"The legend," says Gomme, in a passage most memorable for students of
folk-lore as containing his acute and precise definition of the
several classes of tradition, "belongs to an historical personage,
locality, or event,"[40] and it is in this general sense that the term
is employed in regard to the contents of this chapter, unless where
mythic or folk-lore matter is introduced for the sake of analogy or
illustration. There is, however, a broad, popular reading of the term
as indicating the fanciful-historical. When we read of the King of Ys,
or Arthur, for example, we are not aware whether they ever existed or
not, but they are alluded to by tradition as ancient rulers of
Brittany and Britain, just as Cymbeline and Cole are spoken of as
British monarchs of the distant past. They linger as personal figures
in the folk-memory, but they scarcely seem as the personages of
folk-tale. Let us say, then, for the purposes of our classification of
Breton tradition, that we include in the term 'legend' all tales of
great personal figures who are historical or over whom folk-tale has
cast an historical _vraisemblance_, remembering at the same time that
in the case of personages whose existence is doubtful we may be
dealing with a folk-tale disguised or even a distorted myth.
_The Dark Story of Gilles de Retz_
Of the dark and terrible legends to which Brittany has given birth,
one of the most gloomy and romantic is the story of Gilles de Retz,
alchemist, magician, and arch-criminal. But the story is not
altogether legendary, although it has undoubtedly been added to from
the great stores of tradition. Gilles is none other than the Bluebeard
of the nursery tale, for he appears to have actually worn a beard
bluish-black in hue, and it is probable that his personality became
mingled with that of the hero of the old Oriental story.
Gilles de Laval, Lord of Retz and Marshal of France, was connected
with some of the noblest families in Brittany, those of Montmorency,
Rocey, and Craon, and at his father's death, about 1424, he found
himself lord of many princely domains, and what, for those times, was
almost unlimited power and wealth. He was a handsome youth, lithe and
of fascinating address, courageous, and learned as any clerk. A
splendid career lay before him, but from the first that distorted idea
of the romantic which is typical of certain minds had seized upon him,
and despite his rank and position he much preferred the dark courses
which finally ended in his disgrace and ruin to the dignities of his
seigneury.
Gilles took his principal title from the barony of Retz or Rais, south
of the Loire, on the marches of Brittany. As a youth he did nothing to
justify an evil augury of his future, for he served with zeal and
gallantry in the wars of Charles VI against the English and fought
under Jeanne Darc at the siege of Orléans. In virtue of these
services, and because of his shrewdness and skill in affairs, the King
created him Marshal of France. But from that time onward the man who
had been the able lieutenant of Jeanne Darc and had fought by her side
at Jargeau and Patay began to deteriorate. Some years before he had
married Catherine de Thouars, and with her had received a large dowry;
but he had expended immense sums in the national cause, and his
private life was as extravagant as that of a prince in a fairy tale.
At his castle of Champtocé he dwelt in almost royal state; indeed, his
train when he went hawking or hunting exceeded in magnificence that of
the King himself. His retainers were tricked out in the most gorgeous
liveries, and his table was spread with ruinous abundance. Oxen,
sheep, and pigs were roasted whole, and viands were provided daily for
five hundred persons. He had an insane love of pomp and display, and
his private devotions were ministered to by a large body of
ecclesiastics. His chapel was a marvel of splendour, and was furnished
with gold and silver plate in the most lavish manner. His love of
colour and movement made him fond of theatrical displays, and it is
even said that the play or mystery of Orléans, dealing with the story
of Jeanne Darc, was written with his own hand. He was munificent in
his patronage of the arts, and was himself a skilled illuminator and
bookbinder. In short, he was obviously one of those persons of
abnormal character in whom genius is allied to madness and who can
attempt and execute nothing except in a spirit of the wildest excess.
The reduction of his fortune merely served his peculiar and abnormal
personality with a new excuse for extravagance. At this time the art
of alchemy flourished exceedingly and the works of Nicolas Flamel, the
Arabian Geber, and Pierre d'Estaing enjoyed a great vogue. On an evil
day it occurred to Gilles to turn alchemist, and thus repair his
broken fortunes. In the first quarter of the fifteenth century alchemy
stood for scientific achievement, and many persons in our own
enlightened age still study its maxims. A society exists to-day the
object of which is to further the knowledge of alchemical science. A
common misapprehension is current to the effect that the object of the
alchemists was the transmutation of the baser metals into gold, but in
reality they were divided into two groups, those who sought eagerly
the secret of manufacturing the precious metals, and those who dreamed
of a higher aim, the transmutation of the gross, terrestrial nature of
man into the pure gold of the spirit.
The latter of these aims was beyond the fevered imagination of such a
wild and disorderly mind as that of Gilles de Retz. He sent emissaries
into Italy, Spain, and Germany to invite adepts in the science to his
castle at Champtocé. From among these he selected two men to assist
him in his plan--Prelati, an alchemist of Padua, and a certain
physician of Poitou, whose name is not recorded. At their instigation
he built a magnificent laboratory, and when it was completed commenced
to experiment. A year passed, during which the necessities of the
'science' gradually emptied many bags of gold, but none returned to
the Marshal's coffers. The alchemists slept soft and fed sumptuously,
and were quite content to pursue their labours so long as the Seigneur
of Retz had occasion for their services. But as the time passed that
august person became greatly impatient, and so irritable did he grow
because of the lack of results that at length his assistants, in
imminent fear of dismissal, communicated to him a dark and dreadful
secret of their art, which, they assured him, would assist them at
arriving speedily at the desired end.
The nature of the experiment they proposed was so grotesque that its
acceptance by Gilles proves that he was either insane or a victim of
the superstition of his time. His wretched accomplices told him that
the Evil One alone was capable of revealing the secret of the
transmutation of the baser metals into gold, and they offered to
summon him to their master's aid. They assured Gilles that Satan would
require a recompense for his services, and the Marshal retorted that
so long as he saved his soul intact he was quite willing to conclude
any bargain that the Father of Evil might propose.
It was arranged that the ceremony should take place within a gloomy
wood in the neighbourhood. The nameless physician conducted the Lord
of Retz to a small clearing in this plantation, where the magic circle
was drawn and the usual conjurations made. For half an hour they
waited in silence, and then a great trembling fell upon the physician.
A deadly pallor overspread his countenance. His knees shook, he
muttered wildly, and at last he sank to the ground. Gilles stood by
unmoved. The insanity of egotism is of course productive of great if
not lofty courage, and he feared neither man nor fiend. Suddenly the
alchemist regained consciousness and told his master that the Devil
had appeared to him in the shape of a leopard and had growled at him
horribly. He ascribed Gilles' lack of supernatural vision to want of
faith. He then declared that the Evil One had told him where certain
herbs grew in Spain and Africa, the juices of which possessed the
power to effect the transmutation, and these he obligingly offered to
search for, provided the Lord of Retz furnished the means for his
travels. This Gilles gladly did, and of course never beheld the
Poitevin knave again.
Days and months passed and the physician did not return. Gilles grew
uneasy. It was imperative that gold should be forthcoming immediately,
for not only was he being pressed on every side, but he was unable to
support his usual magnificence. In this dilemma he turned to Prelati,
his remaining alchemical assistant. This man appears to have believed
in his art or he would not have made the terrible suggestion he did,
which was that the Lord of Retz should sign with his own blood a
compact with the Devil, and should offer up a young child in sacrifice
to him. To this proposal the unhappy Gilles consented. On the
following night Prelati quitted the castle, and returned shortly
afterward with the story that the fiend had appeared to him in the
likeness of a young man who desired to be called Barron, and had
pointed out to him the resting-place of a hoard of ingots of pure
gold, buried under an oak in the neighbouring wood. Certain
conditions, however, must be observed before the treasure was dug up,
the chief of which was that it must not be searched for until a period
of seven times seven weeks had elapsed, or it would turn into slates.
With these conditions de Retz would not comply, and, alarmed at his
annoyance, the obliging Prelati curtailed the time of waiting to seven
times seven days. At the end of that period the alchemist and his dupe
repaired to the wood to dig up the treasure. They worked hard for some
time, and at length came upon a load of slates, inscribed with magical
characters. Prelati pretended great wrath, and upbraided the Evil One
for his deceit, in which denunciation he was heartily joined by de
Retz. But so credulous was the Seigneur that he allowed himself to be
persuaded to afford Satan another trial, which meant, of course, that
Prelati led him on from day to day with specious promises and
ambiguous hints, until he had drained him of nearly all his remaining
substance. He was then preparing to decamp with his plunder when a
dramatic incident detained him.
[Illustration: THE DEVIL IN THE FORM OF A LEOPARD APPEARS BEFORE THE
ALCHEMIST]
For some time a rumour had been circulating in the country-side that
numerous children were missing and that they had been spirited away.
Popular clamour ran high, and suspicion was directed toward the castle
of Champtocé. So circumstantial was the evidence against de Retz that
at length the Duke of Brittany ordered both the Seigneur and his
accomplice to be arrested. Their trial took place before a commission
which de Retz denounced, declaring that he would rather be hanged like
a dog, without trial, than plead before its members. But the evidence
against him was overwhelming. It was told how the wretched madman, in
his insane quest for gold, had sacrificed his innocent victims on the
altar of Satan, and how he had gloated over their sufferings. Finally
he confessed his enormities and told how nearly a hundred children had
been cruelly murdered by him and his relentless accomplice. Both he
and Prelati were doomed to be burned alive, but in consideration of
his rank he was strangled before being cast into the flames. Before
the execution he expressed to Prelati a hope that they would meet in
Paradise, and, it is said, met his end very devoutly.
The castle of Champtocé still stands in its beautiful valley, and
many romantic legends cluster about its grey old walls. "The
hideous, half-burnt body of the monster himself," says Trollope,
"circled with flames--pale, indeed, and faint in colour, but more
lasting than those the hangman kindled around his mortal form in
the meadow under the walls of Nantes--is seen, on bright moonlight
nights, standing now on one topmost point of craggy wall, and now
on another, and is heard mingling his moan with the sough of the
night-wind. Pale, bloodless forms, too, of youthful growth and
mien, the restless, unsepulchred ghosts of the unfortunates who
perished in these dungeons unassoiled ... may at similar times be
seen flitting backward and forward, in numerous groups, across the
space enclosed by the ruined wall, with more than mortal speed, or
glancing hurriedly from window to window of the fabric, as still
seeking to escape from its hateful confinement."[41]
_Comorre the Cursed_
As has been said, the story of Gilles de Retz is connected by
tradition with that of Bluebeard, but it is probable that this
traditional connexion arises simply from the association of two famous
tales. The other legend in question is that of Comorre the Cursed,
whose story is told in the frescoes which cover the wall of the church
of St Nicolas de Bieuzy, dedicated to St Triphyne, in which the tale
of Bluebeard is depicted as the story of the saint, who in history was
the wife of Comorre. Comorre was a chief who ruled at Carhaix, in
Finistère, and his tale, which owes its modern dress to Émile
Souvestre, himself a Breton, and author of _Derniers Bretons_ and the
brilliant sketch _Un Philosophe sous les Toits_. The tale, translated,
runs as follows:
Guerech, Count of Vannes, 'the Country of White Corn,' had a daughter,
Triphyna, whom he tenderly loved. One day ambassadors arrived from
Comorre, a prince of Cornouaille, 'the Country of Black Corn,'
demanding her in marriage. Now this caused great distress, for
Comorre was a giant, and one of the wickedest of men, held in awe by
every one for his cruelty. As a boy, when he went out, his mother used
to ring a bell to warn people of his approach; and when unsuccessful
in the chase he would set his dogs on the peasants to tear them to
pieces. But most horrible of all, he had had four wives, who had all
died one after the other, it was suspected either by the knife, fire,
water, or poison. The Count of Vannes, therefore, dismissed the
ambassadors, and advanced to meet Comorre, who was approaching with a
powerful army; but St Gildas went into Triphyna's oratory and begged
her to save bloodshed and consent to the marriage. He gave her a
silver ring, which would warn her of any intended evil by turning as
black as a crow's wing at the approach of danger.
The marriage took place with great rejoicings. The first day six
thousand guests were invited; on the next day as many poor were fed,
the bride and the bridegroom themselves serving at the tables. For
some time all went well. Comorre's nature seemed altered; his prisons
were empty, his gibbets untenanted. But Triphyna felt no confidence,
and every day went to pray at the tombs of his four wives. At this
time there was an assembly of the Breton princes at Rennes, which
Comorre was obliged to attend. Before his departure he gave Triphyna
his keys, desiring her to amuse herself in his absence. After five
months he unexpectedly returned, and found her occupied trimming an
infant's cap with gold lace. On seeing the cap Comorre turned pale;
and when Triphyna joyfully announced to him that soon he would be a
father he drew back in a rage and rushed out of the apartment.
Triphyna saw that her ring had turned black, which betokened danger,
she knew not why. She descended into the chapel to pray. When she rose
to depart the hour of midnight struck, and suddenly a sound of
movement in the silent chapel chilled her at the heart; shrinking into
a recess, she saw the four tombs of Comorre's wives open slowly, and
the women all issued forth in their winding-sheets.
Faint with terror, Triphyna tried to escape; but the spectres cried:
"Take care, poor lost one! Comorre seeks to kill you."
"Me," said the Countess. "What evil have I done?"
"You have told him that you will soon become a mother; and, through
the Spirit of Evil, he knows that his child will slay him. He murdered
us when we told him what he has just learned from you."
"What hope, then, of refuge remains for me?" cried Triphyna.
"Go back to your father," answered the phantoms.
"But how escape when Comorre's dog guards the court?"
"Give him this poison which killed me," said the first wife.
"But how can I descend yon high wall?"
"By means of this cord which strangled me," answered the second wife.
"But who will guide me through the dark?"
"The fire that burnt me," replied the third wife.
"And how can I make so long a journey?" returned Triphyna.
"Take this stick which broke my skull," rejoined the fourth spectre.
Armed with the poison, the rope, and the stick, Triphyna set out,
silenced the dog, scaled the wall, and, miraculously guided on her
way through the darkness by a glowing light, proceeded on her road to
Vannes. On awaking next morning Comorre found that his wife had fled,
and pursued her on horseback. The poor fugitive, seeing her ring turn
black, turned off the road and hid herself till night in the cabin of
a shepherd, where there was only an old magpie in a cage at the door,
and here her baby was born. Comorre, who had given up the pursuit, was
returning home by that road, when he heard the magpie trying to
imitate her complaints and calling out "Poor Triphyna!" Guessing that
his wife had passed that way, he set his dog on the track.
Meanwhile Triphyna felt she could proceed no farther, and lay down on
the ground with her baby boy. As she clasped the child in her arms she
saw over her head a falcon with a golden collar, which she recognized
as her father's. The bird came at her call, and giving it the warning
ring of St Gildas she told it to fly with it to her father. The bird
obeyed, and flew like lightning to Vannes; but almost at the same
instant Comorre arrived. Having parted with her warning ring,
Triphyna, who had no notice of his approach, had only time to conceal
her babe in the cavity of a tree when Comorre threw himself upon her,
and with one blow from his sword severed her head from her body.
When the falcon arrived at Vannes he found the Count at dinner with St
Gildas. He let the ring fall into the silver cup of his master, who,
recognizing it, exclaimed:
"My daughter is in danger! Saddle the horses, and let Saint Gildas
accompany us." Following the falcon, they soon reached the spot where
Triphyna lay dead. After they had all knelt in prayer, St Gildas said
to the corpse: "Arise, take thy head and thy child, and follow us."
The dead body obeyed, the bewildered troop followed; but, gallop as
fast as they could, the headless body was always in front, carrying
the babe in her left hand, and her pale head in the right. In this
manner they reached the castle of Comorre.
"Count," called St Gildas before the gates, "I bring back thy wife
such as thy wickedness has made her, and thy child such as heaven has
given it thee. Wilt thou receive them under thy roof?"
Comorre was silent. The Saint three times repeated the question, but
no voice returned an answer. Then St Gildas took the new-born infant
from its mother and placed it on the ground. The child marched alone
to the edge of the moat, picked up a handful of earth, and, throwing
it against the castle, exclaimed: "Let the Trinity execute judgment."
At the same instant the towers shook and fell with a crash, the walls
yawned open, and the castle sunk, burying Comorre and all his partners
in crime. St Gildas then replaced Triphyna's head upon her shoulders,
laid his hands upon her, and restored her to life, to the great joy of
her father. Such is the history of Triphyna and Comorre.
_The Legend of Ys_
The legend of the submerged city of Ys, or Is, is perhaps the most
romantic and imaginative effort of Breton popular legend. Who has not
heard of the submerged bells of Ys, and who has not heard them ring in
the echoes of his own imagination?
This picturesque legend[42] tells us that in the early days of the
Christian epoch the city of Ys, or Ker-is, was ruled by a prince
called Gradlon, surnamed Meur, which in Celtic means 'the Great.'
Gradlon was a saintly and pious man, and acted as patron to Gwénnolé,
founder and first abbé of the first monastery built in Armorica. But,
besides being a religious man, Gradlon was a prudent prince, and
defended his capital of Ys from the invasions of the sea by
constructing an immense basin to receive the overflow of the water at
high tide. This basin had a secret gate, of which the King alone
possessed the key, and which he opened and closed at the necessary
times.
Gradlon, as is so often the case with pious men, had a wayward child,
the princess Dahut, who on one occasion while her father was sleeping
gave a secret banquet to her lover, in which the pair, excited with
wine, committed folly after folly, until at last it occurred to the
frivolous girl to open the sluice-gate. Stealing noiselessly into her
sleeping father's chamber she detached from his girdle the key he
guarded so jealously and opened the gate. The water immediately rushed
in and submerged the entire city.
But, as usual, there is more than one version of this interesting
legend. The city of Ys, says another account, was a place rich in
commerce and the arts, but so given over to luxury as to arouse the
ire of St Gwénnolé, who, in the manner of Jeremiah, foretold its ruin.
It was situated where now a piece of water, the Étang de Laval, washes
the desolate shores of the Bay of Trépassés--though another version of
the tale has it that it stood in the vast basin which now forms the
Bay of Douarnenez. A strong dike protected it from the ocean, the
sluices only admitting sufficient water for the needs of the town.
Gradlon constantly bore round his neck a silver key which opened at
the same time the vast sluices and the city gates. He lived in great
state in a palace of marble, cedar, and gold, and his only grief was
the conduct of his daughter Dahut, who, it is said, "had made a crown
of her vices and taken for her pages the seven capital sins." But
retribution was at hand, and the wicked city met with sudden
destruction, for one night Dahut stole the silver key for the purpose
of opening the city gates to admit her lover, and in the darkness by
mistake opened the sluices. King Gradlon was awakened by St Gwénnolé,
who commanded him to flee, as the torrent was reaching the palace. He
mounted his horse, and, taking his worthless daughter behind him, set
off at a gallop, the incoming flood seething and boiling at his
steed's fetlocks. The torrent was about to overtake and submerge him
when a voice from behind called out: "Throw the demon thou carriest
into the sea, if thou dost not desire to perish." Dahut at that moment
fell from the horse's back into the water, and the torrent immediately
stopped its course. Gradlon reached Quimper safe and sound, but
nothing is said as to his subsequent career.
[Illustration: THE ESCAPE OF KING GRADLON FROM THE FLOODED CITY OF YS]
An ancient ballad on the subject, which, however, bears marks of
having been tampered with, states, on the other hand, that Gradlon led
his people into extravagances of every kind, and that Dahut received
the key from him, the misuse of which precipitated the catastrophe.
Dahut, the ballad continues, became a mermaid and haunted the waters
which roll over the site of the city where she loved and feasted.
"Fisherman," ends the ballad, "have you seen the daughter of the sea
combing her golden hair in the midday sun at the fringes of the
beach?" "Yes," replies the fisherman, "I have seen the white daughter
of the sea, and I have heard her sing, and her songs were plaintive as
the sound of the waves."
The legend of Ys, of the town swallowed up by the sea, is common to
the several branches of the Celtic race. In Wales the site of the
submerged city is in Cardigan Bay, and in Ireland it is Lough Neagh,
as Tom Moore says:
On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays,
When the clear, cold eve's declining,
He sees the round towers of other days
In the wave beneath him shining.
This legend had its rise in an extraordinary story which was given
currency to by Giraldus Cambrensis in his _Topography of Ireland_, to
the effect that a certain extremely wicked tribe were punished for
their sins by the inundation of their territory.
"Now there was a common proverb," says Gerald, "in the mouths of the
tribe, that whenever the well-spring of that country was left
uncovered (for out of reverence shown to it, from a barbarous
superstition, the spring was kept covered and sealed), it would
immediately overflow and inundate the whole province, drowning and
destroying the whole population. It happened, however, on some
occasion that a young woman, who had come to the spring to draw water,
after filling her pitcher, but before she had closed the well, ran in
great haste to her little boy, whom she had heard crying at a spot not
far from the spring where she had left him. But the voice of the
people is the voice of God; and on her way back she met such a flood
of water from the spring that it swept off her and the boy, and the
inundation was so violent that they both, and the whole tribe, with
their cattle, were drowned in an hour in this partial and local
deluge. The waters, having covered the whole surface of that fertile
district, were converted into a permanent lake. A not improbable
confirmation of this occurrence is found in the fact that the
fishermen in that lake see distinctly under the water, in calm
weather, ecclesiastical towers, which, according to the custom of the
country, are slender and lofty, and moreover round; and they
frequently point them out to strangers travelling through these parts,
who wonder what could have caused such a catastrophe."
In the Welsh version of this fascinating legend it is the bard
Gwyddno, of the twelfth century, who tells of the downfall of the
submerged city, and two of the strophes which occur in his poem are
also found in the Breton poem. The Welsh bard may have received the
story from Breton sources, or the converse may be the case.
The legend that Cardigan Bay contains a submerged territory is widely
known, and strangely enough seems to be corroborated by the shape of
the coast-line, the contour of which suggests the subsidence of a
large body of land. Like their brothers of Ireland, the fishermen of
Wales assert that at low tide they can see the ruins of ancient
edifices far down beneath the clear waters of the bay.[43]
Before the days of the French Revolution there was still to be seen at
Quimper, between the two towers of the cathedral, a figure of King
Gradlon mounted on his faithful courser, but in the stormy year of
1793 the name of king was in bad odour and the ignorant populace
deprived the statue of its head. However, in 1859 it was restored.
Legend attributes the introduction of the vine into Brittany to King
Gradlon, and on St Cecilia's Day a regular ritual was gone through in
Quimper in connexion with his counterfeit presentment. A company of
singers mounted on a platform. While they sang a hymn in praise of
King Gradlon, one of the choristers, provided with a flagon of wine, a
napkin, and a golden hanap (or cup), mounted on the crupper of the
King's horse, poured out a cup of wine, which he offered ceremoniously
to the lips of the statue and then drank himself, carefully wiped with
his napkin the moustache of the King, placed a branch of laurel in his
hand, and then threw down the hanap in the midst of the crowd below,
in honour of the first planter of the grape in Brittany. To whoever
caught the cup before it fell, and presented it uninjured to the
Chapter, was adjudged a prize of two hundred crowns.
There is a distinct savour of myth about all this. Can it be that
Gradlon was a Breton Bacchus? There are notices of Celtic goddesses in
whose honour Bacchic rites were held, and the place of these was
sometimes taken by a corn god. Later the festival in its memorial
aspect appears to have been associated with different kings[44] in the
various parts of the Celtic world, and it seems likely that Gradlon
was such a monarch who had taken the place of a vanished deity. It
must be left to Celtic scholars to determine whether the name Gradlon
possesses any deific significance hidden in its etymology.
_The Clerk of Rohan_
Jeanne de Rohan, daughter of Alain, fifth of the name, Viscount of
Rohan, married in the year 1236 Matthew, Seigneur of Beauvau, son of
René, Constable of Naples. Breton popular poetry has in many ballads
recounted the adventures of Jeanne and her husband, one of which is as
follows[45]:
At the age of thirteen Jeanne consented to be married, but she desired
that she herself should be allowed to choose her husband. Accordingly
the cavaliers and barons of the district were invited to pay their
court to her, and she fixed her affections upon the Seigneur of
Beauvau, a valiant noble with large possessions in Italy. He was loyal
and courteous, and when the pair were wedded their happiness seemed
perfect.
At this period the war in Palestine against the infidels was agitating
the whole of Europe. The Seigneur of Beauvau desired to join the
Crusaders, but his wife was by no means anxious that he should leave
his home. But his principle was _noblesse oblige_. "I am of the most
noble blood," he said; "therefore it behoves me to be the first to
lead the way."
He confided the care of his estates and his affairs in general to his
wife's cousin, who was known as the Clerk of Rohan, and begged him to
look well after Jeanne and his little son. Then, having bid farewell
to them all, he mounted his horse and rode away to the wars.
Jeanne was inconsolable. For days she wandered about the château
carrying her baby boy in her arms and sobbing. All the domestic circle
seemed disturbed at the Seigneur's departure except the Clerk of
Rohan, to whom Count Matthew had so trustingly confided the charge of
his affairs.
The Seigneur had declared that he would return within a year's time. A
year passed, however, and no news of him had been received. Now the
Clerk was a perfidious and wicked schemer, and one morning as he and
Jeanne were in conversation he hinted that the year within which the
Seigneur had promised to return was now gone by and that the war in
which he had been engaged had come to an end. He made no secret of his
passion for the lady, but she on her part turned upon him angrily,
saying: "Is it the fashion nowadays for women to consider themselves
widows, knowing well that their husbands are alive? Go to, miserable
Clerk, thy heart is full of wickedness. If my husband were here he
would break thee in little pieces!"
When the Clerk heard this he went secretly to the kennels, and there
he slew the Seigneur's favourite greyhound. Taking some of its blood,
he wrote with it a letter to Count Matthew telling him that his wife
was most unhappy because of an accident which had occurred; that she
had been hunting the deer, and that in the chase his favourite
greyhound had died from over-exertion. The Seigneur duly received the
letter, and in his reply told the Clerk to comfort the lady, as he was
quite able to replace the hound. At the same time he desired that
hunting should cease for the present, as the huntsmen seemed unskilful
in their conduct of the chase.
The wicked Clerk once more sought the lady.
"Alas!" said he, "you are losing your beauty by weeping night and
day."
"I will know how to recover my beauty when my husband returns," she
replied coldly.
"Do not cheat yourself," he said. "Surely you can see by this time
that he is either dead or has taken another wife. In the East there
are many beautiful girls who are far wealthier than you."
"If he has taken another wife," said the lady, "I shall die; and if he
be dead I ask for naught but death. Leave me, miserable wretch. Thy
tongue is poisoned with deceit."
When the Clerk had sufficiently recovered from this second rebuff, he
betook himself to the stables, where the Seigneur's horse, the most
beautiful in the country, stood champing in its stall. The wretch,
drawing his poignard, thrust it into the noble steed's entrails, and,
as he had done in the case of the greyhound, took some of the blood
and wrote once more to the Count.
"Another accident has occurred at the château," he said, "but, my dear
Seigneur, pray do not trouble yourself on account of it. When your
wife was returning from a feast in the night your favourite horse fell
and broke two of his legs, and had to be destroyed."
The Seigneur replied that he was grieved to hear of the circumstance,
and that in order to avoid further mischances of the sort it would be
better that his wife should frequent no more feasts.
A third time the perfidious Clerk sought the lady. On this occasion he
threatened her with death if she would not be his, but she replied in
the most spirited manner that she loved death a thousand times better
than him. At these words he could not contain his rage, and, drawing
his dagger, thrust fiercely at her head. But the lady's guardian angel
turned the stroke and the weapon struck harmlessly against the wall.
She fled from the room, closing the door behind her as she went;
whereupon the Clerk rushed downstairs to the nursery where her child
was quietly sleeping in its cradle, and, seeing no one beside it,
stabbed the slumbering infant to the heart.
Then he wrote to the Seigneur: "Hasten your return, I beg of you, for
it is necessary that you should be here to establish order. Your dog
and your white courser have perished, but that is not the worst. Your
little son, alas! is also dead. The great sow devoured him when your
wife was at a ball with the miller for a gallant."
When the Seigneur received this letter he returned at once from the
wars, his anger rising higher and higher with every homeward league.
When he arrived at the château he struck three times upon the door
with his hand, and his summons was answered by the Clerk.
"How now, evil Clerk," shouted the infuriated Count, "did I not leave
my wife in your care?" and with these words he thrust his lance into
the Clerk's open mouth, so that the point stood out at the nape of his
neck. Then, mounting the stairs, he entered his wife's chamber, and
without speaking a word stabbed her with his sword.
The ballad then goes on to speak of the burial of the victims of the
wicked Clerk. The lady, dressed all in white, was laid in her tomb by
the light of the moon and the stars. On her breast lay her little son,
on her right the favourite greyhound, and on her left the white
courser, and it is said that in her grave she first caresses one and
then the other, and the infant, as if jealous, nestles closer to his
mother's heart.
_The Lady of La Garaye_
The château of La Garaye, near Dinan, is rendered famous by the
virtues and boundless charity of its Count, Claude Toussaint Marot de
La Garaye, and his wife. Their interesting story is told in the
charming poem of Mrs Norton, _The Lady of La Garaye_:
Listen to the tale I tell,
Grave the story is--not sad;
And the peasant plodding by
Greets the place with kindly eye,
For the inmates that it had.
Count Claude de La Garaye and his wife were young, beautiful, and
endowed with friends, riches, and all that could make life bright and
happy. They entertained generously and enjoyed the pleasures and
amusements of the world. But one day misfortune overtook them, for the
Countess was thrown from her horse, and she was left a cripple for
life, while all expectations of an heir vanished. Both were
inconsolable at their disappointment. One day a monk came to visit
them, and tried to comfort them, seeking by his conversation to turn
their thoughts from earthly afflictions to heavenly consolation.
"Ah, my father," said the lady, "how happy are you, to love nothing on
earth!"
"You are mistaken," answered the monk; "I love all those who are in
sorrow or suffering. But I submit myself to the will of the Almighty,
and bend myself with resignation to every blow He strikes."
He proceeded to show them that there was still a great deal of
happiness in store for them in ministering to the needs of others.
Following his counsel, they went to Paris, where for three years the
Count studied medicine and surgery, and his wife became a skilful
oculist. On their return to La Garaye they gave up all the amusements
of society and devoted themselves to relieving the sufferings of their
fellow-creatures. Their house was converted into a hospital for the
sick and afflicted, under the ministering care of the Count and his
benevolent wife:
Her home is made their home; her wealth their dole;
Her busy courtyard hears no more the roll
Of gilded vehicles, or pawing steeds,
But feeble steps of those whose bitter needs
Are their sole passport. Through that gateway press
All varying forms of sickness and distress,
And many a poor, worn face that hath not smiled
For years, and many a feeble crippled child,
Blesses the tall white portal where they stand,
And the dear Lady of the liberal hand.
Nor was their philanthropy confined to their own province. In 1729
they offered themselves to M. de Belsunce--"Marseilles' good
bishop"--to assist him during the visitation of the plague. The fame
of their virtues reached even the French Court, and Louis XV sent
Count de La Garaye the Order of St Lazarus, with a donation of 50,000
livres and a promise of 25,000 more. They both died at an advanced
age, within two years of each other, and were buried among their poor
at Taden. Their marble mausoleum in the church was destroyed during
the French Revolution. The Count left a large sum to be distributed
among the prisoners, principally English, pent up in the crowded gaols
of Rennes and Dinan. He had attended the English prisoners at Dinan
during a contagious fever called the 'peste blanche,' and in
acknowledgment of his humanity Queen Caroline sent him two dogs with
silver collars round their necks, and an English nobleman made him a
present of six more.
The ruined château is approached by an ivy-covered gateway, through an
avenue of beeches. As Mrs Norton renders it:
And like a mourner's mantle, with sad grace,
Waves the dark ivy, hiding half the door
And threshold, where the weary traveller's foot
Shall never find a courteous welcome more.
The ruin is fast falling to pieces. The principal part remaining is an
octagonal turret of three stories, with elegant Renaissance decoration
round the windows.
_The Falcon_
An interesting and picturesque ballad sung in the Black Mountains is
that of _The Falcon_. Geoffrey, first Duke of Brittany, was departing
for Rome in the year 1008, leaving the government of the country in
the hands of his wife Ethwije, sister of Richard of Normandy. As he
was about to set out on his pilgrimage the falcon which he carried on
his wrist after the manner of the nobles of the period, swooped down
on and killed the hen of a poor peasant woman. The woman in a rage
seized a large stone and cast it at the bird with such violence that
it slew not only the falcon but the Duke himself. The death of the
Duke was followed by a most desperate insurrection among the people.
History does not enlighten us as to the cause of this rising, but
tradition attributes it to the invasion of Brittany by the Normans
(whom the widow of Geoffrey at once brought into the country on the
demise of her husband) and the exactions which were wrung from the
peasants by these haughty aliens.
[Illustration: A PEASANT INSURRECTION]
The ballad, which was used as a war-song by the Bretons at a later
day, begins in true ballad style: "The falcon has strangled the fowl,
the peasant woman has slain the Count who oppressed the people, the
poor people, like a brute-beast."
The hate of the stranger so characteristic of the old Bretons then
flashes forth. "The country has been polluted by the foreigner, by the
men of the Gallic land, and because of the death of a hen and a falcon
Brittany is on fire, blood flows, and there is great dole among the
people."
On the summit of the Black Mountain thirty stout peasants had gathered
to celebrate the ancient feast of the good St John. Among them was
Kado the Striver, who stood there gravely leaning on his iron
pitchfork. For a while he looked upon his comrades; then he opened his
lips:
"What say you, fellow-peasants? Do you intend to pay this tax? As for
me, I shall certainly not pay it. I had much rather be hanged.
Nevermore shall I pay this unjust tax. My sons go naked because of it,
my flocks grow less and less. No more shall I pay. I swear it by the
red brands of this fire, by Saint Kado my patron, and by Saint John."
"My fortunes are broken, I am completely ruined," growled one of his
companions. "Before the year is out I shall be compelled to beg my
bread."
Then all rose at once as if by a common impulse.
"None of us will pay this tax! We swear it by the Sun and by the Moon,
and by the great sea which encircles this land of Brittany!"
Kado, stepping out from the circle, seized a firebrand, and holding it
aloft cried: "Let us march, comrades, and strike a blow for freedom!"
The enthusiasm of his companions burst out afresh. Falling into loose
ranks they followed him. His wife marched by his side in the first
rank, carrying a reaping-hook on her shoulder and singing as she
marched.
"Quickly, quickly, my children! We go to strike a blow for liberty!
Have I brought thirty sons into the world to beg their bread, to carry
firewood or to break stones, or bear burdens like beasts? Are they to
till the green land and the grey land with bare feet while the rich
feed their horses, their hunting-dogs, and their falcons better than
they are fed? No! It is to slay the oppressors that I have borne so
many sons!"
Quickly they descended the mountains, gathering numbers as they went.
Now they were three thousand strong, five thousand strong, and when
they arrived at Langoad nine thousand strong. When they came to
Guérande they were thirty thousand strong. The houses of those who had
ground them down were wrapped in flames, fiercely ends the old ballad,
"and the bones of those who had oppressed them cracked, like those of
the damned in Tartarus."
History tells us nothing concerning Kado the Striver, but it is most
unlikely that he is a mere figment of popular imagination. What
history does record, however, is that the wicked Duchess and her host
of mercenary Normans were forced to flee, and that her place was taken
by a more just and righteous ruler.
_The Marquis of Guérande_
Breton tradition speaks of a wild young nobleman, Louis-François de
Guérande, Seigneur of Locmaria, who flourished in the early part of
the seventeenth century. He was wealthy, and lived a life of reckless
abandon; indeed, he was the terror of the parish and the despair of
his pious mother, who, whenever he sallied forth upon adventure bent,
rang the bell of the château, to give the alarm to the surrounding
peasantry. The ballad which tells of the infamous deeds of this titled
ruffian, and which was composed by one Tugdual Salaün, a peasant of
Plouber,[46] opens upon a scene of touching domestic happiness. The
Clerk of Garlon was on a visit to the family of his betrothed.
"Tell me, good mother," he asked, "where is Annaïk? I am anxious that
she should come with me to dance on the green."
"She is upstairs asleep, my son. Take care," added the old woman
roguishly, "that you do not waken her."
The Clerk of Garlon ran lightly up the staircase and knocked at
Annaïk's door.
"Come, Annaïk," he cried; "why are you asleep when all the others go
to dance upon the village green?"
"I do not wish to go to the dance, for I fear the Marquis of
Guérande," replied the girl.
The Clerk of Garlon laughed. "The Marquis of Guérande cannot harm you
so long as I am with you," he said lightly. "Come, Annaïk; were there
a hundred such as he I should protect you from them."
Reassured by her lover's brave words, the girl rose and put on her
dress of white delaine. They were a joyous and beautiful pair. The
Clerk was gaily dressed, with a peacock's feather in his hat and a
chain on his breast, while his betrothed wore a velvet corsage
embroidered with silver.
On that evening the Marquis of Guérande leaped on his great red steed
and sallied forth from his château. Galloping along the road, he
overtook the Clerk of Garlon and his betrothed on their way to the
dance.
"Ha!" he cried, "you go to the dance, I see. It is customary to
wrestle there, is it not?"
"It is, Seigneur," replied the Clerk, doffing his hat.
"Then throw off your doublet and let us try a fall or two," said
Guérande, with a wicked look at Annaïk which was not lost upon her
lover.
"Saving your grace, I may not wrestle with you," said the Clerk, "for
you are a gentleman and I am nobody. You are the son of a lord and I
am the son of a peasant."
"Ha! what! The son of a peasant, say you, and you take your choice of
the pretty girls of the village?"
"Seigneur, pardon me. I did not choose this maiden; God gave her to
me."
During this parley Annaïk stood by, trembling violently. She had heard
of the Marquis of Guérande, and was only too well aware of the evil
and reckless character he bore. The Clerk tried to calm her fears by
whispered words and pressures of the hand, but the wicked Marquis,
observing the state of terror she was in, exulted in the alarm he was
causing her.
"Well, fellow," said he, "since you cannot wrestle with me perhaps you
will try a bout of sword-play."
At these words Annaïk's rosy cheeks became deathly white; but the
Clerk of Garlon spoke up like a man.
"My lord," he said, "I do not wear a sword. The club is my only
weapon. Should you use your sword against me it would but stain it."
The wicked Marquis uttered a fiendish laugh. "If I stain my sword, by
the Saints, I shall wash it in your blood," he cried, and as he spoke
he passed his rapier through the defenceless Clerk's body.
At the sight of her slain lover the gentle heart of Annaïk broke, and
a great madness came upon her. Like a tigress she leapt upon the
Marquis and tore his sword from his hand. Without his rapier he was as
a child in the grasp of the powerful Breton peasant woman. Exerting
all her strength, in a frenzy of grief she dragged the wretch to the
green where the dance was in progress, haling him round and round it
until exhausted. At last she dropped his senseless body on the green
turf and hastened homeward.
And once again we encounter the haunting refrain: "My good mother, if
you love me make my bed, for I am sick unto death."
"Why, daughter, you have danced too much; it is that which has made
you sick."
"I have not danced at all, mother; but the wicked Marquis has slain my
poor Clerk. Say to the sexton who buries him: 'Do not throw in much
earth, for in a little while you will have to place my daughter beside
him in this grave.' Since we may not share the same marriage-bed we
shall at least sleep in the same tomb, and if we have not been married
in this world we shall at least be joined in heaven."
The reader will be relieved to learn that the hero of this ballad,
the Clerk of Garlon, was not killed after all, and that for once fact
is enabled to step in to correct the sadness of fiction; for, when one
comes to think of it, there are few sadder things in the world than
the genuine folk-ballad, which, although at the time it may arouse
æsthetic emotions, may yet afterward give rise to haunting pain. We
are glad to be able to chronicle, then, that the worthy Clerk did not
die of his wound as stated by Tugdual Salaün of the parish of Plouber,
author of the ballad, and that the wicked Marquis escaped the halter,
which, according to Breton custom, he would not otherwise have done
had the Clerk died. His good mother took upon herself the burden of an
annual pension to the Clerk's aged parents, and adopted the second
child of Annaïk, who had duly married her sweetheart, and this little
one she educated, furthering its interests in every possible manner.
As for the Marquis, he actually settled down, and one cannot help
feeling chagrined that such a promising rogue should have turned
talents so eminently suitable for the manufacture of legendary
material into more humdrum courses. Conscious of the gravity of his
early misdemeanours, he founded a hospital for the poor of the parish,
and each evening in one of the windows of this place the peasants
could see a light which burned steadily far into the night. If any
asked the reason for this illumination he was told: "It is the Marquis
of Guérande, who lies awake praying God to pardon his youth."
_The Châteaux of Brittany_
The châteaux of Brittany may truly be called the historical and
legendary shrines of the province, for within their halls, keeps, and
donjons Breton tradition and history were made. It is doubtful,
indeed, if the castellated mansions of any other country, save,
perhaps, those of the Rhine, harbour so many legends, arising either
from the actual historical happenings connected with them or from
those more picturesque yet terrible associations which they are
popularly supposed to have with the powers of evil. The general
appearance of such a building as the Breton château admirably lends
itself to sombre tradition. The massy walls seem thick enough to
retain all secrets, and the cry for vengeance for blood spilt within
them cannot pass to the outer world through the narrow _meurtrières_
or arrow-slits of the _avant-corps_. The broad yet lofty towers which
flank the front rise into a _toiture_ or _coiffe_ like an enchanter's
conical cap. The _lucarnes_, or attic casements, are guarded on either
side by gargoyles grim of aspect, or perhaps by griffins holding the
shield-borne arms of dead and gone seigneurs. Seek where you will,
among the wizard-houses of old Prague, the witch-dens of ancient
Edinburgh, the bat-haunted castles of Drachenfels or Rheinstein, you
will come at nothing built of man more informed with the soul of the
Middle Ages, more drenched with their peculiar savour of mystery, than
these stark keeps whose crests and _girouettes_ rise above encircling
woods or frown upon mirroring rivers over the length and breadth of
the Breton land.
_La Roche-Jagu_
One of the most typical of the châteaux of Brittany is that of La
Roche-Jagu, at one time the guardian of the mouth of the river Trieux.
It is built on the top of a hill which overhangs the Trieux, and from
one of its battlemented galleries a splendid view of the windings of
the river can be obtained. The wall on this side of the fortress is so
thick as to allow of a chapel being hewn out of its solidity. A most
distinctive architectural note is struck by the fourteen wonderful
chimney-shafts of cut stone ornamented with iron spikes.
_Tonquédec_
Some miles farther down the river, but on its opposite side, is the
imposing castle of Tonquédec, perhaps the finest remnant of the
medieval military architecture of Brittany. It has always remained in
the family of the Viscounts of Coêtman, who ranked among the foremost
of the Breton nobility, though one of them espoused the cause of the
Constable Clisson against Duke John IV, and had the anguish of seeing
his ancestral fortress razed to the ground. Under Henry IV, however,
the castle was restored, only to be again demolished by order of
Cardinal Richelieu, who strongly and forcibly disapproved of such
powerful fortalices.
It had an outer enclosure, and had to be entered by a drawbridge, and
it was strengthened in every way conceivable to the military art of
the times. It was surrounded by dwellings for the convenience of the
seigneur's retainers, a fine _salle d'armes_ still remaining. To the
keep, four stories high, a flying bridge led, in order to facilitate
the withdrawal of the garrison in case of siege. Behind walls ten feet
thick, so long as food and ammunition lasted, the inmates could hold
the enemy in scorn.
_Clisson_
The château of Clisson, once the property of the great Constable
Oliver de Clisson, whom the Viscount of Coêtman and the Bretons of
Penthièvre had championed, is now only a grand old ruin, a touching
monument of the architectural splendours of former days. By
moonlight it makes a scene not easily forgotten, gaunt and still
and ruggedly imposing, the silent reminder of events and people
tales of whom will not readily die, the treasurer of secrets it
will probably never yield. Its antithesis is the castle of Nantes,
with the stamp of the Renaissance upon its delicately sculptured
balconies and window-frames. It is now an arsenal, a fact which
robs it of some of the romantic interest of Clisson, or, indeed, of
ruins in general, yet within its walls are the prison chambers in
which Gilles de Laval, the ambitious Finance Minister Fouquet, the
Cardinal de Retz, and the Duchess of Berry once languished. For many
years it served as one of the political prisons of France, though
it is also associated with brighter and happier times; for here, on
pleasure bent, lingered many of the Kings of France from Louis XI
onward, and here in 1675 Madame de Sévigné sojourned, a circumstance
which casts about it a literary as well as a romantic glamour. The
great well in the courtyard, with its ornamental railing of wrought
iron, is quite equal to the famous well of Quentin Matsys at Antwerp.
_Josselin_
The castle of Josselin, also associated with the history of the great
Constable Clisson and his allies, as well as with the notorious League
whose followers wrought such intolerable misery in Brittany, is built
on a rocky foundation near the river Oust. With its imposing front and
conically roofed towers it is one of the best examples of a
twelfth-century fortress-château. Very different in tone is the
architecture of the interior court, being that of the period when the
lighter traceries and more imaginative lines of the Renaissance were
in favour. The window-openings of the two first stories are beautiful
enough to rival those of Chambord and equal those of Blois. Above the
windows an open gallery runs, and in the space between each the device
of the Rohans is carved, with their motto, _A Plus_, this celebrated
family having built this part of the château. About the year 1400
Clisson added a keep, walls, and parapets, but in 1629, when the
fortress was no longer a stronghold of the League, these were
permitted to fall into ruin. Through the courtesy of the family now in
residence this wonderfully preserved castle may be visited, a
circumstance for which the tourist in Brittany should indeed be
grateful. Interest within these massy walls clings around the well,
with its ornamental railings, the noble and lofty hall, the library,
with its magnificent chimney-piece, repeating again, in stone, the
Rohan motto, _A Plus_, and the equestrian statue of Clisson, by
Frémiet, in the dining-room.
_Hennebont and Largoet_
Of the old château of Hennebont, where John of Montfort breathed his
last after escaping from the Louvre of his day, only a heap of stones
remains. The old fortress of Largoet is in much the same condition,
nothing of the ancient structure having been conserved save the famous
Tour d'Elven, considered to be the most beautiful castle keep in all
Brittany, which has also a literary distinction as being the scene of
some of the most touching episodes in Octave Feuillet's _Roman d'un
jeune Homme pauvre_.
_Châteaubriant_
At Châteaubriant, which owes its name to the compounding of the
word 'château' with that of 'Briant,' the family style of its
original lord, the old feudal fortress is now a ruin, but the
castle, built by Jean de Laval, Governor of Brittany under Francis
I, is in good repair. An inscription giving the date of the completion
of the new château as 1538 is above the portal of the colonnade.
There is a gruesome legend associated with the old château, in which
for some time dwelt the unfortunate Françoise de Foix, Countess of
Châteaubriant and beloved of Francis I. Tiring or becoming suspicious
of her royal lover, she decided to return to her husband, the old
Count of Laval. The reunion, however, was not productive of
happiness, owing to the fever of jealousy in which her elderly
husband lived because of the love affair with the King. This
jealousy eventually flared into mania when he heard that she had
actually visited her former lover in prison after he had been
captured at Pavia. Instantly he "shut his young wife up in a
darkened and padded cell, and finally had her cut into pieces by two
surgeons," so the story goes. Terrified at what he had done and of
the consequences which were sure to follow when the King heard of
his savagery, the Count fled the country immediately afterward.
The château of Brodineuf (dating from the twelfth century) and that of
Caradeuc are in good repair, but the latter is ancient only in parts.
It shelters two Murillos within its walls. The picturesque château of
Combourg was in early times a feudal fortress, and in it René
Châteaubriand's infancy was passed. This place may be visited by
interested sightseers, and there they may view the writing-table of
the author of _Le Génie du Christianisme_, and, in the bedroom he
occupied at Combourg, the bed on which he died in Paris. The château
of Vitré is also in a state of preservation, and is considered one of
the best specimens of military architecture in the province.
Comparatively near is the château of Rochers, once the home of Mme de
Sévigné, and in consequence one of the famous sights of the country.
The many letters she dated from this castle paint a vivid and detailed
picture of social life in the seventeenth century, and fortunately the
atmosphere of the time has been happily retained in the building
itself.
Another twelfth-century structure is that of the château of Rustefan,
near Quimperlé. It was built by Stephen, Count of Penthièvre, and
belonged in the next century to Blanche of Castile, the mother of St
Louis. The ruins now in existence are those of the château built in
the fifteenth century, and its cylindrical tower, pinnacled doorway,
and the stone mullions of the windows still remain fairly intact. The
château of Kerjolet, in Concarneau, is one which has been saved from
decay, restored as it was by Countess Chaveau-Narishkine and presented
by her to the department. It contains a museum in which are specimens
of all the costumes and _coiffes_ of Lower Brittany, and antiquities
of prehistoric and medieval times, which all students of Breton and
Celtic lore should see.
_Palaces of the Past_
The château of Tourlaville is situated among very beautiful
surroundings, and is built in the classic style of the Renaissance,
with an angular tower. On chimney-piece and fireplace throughout the
castle there are numerous sentimental devices in which Cupids and
flaming hearts and torches figure largely, with the occasional
accompaniment of verses and mottoes of an equally amatory nature.
These are all seventeenth-century examples and may be taken as
expressions of the time. In a boudoir called the Blue Chamber, because
of the colour of its draperies and decorations, many coats-of-arms are
emblazoned; but all the greatness to which these testify has become a
thing of the past, for the château has now been turned into a
farmhouse.
The château of Dinan may also be classed among the palaces of the
past, for now, despite the fact that it was built by the Dukes of
Brittany, it has become a prison. From the tourist as well as the
romantic point of view this is somewhat of a tragedy. The Tower of
Coëtquen, one of the ancient towers of the city wall, is practically
part of the castle, and the keep, or Queen Anne's Tower, is the most
distinctive feature remaining. This keep is of four stories, and is
over a hundred feet high, the last story being reached by a spiral
staircase. What was once the oratory of the Duchess Anne is now the
guard-room. There are still several dungeons whose original
gruesomeness has been left untouched, and whose use in bygone days can
well be imagined.
_Suscino_
The château of Suscino is one of the chief sights of the neighbourhood
of Vannes, because it is the ruin of what was once a marvellous
structure of the thirteenth century, and follows the finest Gothic
traditions of the time. All the roofing of the building has quite
disappeared, but its battlemented towers and walls remain to give a
good idea of the architectural perfection that must have belonged to
it. At one time it fell into the hands of Charles of Blois, only to be
retaken by his rival, Montfort, in 1364, and in 1373 it was occupied
by an English garrison. Eventually it was bestowed upon John of
Châlons, Prince of Orange, by Anne of Brittany, but in time Francis I
relieved him of it in order to present it to Françoise de Foix, the
celebrated Lady of Châteaubriant. The irregular pentagon formed by the
château is possibly somewhat modified from the original plan of 1320,
and of the seven towers which flanked its gates and walls in the
beginning six have weathered the storms of the times through which
they have passed. Its orchid-shaped machicolations have also survived,
and even to-day they are noticeably beautiful. The new tower is a fine
cylindrical keep, dating from the fourteenth century, and over the
entrance this legend still remains:
Ici Est Né
Le Duc Arthur III
le 24 Août, 1393.
We have already dealt with many of the stories connected with the
ancient castles of Brittany, and these will be found in nearly
every chapter of this book, so varied are they. But no tale, however
vivid, can hope to capture and retain all the wonder and mystery of
these grand old strongholds, which must be seen in order to leave
upon the imagination and memory the full impress of their weird and
extraordinary fascination.
FOOTNOTES:
[40] _Folk-lore as an Historical Science_, p. 129.
[41] _Western France_, vol. ii.
[42] See Le Braz, _La Légende de la Mort_, t. i, p. 39, t. ii, pp. 37
ff.; Albert Le Grand, _Vies des Saints de la Bretagne_, p. 63;
Villemarqué, _Chants populaires_, pp. 38 ff.
[43] See MacCulloch, _Religion of the Ancient Celts_, p. 372 and
notes.
[44] MacCulloch, _op. cit._, p. 274.
[45] Villemarqué avouches that this version was taken down by his
mother from the lips of an old peasant woman of the parish of
Névez. It bears the stamp of ballad poetry, and as it has
parallels in the folk-verse of other countries I see no reason
to question its genuineness.
[46] See "Maro Markiz Gwerrand," in the _Bulletin de la Société
Académique de Brest_, 1865.