into a quite delightful public park. Among the forest of trees are many
remains of the ancient citadel, masses of tumbled masonry, a half-buried
arch or a stone doorway. There are indications also of the foundations
of the old cathedral. The view from the platform on the summit is very
fine, while at the foot are the jumbled roofs of old Nice. It is easy to
appreciate how strong a fortress it was and how it proved to be
impregnable to the forces of Barbarossa in the siege of 1543. It is a
hill with a great history, illumined with great memories, but these are
not encouraged by the stall for postcards and the refreshment bar which
now occupy the place of the old donjon.
-----
[2] “La Province des Alpes Maritimes,” 1902.
[3] So named after King Victor Amadeus III of Sardinia.
[4] The strange wanderings of Paganini after death are dealt with in the
account of Villefranche (page 114).
[5] A good photograph of this staircase will be found in Mr. Loveland’s
“Romance of Nice,” page 146.
V
THE SIEGE OF NICE
NICE, as has been already stated, was many times besieged. If there be a
condition among towns that may be called “the siege habit” then Nice had
acquired it. The most memorable assault upon the place was in 1543. It
was so gallant an affair that it is always referred to as _the_ siege of
Nice.
It was an incident of the war between Charles V and François I, King of
France. A treaty had been entered into between these two sovereigns
which is commemorated to this day by the Croix de Marbre in the Rue de
France. Charles V thought fit to regard this obligation as “a scrap of
paper” and declared war upon the French king. The French at once started
to attack Nice which was conveniently near to the frontier and at the
same time an important stronghold of the enemy.
Now in these days business entered largely into the practical affairs of
warfare. A combatant must obviously have a fighting force. If he
possessed an inadequate army he must take means to supplement it. He
must hire an army on the best terms he could and in accord with the
hire-system arrangement of the time. Professional warriors were numerous
enough and were as eager for a temporary engagement as are “supers” at a
pantomime. They could not be obtained through what would now be called a
Registry Office; but there were contractors or war-employment agents who
could supply the men _en masse_.
François I, when the war began, found himself very ill provided with
fighting men and especially with seamen and ships, for Nice was a port.
He naturally, therefore, applied to the nearest provider of war material
and was able to secure no less a man than Barbarossa the pirate.
It is necessary to speak more fully about this talented man; for in all
popular accounts of the great siege of Nice two persons alone are
pre-eminent; two alone occupy the stage—a pirate and a laundress,
Barbarossa and Segurana. Hariadan Barbarossa was a pirate by profession,
or as some would style him who prefer the term, a corsair. His sphere of
activity was the Mediterranean and especially the shores of Africa. He
had done extremely well and, as the result of diligent robbery with
violence pursued for many years, he had acquired territory in Tunis
where he reigned as a kind of caliph. He was not a Moor nor was he
black. He was a native of Mitylene. The name Barbarossa, or Redbeard,
had been given him apparently in part on account of his hair and in part
from the fact that his real name was unpronounceable. His exploits
attracted the attention of the Sultan of Turkey who was so impressed
with his ability that he took him into his service and made him Grand
Admiral of the Ottoman fleet. It was, therefore, with Turkish ships and
with Turkish men that Barbarossa came to the aid of the King of France.
The leader of the French troops was the Comte de Grignan. He seems,
however, to have been a person of small importance. Barbarossa was the
commanding figure, the leader and the hero of the drama.
The governor of Nice was a grey-headed warrior, one Andrea Odinet, Count
of Montfort. Barbarossa commenced operations on August 9th but before
his attack was delivered he sent a formal message to the governor
demanding the surrender of the town. The governor replied enigmatically
that his name was Montfort. Barbarossa probably perceived that the name
was appropriate, for the hill held by the enemy was strong. He further
informed the pirate that his family motto was “Bisogno tenere,” which
may be rendered “I am bound to hold on.” Having furnished these
biographical details he suggested that the Turkish admiral had a little
more to do than he could manage.
The position of the town, with its walls, its bastions and its gates,
has been already set forth in the preceding chapter. The main assault
was made on the north side of Nice, the special object of attack being
the Païroliera bastion which faced the spot now occupied by the Place
Garibaldi. The batteries opened fire and poured no fewer than three
hundred shots a day upon the unhappy city. This cannonade was
supplemented by that of one hundred and twenty galleys which were
anchored off the foot of Mont Boron.
By August 15th a breach was made in the Païroliera bastion, and the
Turks and the French moved together to the assault. They were thrown
back with fury. They renewed the attack, but were again repulsed and on
the third violent onrush were once more hurled back. At last, wearied
and disheartened, they retired, having lost heavily in men and having
suffered the capture of three standards.
The poor, battered town of Nice, with its small garrison, could not
however endure for long the incessant rain of cannon balls, the anxiety,
the perpetual vigil and the bursts of fighting; so after eleven days of
siege the lower town capitulated, leaving the _haute ville_, or Castle
Hill, still untaken.
Barbarossa appears to have dealt with that part of the city which he had
captured in quite the accepted pirate fashion and with great heartiness.
He destroyed as much of it as his limited leisure would permit, let
loose his shrieking Turks to run riot in the streets, set fire to the
houses and took away three thousand inhabitants as slaves.
Barbarossa—whatever his faults—was thorough.
There yet remained the problem of the upper town on the Castle Hill. It
was unshaken, untouched and as defiant as the precipice on which it
stood; while over the tower of the keep the banner of Nice floated
lazily in the breeze as if it heralded an autumn fête day. The Turkish
batteries thundered not against walls and bastions but against a solid
and indifferent rock. To scale the side of the cliff was not within the
power of man. The garrison on the height had little to do but wait and
count the cannon balls which smashed against the stone with as little
effect as eggshells against a block of iron.
[Illustration: NICE: A STREET IN THE OLD TOWN.]
The view is generally accepted that little is to be gained by knocking
one’s head against a stone wall. The general in command of the French
was becoming impressed with this opinion and was driven to adopt another
and more effective method of destroying Nice. In his camp were certain
traitors, deserters and spies who had sold themselves, body and soul, to
the attacking army. Conspicuous among these was Gaspard de Caïs (of whom
more will be heard in the telling of the siege of Eze), Boniface Ceva
and a scoundrel of particular baseness named Benoit Grimaldo, otherwise
Oliva. These mean rogues assured the French general that Nice could be
taken by treachery. They had co-conspirators in the town who were
anxious to help in destroying the place of their birth and were masters
of a plan which could not fail. Three Savoyard deserters offered their
services as guides; and one day, as the twilight was gathering, Benoit
Grimaldo, the three guides, and a party of armed men started out
cheerfully for the Castle Hill. On gaining access to the town they were
to make way for the body of the troops. The French to a man watched the
hill for the signal that would tell that the impregnable fortress had
been entered and, with arms in hand, were ready to spring forward to
victory.
Unfortunately one of the deserters had a conscience. His conscience was
so disturbed by qualms that the man was compelled to sneak to his
colonel and “tell him all.” It thus came to pass that Benoit and his
creeping company were met by a sudden fusillade which killed many of
them. The survivors fled. Grimaldo jumped into the sea and saved himself
by swimming. Later on—it may be mentioned—he was taken by some of his
old comrades of the Castle Hill and was hanged within sight of his own
home.
In this way did the siege of Nice come to an end, leaving the city
untaken and the flag still floating over the gallant height; while the
discomfited pirate sailed away for other fields of usefulness.[6]
It is necessary now to turn to the case of the laundress who shared with
Barbarossa the more dramatic glories of the siege. She is said, in
general terms, “to have fought valiantly and to have inspirited the
defenders by her example.” As to her exact deeds of valour there is some
obscurity in matters of detail and some conflict of evidence as to the
scope and purpose of her military efforts. If her capacity for
destroying Turks may be measured by the capacity of the modern laundress
for destroying linen she must have been an exceedingly formidable
personage. The story, as given by Baring-Gould, is as follows:[7]
“Catherine Segurane, a washerwoman, was carrying provisions on the wall
to some of the defenders when she saw that the Turks had put up a
scaling ladder and that a captain was leading the party and had reached
the parapet. She rushed at him, beat him on the head with her washing
bat and thrust him down the ladder which fell with all those on it. Then
hastening to the nearest group of Nicois soldiers she told them what she
had done, and they, electrified by her example, threw open a postern,
made a sortie, and drove the Turks back to the shore.”
Apart from the fact that the picture of a washerwoman strolling about in
the firing line with a laundry implement in her hand is hard to realise,
it must be added that certain French accounts and the story of Ricotti
differ materially from the narrative given. Ricotti speaks of Segurana
as a poor lady of Nice, aged thirty-seven, who was so ill-looking that
she went by the nickname of Donna Maufaccia or Malfatta which may be
rendered as Madame Ugly Face. She is said to have been possessed of rare
strength, to have been masculine in bearing and _ingrate_ or unpleasing
in her general aspect. She is described as having performed some feat of
strength with a Turkish standard that she had seized with her own hands.
According to one account she threw the standard into the moat and
according to another she planted it upside down on the top of Castle
Hill—a somewhat childish display of swagger.
From the rather ridiculous elements furnished by the various records a
composite story comes together which is as full of charm as a beautiful
allegory. It tells of no Joan of Arc with her youth, her handsome face,
her graceful carriage, her shining armour and her powerful friends. It
tells of a woman in a lowly position who was no longer young, who was
ugly and, indeed, unpleasant to look upon, who was the butt of her
neighbours and was branded with a cruel nickname by her own townfolk.
When the city was attacked and in the travail of despair this despised
woman, this creature to laugh at, came to the front, fought with noble
courage by the side of the men, shared their dangers and displayed so
fine and so daring a spirit that she put heart into a despairing
garrison, put life into a drooping cause and made victorious what had
been but a forlorn hope. It was the fire and patriotism and high resolve
that she aroused that saved the city she loved and earned for her the
name, for all time, of the Heroine of Nice. Poor Madame Ugly Face the
butt of the town!
-----
[6] Nostredame, “History of Provence,” 1614. Durante’s “History of
Nice,” 1823. Vol. ii. Ricotti, “Storia della monarchia piemontese,”
1861. Vol. i.
[7] “Riviera,” by S. Baring-Gould, 1905.
VI
CIMIEZ AND ST. PONS
BEHIND the city of Nice rises the well known hill of Cimiez, on the
gentle slope of which stand the great hotels. On the summit of the hill
was the Roman town of Cemenelum, which is said to have numbered 30,000
inhabitants and which was at the height of its glory before Nice itself
came into being. Through Cemenelum passed the great Roman road which ran
from the Forum of Rome to Arles. It approached Cimiez from Laghet and La
Trinité-Victor and traces of it are still indicated in this fashionable
colony of gigantic hotels and resplendent villas.
Few remains of the Roman settlement are now to be seen; for the Lombards
in the sixth century did their best to destroy it and after their
cyclonic passage the town became little more than a quarry for stones.
In the grounds of the Villa Garin is a structure of some size which is
assumed by the learned to have been part of a temple of Apollo, together
with minor fragments of walls which are claimed to have belonged to the
Thermæ.
The most important ruin in Cimiez is that of the amphitheatre. It is a
mere shell, but its general disposition is very clear. In addition to a
lower tier of seats there are remains of the upper rows which are
supported, as in the Coliseum, on arches. The vaulted porch at the main
entrance is in singular preservation. The arena measures 150 feet in one
axis and 115 feet in the other. It is, therefore, small and in the form
of a broad oval. A great deal of the structure is buried in the ground,
so that it is estimated that the original floor of the arena lies at
least ten feet below the existing surface. The ruins, much overgrown
with grass and brambles, have an aspect of utter desolation. It is said
that the natives call the spot _il tino delle fate_, or the fairies’
bath. If this be so there is assuredly more sarcasm in the conceit than
poetic merit, for the sorry parched-up ruin would better serve as a
penitentiary for ghosts. Through the centre of the amphitheatre passed
at one time the road from Cimiez to Nice. It is now closed and the
present road, with its tramlines, runs outside the walls of the
venerable building.
[Illustration: CIMIEZ: THE ROMAN AMPHITHEATRE]
Near the amphitheatre and on the crest of the hill is the monastery of
St. Francis of Assisi. It lies in a modest square, shaded by old ilex
trees. At one end of the square is the cross of Cimiez. It stands aloft
on a twisted column of marble. Upon the cross is carved the six-winged
seraph which appeared to St. Francis in a vision. This marvellous work
of art dates from the year 1477. The cross, like the column, is all
white and, standing up as it does against the deep green background of a
solemn elm, it forms an object of impressive beauty. Crosses in the open
are to be found throughout the whole of France, but there is no cross
that can compare with this.
The monastery was founded in 1543. The façade of the chapel, with its
bell towers on either side and its central gable over a pointed window,
is very simple. It is rather spoiled by a heavy arcade which, being
recently restored is harsh and crude. The interior of the chapel is
gracious and full of charm. It consists of a square nave flanked by
narrow aisles. The roof, vaulted and groined, is decorated with frescoes
and is supported by square columns of great size. At the far end, in a
deep and dim recess, is the altar. This chancel is cut off from the
church by a balustrade of white marble. Behind the altar is a high
screen of daintily carved wood, gilded and relieved by three niches. It
is a work of the sixteenth century.
Many churches offend by lavish and obtrusive ornament, by glaring
colours, by reckless splashes of bright gold, by excessive detail, all
of which give a sense of restlessness and discord. Such churches may not
unfitly be spoken of as “loud.” If that term be appropriate, then this
little shrine may be described as the chapel of a whisper. Its
fascination lies in its exquisite and tender colouring which conveys a
sense of supreme quietude and peace. It is difficult to say of what its
colouring consists for it is so delicate and so subdued. There is a
gentle impression of faint tints, of the lightest coral pink, of white,
of grey, of a hazy blue. The general effect is that of a piece of old
brocade, the colours of which are so faded and so soft that all details
of the pattern have been lost. The light in the church is that of summer
twilight. The altar is almost lost in the shadow. The screen behind it
is merely such a background of old gold as that upon which the face of a
saint was painted in the early days of art. The marble rail is a line of
white and in the gloom of the chancel is the light of one tiny red
lamp—a mere still spark.
In two of the side chapels are paintings by Ludovici Bréa of Nice of
about the year 1512. By the side of the church is the monastery which is
now deserted. A corridor leads to a little courtyard, with a well in the
centre, and around it a plain white-walled cloister. Beyond this is an
enclosed garden shut in also by a cloister of pale arches in the shadows
of which are the doors of the monastery cells. The garden is in a state
of utter neglect; but in it still flourish palms and bamboos, orange
trees and a few despondent flowers.
That side of the hill of Cimiez which looks towards the east is somewhat
steep, and the zigzag road which traverses it leads down to the broad,
open valley of the Paillon river. Near the foot of the hill and on a
little promontory just above the level floor of the valley stands the
Abbey of St. Pons. The name, St. Pons, is given to the district around
which forms a scattered suburb of Nice. The place is still green, for it
abounds with gardens and orange groves; but it is being “developed” and
is becoming a semi-industrial quarter, very devoid of attraction. There
are factories in St. Pons, together with workshops and depressing
houses, a tramline and—across the river—a desert of railway sidings.
It possesses many cafés which, on the strength of a few orange trees, a
palm or two and an arbour, make a meretricious claim to be rural. From
all these objects the abbey is happily removed; but its position is
neither so romantic nor so picturesque as its past history would
suggest.
The present abbey church is a drab, uninteresting building with a
prominent tower. It was built about the end of the sixteenth century.
The monastery is occupied by an asylum for the insane. The Abbey of St.
Pons is of great antiquity, since it dates from the eighth century and
it is claimed that Charlemagne sojourned there on two occasions. It
stands on the site of ancient Roman buildings, for numerous remains of
that period have been unearthed, among which are an altar to Apollo,
many sarcophagi and some inscribed stones.
There was also a convent at St. Pons long centuries ago. Its precise
position is a matter of doubt; for, so far as I can ascertain, no trace
of the building can now be pointed out with assurance. In the history of
St. Pons this convent plays a conspicuous, if momentary part. The
episode is deplorable for it concerns the dramatic circumstances under
which the convent came to an end.
[Illustration: CIMIEZ: THE MARBLE CROSS.]
[Illustration: CIMIEZ: THE MONASTERY WELL.]
VII
HOW THE CONVENT OF ST. PONS CAME TO AN END
ON a kindly afternoon in St. Martin’s summer, when the shadows were
lengthening and the beech woods were carpeted with copper and gold, a
party of gallants were making their way back to Nice after a day’s
ramble among the hills. It was in the year 1408, when this poor worried
world was still young and thoughtless. They were strolling idly down the
valley of St. Pons, loath to return to their cramped, dull palaces on
the Castle Hill, when a storm began to rumble up from the south and the
sky to become black and threatening. Slashed doublets and silken hose
and caps of miniver are soon made mean by the rain; so the question
arose as to a place of shelter.
At the moment when the first large ominous drops were falling the little
party chanced to be near by the convent of St. Pons. It is a bold thing
for a company of gay young men to approach a retreat of nuns; but the
wind was already howling, the blast was chill and these youths were
bold. The door was opened, not by an austere creature with a repellent
frown, but by a comely serving sister of joyous countenance. The youths,
adopting that abject humility which men assume when they find themselves
where they ought not to be, begged meekly for shelter from the rain.
Without demur and, indeed, with effusion the fair janitor bade them
welcome and asked them to come in. The young men, whose faces until now
were solemn, as was befitting to a sacred place, began to smile and to
appear normal. The serving sister, with a winning curtsey, said she
would call the abbess.
At this announcement the smile vanished from the lips of the refugees.
An abbess was a terrible and awe-inspiring thing, something that was
stout and red, imperious and chilling, inclined to wrath and very severe
in all matters relating to young men. A few turned as if to make for the
outer door; while one—who had held an outpost in a siege—whispered to
his friend “Now we are in for it!” After a period of acute suspense an
inner door opened and the abbess appeared. She was stout, it is true;
but it was a very comfortable, embrace-inviting stoutness. She was red;
but it was the ruddy glow of a ripe apple. Her face was sunny, her mouth
smiling and her manner warm. In age she was just past the meridian. She
was, indeed, the embodiment of St. Martin’s summer.
She greeted the new-comers with heartiness; laughed at their timidity;
asked them what they were frightened at and told them, with no
conventual restraint, that she was delighted to see them. When one
mumbled something about being driven in by the rain she said, with a coy
glance at her guests, that rain was much wanted just then about the
convent. She put them at their ease. She chattered and warbled as one
who loves to talk. Her voice rippled through the solemn hall like the
song of a full-breasted thrush. She asked them their names and what they
were doing. She wanted to hear the lighter gossip of Castle Hill and to
be told of the scrapes in which they were involved and of the bearing of
their lady loves. She twitted a handsome knight upon his good looks and
caused a shy seigneur to stammer till he blushed.
It must not be supposed that she was an ordinary abbess or a type of the
reverend lady who should control the lives and mould the conduct of
quiet nuns. Indeed the recorder of this chronicle viewed her with
disapproval and applied harsh terms to her; for in his description of
this merry, fun-loving and comfortable person he uses such disagreeable
expressions as _mondaine_ and _bonne viveuse_.[8]
As the rain was still beating on the convent roofs and as the young men
had travelled far the abbess invited them into the refectory, a white,
hollow room with bare table and stiff chairs. Here wine was placed
before them, of rare quality and in copious amount; while—sad as it may
be to tell the truth—nuns began to sidle timidly into the room, one by
one. Whatever might be the comment the fact cannot be concealed that the
grim refectory was soon buzzing with as merry a company as ever came
together and one very unusual within the walls of a convent.
The time was drawing near for the evening service. Whether the abbess
invited the young men to join in the devotions proper to the house, or
whether the young men, out of politeness, suggested that they should
attend I am unable to state, for the historian is silent upon this
point.
The service proceeded. The male members of the congregation were, I am
afraid, inattentive. They were tired; they had passed through an
emotional adventure and wine is soporific. They lolled in their seats;
some rested their heads on the bench before them; some dozed; some even
may have slept.
In a while the nuns began the singing of the “De Profundis” (Out of the
Depths). As they sang one voice could be heard soaring above the rest, a
voice clear and beautiful, vibrating with tenderness, with longing and
with infinite pathos. The young men remained unmoved save one. This one,
who had been lounging in a corner, suddenly awoke and was at once alert,
startled and alarmed. He clutched the seat in front of him as if he
would spring towards the spot whence the music came. His eyes, fixed on
the choir, glared as the eyes of one who sees a ghost. His countenance
bore the pallor of death. He trembled in every fibre of his body.