Departure under an unlucky star—Essonne—Petit Bourg—The Czar
Peter—Fontainebleau—Palace—Apartments of the Emperor Charles
the Fifth—Chamber where Pius the Seventh said mass daily—Chapel
founded in the seventh century—Cypher of the Saviour and Virgin
placed beside those of Henry the Second and Diana of
Poitiers—Princess Mary of Orleans—Napoleon’s apartments—Marie
Antoinette’s boudoir—Carving by Louis the Sixteenth’s
hand—Monaldeschi, favourite of Queen Christina—Gallery where he
was murdered—Account of his murder by the Monk who confessed
him, of his burial at dusk in the church of Avon—Window thrown
open by Henry the Fourth, to announce Louis the Thirteenth’s
birth—Gallery of Henry the Second, called Galerie des
Réformés—Petition in which they took the name presented here by
Coligny—Open chamber above the Donjon—Arch where Louis the
Thirteenth was publicly baptized—Biron’s tower—His treason—His
denial—His last interview with Henry the Fourth—Napoleon—The
forest—The Comte de Moret, last inhabitant of the Hermitage of
Franchard—Fanny’s sagacity—Croix du Grand Veneur-The spectre
hunt—Apparition and warning to Henry the Fourth, corroborated by
Sully—Avon—Monaldeschi, Christina’s fickle lover—The old
church—The fat porter—The grave beneath the Bénitier—The
Englishmen’s sacrilege—Monaldeschi their relative—Precautions
against travellers.
Hôtel de France, Fontainebleau,
April 5th, 1839.
Set forth once more on the second, under an unlucky star, for the rain
commenced as we passed the barrier, and having received it on our heads
during a walk of four hours, (for over the broken pavement, or through
the three-foot-thick mud at its sides it was impossible to trot,) we
were glad to take refuge in a wretched auberge at Essonne. I think I
mentioned to you “a country inn” in England where we stopped, tempted
by its quiet appearance, and charmed by the brilliantly white curtains
of the tiny bed-room: but alas! the farmers were returning from
Tewkesbury fair, and they drank and sang in the kitchen below. We
rejoiced that this could not pass a certain hour, but they had smoked,
and the fumes of tobacco rose to our room through the chinks of the
floor, and there being no chimney could not get out again; then the
family put the house to rights; then we heard the horses kick all
night, there being in the shed next theirs pigs, with whom they would
not fraternize; and the rats galloped to and fro, and squeaked at our
very pillows, and when these were quiet, at dawn up rose mine host and
hostess, and the maid of all work to scour the house from top to
bottom, and run about it in pattens. All this is comfort, compared to a
country auberge in France. Arriving wet and weary, to stand in the
middle of a great brick-floored room, in which there has been no fire
all the winter, in expectation of seeing damp faggots burn; and finding
when they do that the door into the corridor must be left wide open,
that the draught may conduct towards the chimney the smoke, and the
steam of wet clothes and damp sheets which must be dried there, as the
economical kitchen hearth exhibits only a few dying embers,—this was
our case. The good old woman to be sure offered a remedy, as she said
that we might, if we liked, take a dry pair of sheets, which had been
slept in only once, and recommended hanging the dripping habit and
cloaks in the grenier, whose unglazed windows let in full as much rain
as wind. Add to my previous enumeration a dinner of dry bouilli, and
greasy cabbage, a faggot for our feet serving as a rug, and dirty
alcove with plenty of cobwebs but no curtains.
I believe the descent of the road into Essonne commands a pretty view,
but the rain blinded me. We passed on the right hand the château du
Petit Bourg, once the Duke d’Antin’s, now the property of the parvenu
Spanish banker, whose collection of pictures is the finest in Paris,
and who once, history says, kept a wine-shop on the boulevard. It was
here the Czar Peter dined on his way to Fontainebleau, May 30th, 1700,
where the Duke de Villeroy received him; and after a stag-hunt in the
forest and a carouse in the Pavilion de l’Étang, it was necessary to
carry himself and his suite into the boats, and thence into the
carriages, which bore inebriated majesty back to Petit Bourg.
Awaking the 3d with a cold on my chest, and determined at least on
being ill in better quarters, set out, rain having subsided to fog: a
bad and weary road, till, two leagues from Fontainebleau, we entered
the forest, and it looks really royal with its magnificent trees and
hills of rock: green (though spring is so backward) with the luxuriant
holly, which flourishes everywhere, and the different coloured bright
mosses which clothe its old trunks, and masses of strange shaped stone.
Stopped at the Hôtel de France, on the Place du Château opposite the
palace; a fine, frowning, old building, looking as if sorrow and crime
might have lodged within its walls without tales told. This inn has
every possible comfort to recommend it, and is reasonable besides. Some
of our country-people, who formerly spoiled the road by extravagance,
now drive rather hard bargains. What do you think of a post-carriage
containing six, having just now stopped, wanting beds, tea, and eggs
for their party for six francs?
April 5th.
Went yesterday to see the Château, and returned there to-day. The
surveillant of yesterday gruffly turned us back, as the Infant of Spain
was expected, but admitted us in consideration of the fee. Our guide
to-day showed the Château much more fully, and could be prevailed on by
no entreaty to accept payment. They are strictly enjoined to take
nothing. The grand staircase, whose entrance is in the Cour du Cheval
Blanc, was built in Louis the Thirteenth’s time. The apartments on the
right, now those of the Duke and Duchess of Orleans, and splendidly
furnished on their marriage, are the same in which the Emperor Charles
the Fifth was lodged when he visited Francis the First in 1539;
afterwards those of Catherine de Médicis, and, when she and her bloody
line had passed away, of Anne of Austria; and next of Maria Theresa,
wife of Louis the Fourteenth. The portraits of the two last are placed
above the entrance doors of the chamber next the saloon, which still
bears the name of Chambre des Reines-Mères. Here in this very room was
mass daily said by Pius the Seventh, during his forced stay in 1812, in
the same apartments which had been decorated for his arrival when he
came to crown Napoleon in 1804.
The most ancient as well as the most interesting part, of the Château
is the Gothic chapel of St. Saturnin. Built by Louis the Seventh in the
twelfth century, and consecrated by Thomas à Becket, archbishop of
Canterbury, to whose tomb, considering him a saint and martyr, Louis
the Seventh afterwards made a pilgrimage, it was restored by Francis
the First, and embellished by Henry the Second. The cyphers puzzled me;
and they are indeed strangely mingled, for those of the Saviour and the
Virgin, I and M, are placed alternately with the H, D, those of King
Henry the Second, and his mistress Diana!
The chapel is small and low, a most impressive place: the heavy masonry
looking likely to stand till the crumbling of the world shakes it down,
and dimly lighted by three narrow windows, whose coloured glass was
painted at Sèvres, from drawings by poor Princess Mary. The young
artist beatified the members of her family before their time. St.
Philip is an excellent likeness of the king, made saint-like by a long
beard. The superb confessional, in carved oak, looks coeval with the
walls, but it is the recent work of a clever Parisian artisan.
The apartments now Louis Philip’s were once Napoleon’s. The Cabinet de
Travail precedes the Emperor’s bed-room, and contains the small plain
table on which he signed his abdication, and the fac simile of its
rough copy in his own hand, so scrawled and blotted, I could not read a
word. The bed-room is still furnished as it was in his time, saving the
golden eagles, which were removed on the restoration, and are about to
be replaced now. The king occupies, not this chamber, but the next in
order, which was the unfortunate Marie Antoinette’s boudoir. The Salle
du Trone which follows is also in the same state as during the empire,
except that the portrait of Louis the Thirteenth, which hung here when
this was his bed-chamber, replaces that of Napoleon.
The charming little room next it, which was the Queen’s boudoir, would
interest you, not so much for its lovely decorations, as because it was
constructed for Marie Antoinette by Louis the Sixteenth’s order; and
the beautiful espagnolettes of the windows (up which the delicately
carved gold acanthus leaves twine on a blue ground) were the work of
the king’s own hand. This suite of apartments looks on the Cour de
l’Orangerie, of which the Galerie de Diane, and the apartments directly
beneath it, which were once the Galerie des Cerfs, form another side. I
was most anxious to see the latter, which is interesting as the scene
of Monaldeschi’s murder, the favourite of the crowned barbarian
Christina of Sweden. It is not shown now; it was falling into decay in
the Emperor’s time, the guide said, and by him replaced by apartments
for the King of Rome. From the window at which we were standing, he
pointed to the one near which Monaldeschi was assassinated. An
inscription marks it, the third from where the gallery joins the main
building.
Christina abdicated the 16th of June, 1654. She crossed France in her
way to Italy. As she was about to proceed to Paris, a command of Louis
the Fourteenth stopped her at Fontainebleau, where she arrived the 3d
of October, 1657. The following extract is from the account given by
Lebel, the head of the Mathurin monastery.
“The 8th of November, 1657, at a quarter past nine in the morning, the
Queen of Sweden, who was lodged in the conciergerie of the château,
sent a running footman to fetch me. He said, ‘If you are the superior
of the monastery, I have her majesty’s order to bring you where you may
have speech together.’ I replied, I was so, and would accompany him to
learn her will; and without taking any one along with me, fearing to
make her wait, I followed the valet to the antechamber. I was detained
there some minutes, but the valet having at last returned, I was
conducted to the Queen’s chamber. I found her alone, and having offered
her my humble respects, I asked what she required of her servant. She
desired me to follow her to the Galerie des Cerfs, where we might speak
undisturbed; and being entered there, she asked whether we had ever met
before. I replied, I had merely had the honour of saluting her, and
offering my best services, for which her goodness thanked me. Whereupon
she said, that the robe I wore induced her to confide in me, and
desired that I would promise to keep her secret as one under the seal
of confession. I answered, that whenever I was intrusted with aught, I
became naturally dumb on that subject; and being discreet with regard
to the humble, I had of course stronger reason for discretion now; and
I added, Scripture saith, ‘it is good to keep the king’s secret.’
Having asked me this question, she placed in my hands a packet of
papers, without superscription, but sealed with three seals, bidding me
to return it to her in such time and presence as should be commanded me
by her majesty. She desired also that I would take note of the day,
hour, and place in which she gave it to my care, and without further
conversation I retired with the packet, leaving the Queen in the
gallery. On Saturday, the 10th day of the same month, at one in the
afternoon, the Queen of Sweden again sent a valet to fetch me;
whereupon I went to a cabinet and took thence the packet, thinking she
might demand it of me. I followed the footman, who conducted me through
the gate of the donjon, and into the Galerie des Cerfs, and as soon as
I was within, closed the door on me with a vivacity which surprised me.
Perceiving about the centre of the gallery the Queen, talking to one of
her suite, whom she called Marquis, (I afterwards knew it was
Monaldeschi,) I approached her, and she asked in a rather loud tone of
voice, in hearing of the marquis and of three men who stood near, for
‘the papers.’ Two of these men were some steps from her, and the third
by her side. I drew near and presented the packet. Her majesty took and
examined it for a time, and then opening the enclosure, gave the
letters it contained to the marquis, saying with a grave voice and
commanding manner, ‘Are not these known to you?’ He denied that they
were, but turned very pale. ‘You will not avow these,’ rejoined the
Queen, (they were in truth only copies made by her own hand;) and
having allowed him to examine them, she next drew from under her robe
the originals, and, showing them, called him traitor, and made him
acknowledge his writing and signature. She asked him the same question
several times, and the marquis strove to excuse himself, and cast the
blame on others. At last he threw himself on his knees, craving her
forgiveness; and the three men present at the same moment drew their
swords from the scabbard. He started up again, imploring her to hear
him, and drew her as he spoke earnestly from one corner to another of
the gallery. Her majesty did not refuse, but listened very patiently,
never showing anger or weariness. When he pressed her most to receive
his excuses, she turned to me, and said, ‘Bear witness, father, that I
hasten nothing against this man, but that I give to a perfidious
traitor all the time that he requires; yea, even more, to justify
himself if possible;’ and approaching the marquis again she leaned on
the rounded head of her ebony cane.
“The Marquis of Monaldeschi, hard pressed by the Queen, gave her other
papers, and with them two or three small keys, which he took from a
pocket, whence at the same time fell several pieces of silver. Their
conference lasted rather more than an hour, and his replies not having
satisfied her, she again walked up to me, saying in a voice still
rather loud, but grave and calm, ‘Father, I retire, and leave you this
man; have a care of his soul, and prepare him to die.’ If her sentence
had been pronounced against myself, I should scarcely have felt more
terror. I and the marquis both kneeled down to implore her pardon; she
said, ‘He was more criminal than many condemned to the wheel, and she
could not grant it;’ that, thinking him a faithful subject, she had
communicated to him her most important affairs and secret thoughts;
that she would not remind him of the benefits she had conferred on him,
as his conscience might serve for tormentor, for she had favoured him
more than a brother.’ The Queen then retired, and the marquis, left
with me and the three with their drawn swords, continued on his knees,
praying me to follow her majesty, and strive to soften her. The men
desired him to confess, pointing their swords at his throat, but
forbearing to touch him, and I with tears in my eyes besought him to
ask pardon of God.
“He who seemed the chief of the three men, himself taking pity on him,
did indeed seek the Queen, but returned sorrowful, and said, weeping,
‘Marquis, think only of God, for you must indeed die.’ The marquis, who
at the words seemed half frantic, prostrated himself on the ground once
more, and desired that I would myself seek her, and try the effect of
my prayers. I did so, and found her alone in her chamber, her
countenance serene, and her manner betraying no emotion. I sunk down
before her, conjuring her majesty by the sorrows of Christ to have
mercy. She said, ‘She regretted the necessity she was under to refuse
me, for, from his perfidy to her, he could expect neither respite nor
pardon.’
“Finding that entreaties availed nothing, I took the liberty of
representing that she was beneath the roof of the King of France, and
bade her beware of what she did, as he might disapprove. She called
heaven to witness that she bore no personal hatred to the marquis, but
that she chose to punish an unparalleled treason; that she was not
lodged by the king as one who took refuge, neither was she a captive;
and as she obeyed nought save her own will, she chose to administer
justice to her servants at all times and in all places.
“In this extremity I knew not what to resolve on. I could not quit the
château; and even had it been in my power, I felt bound by charity and
my conscience to dispose the marquis to die. I returned then to the
gallery, and embracing the unhappy man, who was drowned in tears, I
exhorted him to turn all his thoughts to God and his conscience, as
there was no hope for him on earth.
“At this news, having uttered two or three melancholy cries, he kneeled
down before me as I sat on one of the benches, and commenced his
confession, which having nearly concluded, he rose and cried aloud
twice. He then ended his confession, mingling French, Latin, and
Italian in his fear and confusion. The Queen’s almoner at that moment
entered, and the marquis, without waiting to receive absolution, went
to him, conceiving hopes from his favour with her majesty. They
whispered apart, holding one another by the hand for some time, and
then the almoner went out, taking with him the chief of the three. The
latter returned alone, and said, ‘Marquis, you must die without more
delay: have you confessed?’ Saying this, he pressed him against the
wall at that end of the gallery where hangs the picture of St. Germain
en Laye, and I could not so suddenly turn aside as to avoid seeing him
struck in the chest on the right side, and that he, trying to ward off
the blow, caught the blade in his right hand, from which, as the other
drew it back, it cut off three fingers.
“He then exclaimed that he wore a shirt of mail, as in truth he did,
one which weighed nine or ten pounds, and the same man repeated the
blow, aiming it at his face, and the marquis cried out, ‘Father,
father!’ I went to him, and the other retreated a little, and he
confessed somewhat more, and I gave him absolution, imposing on him for
penitence that he should suffer a violent death. He threw himself on
the floor, and as he fell, one of the men gave him a blow on the head,
which carried away part of the skull; and, being stretched on his face,
he made signs that they should cut his throat; and they wounded him
there several times, but not mortally, because the shirt of mail rose
high under the collar of his doublet, and deadened the blows. All this
time I exhorted him to think of heaven, and bear all patiently. The
chief of the three then asked me whether he should finish him, and I
answered angrily, and said, I had no advice to give, as I had prayed
not for his death, but his life; and then he begged my pardon, and said
he was wrong to ask me such a question.
“The poor marquis, who lay expecting the last stroke, now heard the
door of the gallery open, and recalled his courage, seeing the almoner
enter, and dragged himself towards him, supporting himself against the
wainscoting. I was on his right hand, and the almoner passed to his
left, and the marquis, joining his hands, said something, as if he was
confessing; and the almoner, having first asked my leave, gave him
absolution and retired, desiring me to remain while he went to the
Queen. At this moment, the same who had wounded him in the throat
before, and who had stood by the almoner’s side, pierced it through
with a long narrow sword, whereupon the marquis fell on his right side,
and did not speak again, but continued to breathe yet a quarter of an
hour, during which time I exhorted him as well as I was able. Having
lost all his blood, he expired at three quarters past three. I recited
the De Profundis, and the chief of the three men moved a leg and then
an arm, to see if he were really dead, and searched his pockets, but
found nothing, excepting a small knife and a prayer book: we then all
three departed to receive the Queen’s orders. She said she regretted
having been forced to command his execution; but that she had done
justice, and prayed heaven to pardon him. She desired me to see that
his corpse was carried away and buried, and that masses were said for
the repose of his soul. I had a coffin made, and because of the
darkness, the bad road, and the weight, it was placed in a cart, and I
sent with it my chaplain and vicar to the church of Avon, with three
men to assist, and orders to bury the body within the church near the
‘bénitier,’ and this was done at three quarters past five that same
evening.
LEBEL.”
The church, or rather chapel of the Holy Trinity, was founded by
Francis the First, but ornamented in Henry the Fourth’s reign. The
niches near the altar contain the statues in white marble of
Charlemagne, and Louis the Ninth, the sainted king. Louis the
Fifteenth’s marriage with the daughter of the unfortunate Stanislas,
king of Poland, was celebrated here, and latterly that of the Duke of
Orleans with the Princess Helen.
It is to be repaired without delay, not before reparation is needful,
as the deep cracks through the ceilings and faded frescoes testify. The
Galerie de François Premier was built and decorated in his time and yet
unrestored; the pale salamanders are barely visible on the walls. The
queen’s antechamber was the imperial dining-room in Napoleon’s time,
and the Salon de Reception the apartment in which Louis the Thirteenth
was born. King Henry threw open one of those windows to announce the
news to his courtiers, who were walking in the oval court below. The
chamber of St. Louis formed part of a pavilion built during his reign,
but bears no trace of ancient architecture; over its chimney is a fine
Henry the Fourth on horseback, in white marble; it belonged to a
chimney piece, which gave its name to the hall, changed in Louis the
Fifteenth’s time to a shabby theatre, for it was called Salle de la
belle Cheminée. The statues of Strength and Peace were the chivalrous
king’s fitting supporters. The whole was thrown aside in the stores of
the Château, and left there dusty and forgotten, till Louis Philip’s
command replaced the equestrian statue in St. Louis’s chamber, and the
other two in the Salle des Gardes adjoining.
A corridor conducts to the gallery of Henry the Second. It was built by
Francis the First, and decorated by his son; and now its ancient glory
revived with scrupulous fidelity, the deep ornamented recesses in which
the five tall windows on each side are sunk, the gorgeous ceiling, the
walls covered with gold, and frescoes by Primatice or Nicolo, are, even
to the silver crescent and the cypher, reappearing at every step, the
same as when Diana of Poitiers and her royal lover trod its floor. The
only loss it has sustained is that of the two bronze satyrs eight feet
high which supported the chimney-piece: they were seized for ammunition
in 1793, and Napoleon replaced them by two pillars now standing. The
chimney-piece was the work of Rondelet, Francis the First’s famous
sculptor; its centre exhibits the arms of France, encircled by a wreath
and crowned by Diana’s crescent. There are two pictures at this end of
the hall; one of Francis killing a wild boar in the forest, the other
of the famous combat of a condemned man with a loup-cervier, which
desolated the country round Fontainebleau. He was a nobleman, and
besought permission to meet his death in this manner, but, having
exterminated the monster, he was pardoned. At one time this hall was
called Galerie des Réformés; for the Calvinists, with Admiral Coligny
at their head, here presented to Francis the Second the first petition
in which they styled themselves “Reformers.” The Admiral was their
organ to the young king, whose brother was to be his murderer. The ball
on the Duke of Orleans’ marriage was given in this hall. The windows to
the park look on the Étang and its pavilion, which bore the name of
Cabinet de Conseil, when Catherine de Médicis, and after her the
Cardinal de Richelieu, retired there with their secret advisers.
Directly beneath the gallery is the Salle Louis Philippe, which was, in
Louis the Fourteenth’s reign, the Dauphin’s apartments, now a
magnificent dining-hall, supported by Doric columns, and ornamented in
the taste of the Renaissance. Opposite its five windows, on the
parterre, are three superb entrances, opening on a corridor lighted by
glass doors, which look on the Cour Ovale; a fourth entrance
communicates with the Porte Dorée. It is a splendid porch or portico,
brilliant with gilding and just revived frescos, its length the width
of the dining-hall—at one end opening on the Allée de Maintenon,
named, by the proudest and vainest king in Europe, after his plebeian
wife; at the other on the Oval Court, which I mentioned before, but did
not tell you that the donjon which terminates it is the spot where
Louis the Thirteenth was christened when seven years old. A flight of
steps on either side of the entrance arch conducts to the open chamber
it supports, and the child was named there in public; all catholic
ceremonial observed, that no doubts of his creed might rest on the
people’s minds.
Perhaps my long description of Fontainebleau has wearied you, and yet I
might continue it much longer; so large a portion of French history is
connected with its walls. The guide pointed to the tower in which the
Marshal, Duc de Biron, past the night after his arrest, ere he was
transferred to the Bastille. Notwithstanding that Henry the Fourth had
three times saved his life in battle, and designed to make him his
son-in-law, he conspired against him with the Duke of Savoy. France was
to be divided into as many petty sovereignties as provinces, all placed
under the protection of the king of Spain; and the bribe which seduced
Biron, who was the vainest and bravest man of his day, consisted of
Franche Comté and Burgundy, and a marriage with a daughter of Spain or
Savoy. Lafin, confidant of the traitor-duke, betrayed him in turn, but
had the art to persuade him of the king’s ignorance, when he summoned
his former friend to his presence, and the marshal denied everything.
“Marshal,” said the king, “I must hear from your own mouth what I
unhappily know already. Speak to me but frankly, and whatever your
crime against me, I promise you protection and pardon.”
“Your majesty presses a man of honour too far,” said the marshal
impatiently.
“Would to God it were so,” rejoined Henry the Fourth sadly; “reflect
ere you reply.” The general remained silent, and the king walked slowly
to the door; and, as he reached it, said, still more in sorrow than in
anger: “Adieu, Baron de Biron.” He was tried and condemned; and
beheaded within the gates of the Bastille.
The Cour du Cheval Blanc, silent as it is now, calls back Napoleon’s
adieus to his old guard, which took place here.
April 6th.
Notwithstanding the most bitter of east winds, we have ridden over
great part of the forest, the wildest and finest I ever saw. Its groves
of old oak, interspersed with tracts clothed with black firs, and
hills, and valleys of barren stone; the Hermitage of Franchard; the
wonderful Roche qui pleure, through which filters water, which the good
peasants still collect as a sovereign remedy against disease, are on
the Paris side of the forest. Shortly before arriving at Franchard,
there is a plain iron cross raised on a heap of flints, the scene of
some old murder. Our road from the town lay through oaks in their
hundred years’ majesty: the box forming dark thickets everywhere, and
the ground between already blue and white with periwinkles and
anemones. In summer it is one carpet of flowers. Franchard had a
hermitage even in the time of our Richard Cœur de Lion; it became
afterwards a monastery which was also deserted: shortly after the
battle of Castelnaudary, its last inhabitant arrived thither, and lived
and died alone in its ruins. It was whispered at the time, that the
Comte de Moret, who (some said) had perished in the battle, had on the
contrary received but some slight wounds which in no way endangered his
life; he had disappeared: and the recluse who hid himself in poverty
and solitude at the same period was believed to conceal from the
vindictive cardinal the companion in arms of the unhappy Montmorency.
The valley of La Solle is on the other side of the grande route. The
steep road dips suddenly down, winding among fantastic rocks, piled one
on the other, overgrown with brilliant mosses, trees growing
luxuriantly on or among them. I noticed some whose trunks shot upwards
from so narrow a place of support, that the branches on either side
seemed extended to poise them, as a bird spreads its wings for the air
to bear it up; and others, whose roots stretched themselves over the
bare granite platform, casing it to its edge, and thence dropped down
to plant themselves in the earth which nourishes them scantily. In this
part of the forest the holly grows everywhere, and is gay with red
berries even now. We were doubtful of the way back; and Fanny, whose
sagacity has been so often proved, was called on to assist. When the
reins are laid on her neck, she is perfectly aware of her own
importance, and stops and snuffles at each road she sees, often
choosing short-cuts and footpaths. To-day, after leaving the valley, we
came suddenly on one of the abrupt rocky hills which we have met with
often here; there was a broad alley on each side, but Fanny chose
neither, and taking a little track through the trees, trotted on and
up, climbing like a cat, and when I dismounted to ease her, pulling me
on by the rein I held. Arrived at the top, from the little arid plain
we found a view worth our trouble; down the other side she led again,
emerging in a bridle-road, from which branched eight others. She
considered a moment, and then, hurrying as she does when her mind is
made up, she chose one of these alleys, and in five minutes we passed a
finger-post, which marked it, “Chemin de Fontainebleau.”
On the Paris road is the Croix du Grand Veneur: he is the hero of
terrible tales, being a spectre, who often and on various occasions has
appeared to the kings of France. The last who saw him was Henry the
Fourth. One day of the year 1599 he had been hunting unsuccessfully,
for his hounds had twice lost the scent, and he was slowly riding back
through the forest on the Moret side, when his ill-humour was increased
by suddenly hearing the cry of dogs and the flourish of hunting horns,
which seemed to sound a triumphant blast. The king, who rode at some
distance from his attendants with the Count of Soissons, turned angrily
to him, “Note who the bold intruder may be,” he exclaimed, and the
count, with several of the courtiers, spurred towards the sound. As
they disappeared, the king started back, for a tall huntsman,—tall
beyond human height,—attired in black, with a shining eye and livid
cheek, stood before him. He accosted the monarch in a voice of thunder,
and said, “Amendez-vous.” Henry’s look for a moment quailed before him;
and when he fixed it on the spot where the huntsman had stood, he was
gone. The Count of Soissons and his companions returned, said they had
seen, but at a distance, a dark huntsman, at the head of a numerous
hunt, mounted on horses which seemed to feel the rocky soil no
obstacle. Whether he came to warn the king of a darkening future and
bloody close, I cannot tell; some say he spoke more than the monarch
told; he rode the rest of the way in silence. After this apparition the
Grand Veneur continued to be heard at times, though he was not seen
again. Once, (Sully says,) when he waited impatiently for Henry’s
return to communicate some important affair, he heard the horns and
horses’ hoofs close to the chateau, and ran out to meet him, but
nothing was visible; and when the king had really come, he learned he
had been at the time four leagues away.
7th April.
Walked to-day (the east wind sharper than ever) to the church at Avon,
where Monaldeschi lies, under the bénitier. The crime for which
Christina murdered him was never precisely known; but it was hinted
that he had been a favoured and then fickle lover. Taking the right
road through the park, and along the canal made by Henry the Fourth, it
is hardly distant the quarter of a league it is called; we took the
wrong and a much longer way. The little old edifice was built in the
tenth century, and stands at the end of the unpaved dirty village. A
washerwoman and a dozen children came to see what we wanted. We wanted
to get into the locked-up church, and were desired to apply at the
seminary, which is nearly opposite. The porter issued with the key. He
was the roundest, merriest, ugliest, piece of human nature imaginable;
I should think he acted cook as well as porter, and he is quite out of
keeping with the spot where he stood. With its low gloomy arches, and
damp irregular pavement of worn tombstones, it seems the fitting place
for the hurried interment of a murdered man, in the dusk of a winter’s
evening. One of the flags of the choir is marked with the
fleurs-de-lis, and a half-effaced figure; below is the heart of Philip
le Bel’s queen, who died here about 1304. Two old painted windows light
the church dimly; near the entrance door, just in front of the antique
vessel for holy water, is the narrow stone inscribed with ancient
letters, “Ci gît Monaldexi.” The porter told a strange story.
Three years since, (the village church being then always left open,) a
party of Englishmen came to visit it. They arrived with a number of
workmen, hired in the cottages, and whom they had paid beforehand, and
liberally, for the work to be done. By their employers’ order these men
opened the grave, to take possession of the skeleton, for the English
gentlemen asserted that Monaldeschi was their relation. The curé had
been absent, but returned during this extraordinary operation, and flew
to forbid sacrilege! The workmen ceased, but they had been so diligent
that the bones were already uncovered, and the Englishmen insisted on
carrying them away; and, despite of the curé, held the skull fast.
Finding his remonstrances useless, the priest hurried away, and
returned with some gens-d’armes, when the skull was replaced in the
coffin.
The Englishmen were allowed to depart. They had cracked, in their
labour, the grave-stone, and crumbled a good many of those beside it; a
large square of brick-work replaces them. “Since then,” the porter
said, winking at us, as if he fancied we too had some design on the
bones he guards, “when strangers are curious, I accompany them, and we
keep the church locked.”