo
of that dread tribunal; hence the abject state of literature in the
capital. We have some, however, who boldly think for themselves, trust
to the judgment of the public, and laugh at the award of the Academy.
Nothing can better mark the contempt in which a few spirited writers
hold the decrees of the forty forestallers of French wit and refinement
than the following epitaph which the author above cited, the terror of
Voltaire, the scourge of witlings, Piron, ordered to be engraved on his
tombstone:--
"'Cy gît Piron, qui ne fut rien,
Pas même Académicien.'"
Many very distinguished writers have, in every generation since the
birth of the Academy, been included among its members. Very few,
however, of the forty members have at any one time been men of genuine
literary distinction; a duke who has written a pamphlet, an ambassador
who has published a volume, having always had a better chance of
election than a popular novelist or dramatist. M. Arsène Houssaye has
written a book entitled "The Forty-first Chair," which is intended to
show, and does show, that the greatest writer of each successive period,
from Molière to Balzac, has always been left out of the Academy: has
occupied, that is to say, "the forty-first chair." M. Alphonse Daudet,
to judge by his brilliant novel "L'Immortel," has no better opinion of
the French Academy than had Arsène Houssaye some forty years ago, when
his ingenious indirect attack upon the Academy was first published.
The Pont-Neuf was, for a considerable time after its first construction,
the most important highway in Paris. It connected Paris of the left
bank with Paris of the right, and old Paris, the so-called Cité,
with both. It was the only bridge of importance; and what is now the
greatest thoroughfare of Paris--the line of boulevards--was not yet
in existence. The Pont-Neuf dates from the reign of Henri IV.; the
boulevards from that of Louis XIV. Long, moreover, after it had ceased
to be fashionable, the Pont-Neuf remained popular by reason of the vast
stream of passengers perpetually crossing it in either direction. It was
much in favour with itinerant dealers of all kinds, and equally so with
beggars. Even in our own time it was on the Pont-Neuf that _Les deux
Aveugles_ of Offenbach deceived the public and exchanged confidences
with one another. The plague of beggars is nothing, however, in these
days, compared with what it was before the Revolution. "Who," asks
a writer of the latter part of the eighteenth century, "seeing the
populace of Paris ever merry, and the rich glittering in all the gaudy
pomp of luxury, would believe that the streets of the metropolis are
infested with swarms of beggars, were not the eye at every turn of the
street shocked with some distressing spectacle, truly disgusting to
the sight of every stranger who is not lost to all sense of humanity?
Nothing has yet been done to remove this evil, and the methods hitherto
practised have proved to be remedies worse than the disease. Amongst
the ancients there was a class of people that might be called poor, but
none reduced to absolute indigence. The very slaves were clothed, fed,
had their friends; nor does any historian say that the towns and streets
were full of those wretched, disgusting objects which either excite pity
or freeze charity itself: wretches covered with vermin did not then
go about the streets uttering groans that reach the very heart, and
exhibiting wounds that frighten the eye of every passenger.
"This abuse springs from the nature of the legislation itself--more
ready to preserve large fortunes than small. Let our new schemers say
what they will, great proprietors are a nuisance in the State. They
cover the lands with forests and stock them with fawns and deer; they
lay out pleasure-gardens; and thus the oppression and luxury of the
great is daily crushing the most unfortunate part of the community. In
the year 1769 not only beggars, but even the poorer class of citizens
were treated with much savage barbarity by secret orders from the
Government. In the very dead of night old men, women, and children
were suddenly seized upon, deprived of their liberty, and thrown into
loathsome gaols, without the assignment of any cause for so cruel a
treatment. The pretence was that indigence is the parent of crimes, that
seditions generally begin among that class of people who, having nothing
to lose, have nought to fear. The ministers who then wished to establish
the corn-law dreaded the effect it would have on that world of indigent
wretches, driven to despair, as they would be, by the advanced price of
bread which was then to be imposed. Their oppressors said: 'They must
be smothered;' and they were. As this was the most effectual method of
silencing them, the Government never took the trouble to devise any
other. When we cast an eye abroad, it is then we are convinced of the
forlorn condition in which our lower sort of people drag out their
miserable life. The Spaniard can cheaply provide himself with food
and raiment. Wrapped up in his cloak, the earth is his bed; he sleeps
soundly, and wakes without anxiety for his next meal. The Italians work
little, and are in no want of the necessaries, or even luxuries, of
life. The English, well fed, strong and hale, happy and free, reap and
enjoy undisturbed the fruits of their industry. The Swede is content
with his glass of brandy. The Russian, whom no foresight disturbs, finds
abundance in the bosom of slavery; but the Parisians, poor and helpless,
sinking under the burden of unremitting toils and fatigue, ever at the
mercy of the great, who crush them like vile insects whenever they
attempt to raise their voice, earn, at the sweat of their brow, a scanty
subsistence, which only serves to lengthen their lives, without leaving
them anything to look forward to in their old age but indigence, or,
what is worse, part of a bed in the hospital."
The Pont-Neuf was always crowded when anything was coming off on the
neighbouring Place de Grève, where Ravaillac was tortured and torn to
pieces, and where, in the next century, like horrors were perpetrated
upon the body of Damiens, who had attacked Louis XV. with a pen-knife
and inflicted upon him a slight scratch. The Place de Grève has now lost
its old historic name, and is called the Place de l'Hôtel-de-Ville.
In the open space where Ravaillac and Damiens were subjected to such
abominable cruelty, and where so many criminals of various kinds and
classes were afterwards to be broken and beaten to death, the guillotine
was at a later date set up.
"The executioner in Paris," says Mercier (writing just before the
Revolution of 1789), "enjoys a revenue of no less than 18,000 livres
(£720). His figure is perfectly well known to the populace; he is for
them the greatest tragedian. Whenever he exhibits they crowd round his
temporary stage: our very women, even those whom rank and education
should inspire with the mildest sentiments, are not the last to share
in the horrid spectacles he provides. I have seen some of these
delicate creatures, whose fibres are so tender, so easily shaken, who
faint at the sight of a spider, look unconcerned upon the execution
of Damiens, being the last to avert their eyes from the most dreadful
punishment that ever was devised to avenge an offended monarch. The
_bourreau_, although his employment brands him with infamy, has no badge
to distinguish him from the rest of the citizens; and this is a great
mistake on the part of the Government, particularly noticeable when he
executes the dreadful commands of the law. It is not only ridiculous:
it is shocking in the extreme, to see him ascend the ladder, his head
dressed and profusely powdered; with a laced coat, silk stockings, and
a pair of as elegant pumps as ever set off the foot of the most refined
_petit-maître_. Should he not be clad in garments more suitable to the
minister of death? What is the consequence of so gross an absurdity? A
populace not overburdened with the sense of sympathy are all taken up
with admiration for the handsome clothes and person of our Breakbones.
Their attention is engrossed by the elegant behaviour and appearance of
this deputy of the King of Terrors; they have hardly a thought to bestow
upon the malefactor, and not one on his sufferings. Of course, then,
the intention of the law is frustrated. The dreadful example meant to
frighten vice from its criminal course has no effect on the mind of the
spectator, much more attentive to the point ruffles and the rich clothes
of the man whose appearance should concur in adding to the solemnity
than to the awful memento set up by a dire necessity to enforce the
practice of virtue by showing that he who lives in crime must die in
infamy. The executioner, from the stigma inherent to his profession,
and of course to himself, cannot hope to form alliances among the other
ranks of citizens. The very populace, though as well versed in the
history of the hangman and the malefactors as the upper classes are
in that of the sovereigns of Europe and their ministers, would think
it a disgrace to intermarry with his family to the latest generation.
It is not many years since the Bourreau of Paris publicly advertised
that he was ready to bestow the hand of his daughter, with a portion of
one hundred thousand crowns, on any native Frenchman who would accept
it, and agree to succeed him in business. The latter clause would have
staggered avarice itself; but the executioner of Paris was obliged to
follow the practice of his predecessors in office, and marry his heiress
to a provincial executioner. These gentlemen, in humble imitation of our
bishops, take their surnames from the cities where they are settled, and
among themselves it is 'Monsieur de Paris,' 'Monsieur de Rouen,' etc.
etc."
[Illustration: THE PONT-NEUF FROM THE ISLAND.]
Besides breaking the bones of the criminals entrusted to his charge,
torturing them in various ways, and ultimately putting them to death,
the executioner, under the old régime, had sometimes to perform upon
books, which he solemnly burnt on the Place de Grève. Russia, Turkey,
and the Roman Court are now the only Powers in Europe which maintain
a censorship over books. But the custom of burning objectionable
volumes, instead of simply pronouncing against them and forbidding
their circulation, belongs altogether to the past. Plenty of books were
forbidden in France under the First and Second Empire; and when the
infamous Marquis de Sade sent Napoleon one of his disgraceful works,
the emperor replied by ordering the man to be arrested and confined in
a lunatic asylum. Under the Restoration many a volume was proscribed;
but since the great Revolution of 1789 no Government in France has
ventured to restore the custom of having a condemned book burnt by
the executioner. When, in connection with the contest on the subject
of the Church's relationship with the stage, a very able pamphlet was
published, proving by the laws of France that the excommunication
levelled against the stage was an illegal and scandalous imposition,
it got condemned to be burnt in the Place de Grève by the executioner.
Whereupon Voltaire, indignant at the barbarity of such a punishment,
brought out, anonymously, another pamphlet in defence of the cremated
one, when this, in its turn, was sentenced to the flames. Doubtless the
writer foresaw the fate of his little volume, for the tract in question
contained the suggestive remark that, "if the executioner were presented
with a complimentary copy of every work he was ordered to burn, he would
soon possess a handsome and very valuable library."
"Monsieur de Paris" was accustomed in his best days to burn live witches
as well as newly-published books; and the cremation of these unhappy
wretches gave him at times much occupation.
[Illustration: STATUE OF HENRY IV. (PONT-NEUF).--THE LOUVRE.
VIEW FROM THE WESTERN POINT OF THE ILE DE LA CITÉ.]
Without by any means introducing magic into France, Catherine de Medicis
did her best to encourage magical practices; and in succeeding reigns
the very people who, under her auspices, had cultivated relations with
the fiend were punished for their tamperings with the supernatural.
Catherine patronised astrologers and sorcerers of all kinds; and she
was accused of holding in the woods _levées_ of magicians, who arrived
at the place of meeting on flying goats, winged horses, or even simple
broomsticks. The assembly, according to popular rumour, began at night,
and ended with cock-crow. The place selected for the "Sabbath" was
lighted by a single lamp, which cast a melancholy light, and intensified
rather than dispelled the prevailing darkness. The president of the
"Sabbath" was the fiend in person, who took his seat on a high throne,
clad with the skin of a goat or of an immense black poodle. On his right
was the solitary lamp, on his left a man or woman who had charge of the
powders or ointments which it was customary to distribute among those
present. The ointments were supposed to enable the members of these
strange associations to recognise one another by the smell. But there
is so much that is evidently false and so little that is apparently
true in the accounts transmitted to us of these witches' Sabbaths,
that the only thing worth noting in connection with them is that they
possessed the privilege of interesting Catherine de Medicis. The secret
meetings of the Templars, the Anabaptists, and the Albigenses have
all been represented as assemblies of sorcerers. In the "History of
Artois," by Dom de Vienne, it is said that the Inquisition established
in the province caused many unfortunate Waldenses to be burnt alive in
consequence of diabolical practices, "to which," as the Inquisition
declared, "they themselves confessed."
It may well be that the severity of the tortures inflicted on the
accused, and the promise held out to them of forgiveness in case of
avowal, induced many of them to admit the truth of charges without
basis. The province of La Brie would seem during the magical times
of Catherine de Medicis to have been inhabited almost entirely by
sorcerers--by people, that is to say, who either considered themselves
such or were so considered. The shepherds and herdsmen of the province
possessed, it was said, the power of putting to death the sheep and
cattle of their neighbours by burying various kinds of enchantments
beneath the paths along which the animals were sure to pass. Some of
these wonder-working shepherds were taken and prosecuted, when they
confessed in many cases that they had exercised various kinds of
bedevilments on the beasts of certain farmers. They made known the
composition of their infernal preparations, but refused to state where
they were buried, declaring that if they were dug up the person who had
deposited them would immediately die. Whether the reputed sorcerers
possessed the secret of some chemical mixtures which had really an
injurious effect on cattle, or whether they were merely actuated by
vain fancies, it would be impossible at the present time to say. But
many shepherds and herdsmen of La Brie were, towards the end of the
seventeenth century, condemned and executed for magical practices. Thus
two shepherds, named Biaule and Lavaux, were sentenced by the same judge
to be hanged and burnt; and the sentence, after being confirmed by the
Parliament of Paris, was put into effect on the 18th of December, 1691.
Magical practices have been denounced by more than one Church council;
nor were incantations and witchcraft supposed by any means to be
confined to the ignorant classes. Pharamond passed for the son of an
incubus; and the mother of Clovis for a witch. Frédégonde accused
Clovis, son of her husband Chilpéric and a former wife, of sorcery;
and it was not until the reign of Charlemagne that any endeavour was
made to destroy the popular belief in magic. After Charlemagne's
death witchcraft took a greater hold on the public mind than ever;
and ridiculous historians wrote that Queen Berthe had given birth to
a gosling and that Bertrade was a witch. Philip the Bold consulted a
sorceress. The madness of Charles VI. and the influence exercised upon
him by Valentine of Milan were ascribed to magic; and it was as a witch
that the Maid of Orleans was burnt.