Moret—The Nunnery—Louis the Fourteenth’s black Daughter—Two useful
Saints—Villeneuve la Guyard—Descriptions deceitful—Strange Cure
for Blood to the Head—A River-god on terra firma—Sens—St. Colombe,
Thomas à Becket’s refuge—Villeneuve le Roy—Place where the Vine was
first cultivated—Auxerre—The Chapter’s hundred years’ Law-suit
concerning Fur Trimmings—The Canons’ Games at Ball—The Cathedral,
occupying the site of the first Christian Chapel—St. Germain—The
Saint’s refusal to get out of his Grave to reform England—Tombs of
Dukes of Burgundy—Ill-treatment in a Church from a School at its
devotions—Lucy le Bois—The Face in a Hole in the Wall—Taken for a
beast—Arnay le Duc—La Rochepot—A danger avoided through Grizzel’s
affection—An unamiable Carter—Chalons, Cæsar’s head-quarters—Cross
seen by Constantine—Punishment of past times for unskilful
Physicians—A Prince of Portugal, Monk at St. Laurents—Cathedral.
10th April.
A pretty road through the forest, on whose borders is the old town of
Moret; its ancient gateway and the ruins of its fortifications and
strong castle looking picturesque through the trees. The fine gothic
church remains, but the convent, which was honoured by the presence of
a royal nun, no longer exists. Louis the Fourteenth had by his wife,
Maria Theresa, a daughter, who came into the world perfectly black. The
King not choosing to own a negress, it was asserted that she had died;
she was committed to the custody of these walls, and well and
respectfully treated, for the abbess received a large annuity on her
account. It is said that her royal father and mother sometimes came to
see her; perhaps the comparison between what she was and might have
been, but for the caprice of nature, preyed on her mind, for her life
was not a long one. Two saints, of unquestionable merit, have chapels
in their honour near Moret. St. Nicaise will cure the most obstinate
cough, and St. Memert the bite of a mad dog.
The next post very uninteresting, to Fossard, which is one of those
wretched-looking villages which straggle along each side of the broad,
bad roads of France. Stopped to sleep at Villeneuve la Guyard, a
hopeless-looking place with a good inn, though it does not fulfil the
promise of its printed card, which speaks of “new and splendid
furniture, French and English attendance, large and commodious stables,
baths, and a garden of rare plants adjoining.” The chambers hung with
painted canvass, thick with the dust of years, and the square hole cut
in the panel of the door, that the blast rushing in might prevent the
chimneys smoking, did not quite answer the expectations raised. The
groom of the filthy stable, for French stables are cleaned once a year
only, was a feeble, gray peasant. The fat girl waited alternately on us
and the diligence dinner; the baths were invisible, as was the garden,
unless represented by the strip where primroses and cabbages grew among
broken crockery, protected by the paling, on which hung to dry an
avenue of cotton pocket-handkerchiefs. There was nothing to see when we
had walked round the little church, and been driven home by the troop
of urchins who, just out of school, clattered after me in sabots.
Returned to the inn yard, we found there an amusing specimen of French
manners in a certain class. By the well sat, in an oilskin cape and
cloak, an old gentleman, who with his wife we had seen arrive in a
one-horse vehicle. He was dripping like a river-god, and she, in the
attitude of Hebe, pouring on his bare head jugs of well-water. As
neither were at all embarrassed, we were soon acquainted; he had
attacks of blood to the head, and therefore the watering of it by three
buckets at a time is performed twice a day, and the operation of
cupping three times a week, by his wife, who has taken lessons on
purpose; like some other good people, she likes complaining, and before
we had been known to each other five minutes, she told me that since
her husband had retired from business, this malady had come upon him;
that they had travelled to see the sea, and it had ennuyé him; that
they were now on their way to drink the waters in Savoy, and he already
spoke of turning back; in short, that he was impatient and fanciful,
and made her life insupportable. A great source of grief and fidget to
him was the old horse, lean and uncleaned, who daily dragged themselves
and baggage in the heavy vehicle. He wondered he was not fat and hungry
like ours.
11th April.
Left early, intending to sleep at Sens for the sake of the cathedral.
Pont-sur-Yonne, which lies on the road, has an old church and fine
bridge. The entrance to Sens under the arched gateway is striking; and
its boulevards and public promenades remarkably neat and pretty. When
we rode into the yard of the Ecu, we found mine host, who came to meet
us, high in his charges and impertinent besides; so turned the horses’
heads again,—merely fed them at an auberge close by, and went on. I
saw only the exterior of the fine cathedral. A quarter of a league from
Sens was the abbey of St. Colombe, where Thomas à Becket hid himself
three years from the fury of Henry of England. A beautiful shining day,
for the east wind has yielded at last. The approach to Villeneuve le
Roy is through a pretty tranquil country, the road winding along the
bank of the river, and sheltered on the other side by an abruptly
rising ground, planted with vineyards. An elbow in this road brings
suddenly in sight the old town’s gateway: like that of Moret, an
entrance-arch, flanked by turrets, with the gouttière above, whence
boiling pitch and lead poured on the intruder.
It is of Louis the Sixth’s time, I was going to say it has frowned
there ever since; but this evening, in the golden sunshine, it smiled
in harmony with all the rest: the troops of gay boys at play under the
care of a good-natured priest, and the bright little stream which
bathed Fanny’s tired feet.
We had good beds and a decent stable at the inn; but its butcher and
cook are “leagued to destroy.” Our French acquaintance had arrived
before us,—just as the lady-innkeeper was telling me her country
people were far better travellers than formerly, as they ate and drank
and paid uncomplainingly now, as the English once had done, my friend,
who had seen us dismount, came to greet me, and tell (in the landlady’s
presence) that every thing in the house was extravagant and execrable;
and then, having surveyed the chamber selected for us, insisted on her
yielding one better, in which we are installed, thanks to her. We
walked together in the evening to the pretty gardens outside the town:
it has a similar entrance at its other extremity, and the ancient walls
and towers of the fortifications remain; and the moat, converted to
peaceful uses, now forms bright gardens, covered with blossom.
I bought for a franc an enormous basket of carrots for the horses; and
when we returned to the inn, my companion elevated one before the eyes
of the landlady, reproaching her with its being the same size for which
that morning she demanded five sous!
12th April.
Left Villeneuve for Auxerre; a north-east wind and gloomy sky again,
under which the scene looked disenchanted. A less uninteresting country
as far as Joigny, which is built on the height, its houses and churches
rising in terraces with a broad quay and handsome bridge, but neither
trees nor flower-gardens as in a country town in England; looking this
grey, cold day only dirt and barrenness. We met, as we passed along,
our feverish acquaintance, he walking to cool his head without a hat;
his lady abusing the hotel, where their horse was feeding; they too
were bound for Auxerre.
Nothing more melancholy than Joigny, excepting the road beyond it; it
crosses the bridge, and lies over a marshy flat, lately overflowed by
the river, and seeming to produce little, saving a few willows and
broom-like poplars. We have pavement again for some miles here, and the
sides of the road were impassable. Leaving Bassou, a hopeless looking
place, behind, we were in the vine country: an ugly one it is, but this
is the place of all Gaul where the grape was first grown in the third
century. From a long steep hill we looked back on a most gloomy though
extensive view; its descent leads to Auxerre. At the Porte de Paris was
our hatless friend, who had passed us on the way; he was good-naturedly
watching our coming to point out the road to the Leopard; we should
otherwise have made a long round instead of riding down the avenue to
the quay where it stands. It is a comfortable and reasonable inn, and
the view up and down the broad river, with bridge and islands and
barges, very pretty. The avenue before the hotel, and along the Yonne,
is the walk of the Auxerre fashionables; a formidable looking “jeune
France” was promenading there, but now magnificent in curls and beard
and crimson cloak and cigar. The town, whose streets are high and
narrow, looks to advantage from the river; it is built in an
amphitheatre, the old abbey of St. Germain, the prefecture, the
cathedral towers, and those of other fine churches, rising tier above
tier over the quay. I walked in quest of letters to the post-office,
and found that to do so required strength of mind, for a bonnet forms
no part of my baggage: and I went in my riding habit, as I dismounted,
followed by all the little boys and girls, and some of their papas and
mammas: the very clerk at the post-office, civil as he was, could not
refrain from several questions, the “how and whence” respecting the
first habit which had been seen at Auxerre. Yet we are only forty
leagues from Paris, and the Parisians have lately made riding so
fashionable, that I have heard young ladies, asked whether they liked
the exercise, exclaim they “adored it,” and seen gentlemen of fifty on
ponies follow in the train of the riding master. The cathedral is small
and beautiful; we stood near one of the side entrances admiring the
elegance of its Nun’s-walk, and the view down the aisle, where it
circles round the choir, and arches and columns seem crowded together.
The finely carved capitals of these columns were lighted brilliantly
and variously by the sunbeams through the rich stained windows. The
prospect from the nave would be open to the chapel behind the high
altar, but that modern taste has suspended over the latter a wooden
ornament, closely resembling the tester of a bed; it intercepts the
view of the lovely little chapel, and the strangely light pillars which
support it; on one of these is pasted a paper, promising “plenary
indulgence” to all such as on saints’ days, therein specified, shall
recite particular prayers. So all who are “heavy laden” repair to the
chapel at Auxerre.
On the wall close by is a tablet to the memory of Georges de Beauvoir,
Marshal of Chastellux, who, in the year 1444, retook the town of
Crevant from the English, and with his own hand (says the inscription)
killed the Lord High Constable of Scotland. The celebrated Amyot,
preceptor of King Henry the Third, is also interred here; it is said
that the chapter, formerly rich, ruined itself by lawsuits, and one is
particularly cited which lasted a long time. The canons asserted their
right of wearing ermine on their robes; it was forbidden them; some
yielded, others were stubborn: they were called, to distinguish them,
“Trimmed” and “Untrimmed.” Litigation ensued, and the last named gained
the lawsuit, when it had been pending one hundred years.
The cathedral has some customs peculiar to itself. A strange one was
abolished only in the sixteenth century. The canons were in the habit
of playing at ball in the nave, and for money, and the sums thus won
were expended in feasts for the chapter. It is said that it was erected
on the site of the first Christian chapel, raised here in the third
century.
The old church of St. Germain near (now that of the Hôtel Dieu, and
barbarously whitewashed) takes its name from the sixth Bishop of
Auxerre, who first built it on the spot where stood the house in which
he was born, and who was buried here in 448. The saint’s story says,
that having travelled to England he there met and converted at Oxford
one Micomer, a learned doctor, whom he then made his coadjutor in
reclaiming Great Britain from Paganism. Micomer returned to France,
died, and was buried. St. Germain visiting his tomb at Tonnerre,
apostrophized his disciple, now a saint. “Micomer,” he said, “rise from
your tomb: there are fresh disorders and fallings away in England and
Ireland; rise and go, set all in order.” A voice replied from the tomb,
“Be tranquil, father, on that subject, for England and Ireland will not
need our interference, and heaven commands my body to remain in peace
here, and my soul in eternal glory.” St. Germain rejoined, “It is well,
may I soon be with you in paradise.” The subterranean church of St.
Germain is famous for its antiquity, and also because it contains,
besides the tombs of sainted bishops, those of Hugh, Duke of Burgundy,
father of Hugues Capet of France, as well as of other dukes of
Burgundy, and counts of Auxerre; (for the county of Auxerre belonged by
turns to France and her turbulent province.) It was united to the crown
in Charles the Fifth’s reign, ceded to the duchy by Charles the Sixth,
and became finally French when Charles the Téméraire, last sovereign of
Burgundy, was killed before Nancy. We did not see the vaults, for the
pale, diseased faces which came round us, as this is now the hospital
church, made it by no means tempting to stay. Near the church stands
its ancient belfry, a picturesque tower. We went in search of St.
François, which is in the lower part of the town, and seen outside is a
noble gothic building; within it disappointed me, though indeed I had
barely time to judge of it, for as we entered we found a whole school
on its knees, which, without any change of position, saluted my habit
and myself with shouts and hootings notwithstanding the reproving looks
of a young priest, and fairly drove us out and followed us home,
pushing against us to stare closer; so, having had no room to walk, and
barely enough to breathe to-day, I must buy a bonnet at Chalons.
Rouvray, 14th of April.
Cold weather still, but sunny, and the bridge and steep road which
looks on Auxerre, once passed, no view to reward for the long
succession of bare hills. Near the town the vine is much cultivated,
but in France its stunted stumps give no charm to scenery. Further on
the soil is worse, but prodigiously manured, and they grow oats and rye
in what appears a stiff red clay, lightened only by layers of flat
stones, which would break English hearts and ploughs. Nothing to
relieve the eye, not a bush, not a speck of green, not an habitation
for miles on either side of the glaring white road; we travelled for
ever up the steep rise, and down the sharp descent, which succeed as
like each other and uninteresting as if all had been cast in the same
mould. Fed the horses at a lone farm-house, and reached at sunset the
prettier country near Lucy le Bois; for the road for about a mile
passes through a young oak wood, and it was really refreshing to the
sight, as we had not seen a tree for twenty-seven miles. The village
stands in a sheltered and rather pretty valley, at the foot of a hill,
which is a petty mountain, so thought the post horses, who toiled up
it. We got in at dusk. The sharp landlady was out, and her delegates
were two good civil old women, her aunt and mother-in-law, and though
it is an humble inn, we had good beds and a bright fire, and an
excellent dinner from the hands of poor Annette, whose province is to
clean the house, attend the comers, cook the meals, wash the linen,
milk the cows, make bread, cheese, and butter, and bear (she told me in
confidence) the blows of the spoilt child.
When the hostess returned, we saw no more of the old people and their
civility, but the fine lady and her imposition instead.
Slept at Lucy, and rode on in the morning to this town, Rouvray, a
melancholy road and wretched place, but the beds, cook, and stabling of
the Hôtel de l’Ancienne Poste very good. As D—— always stops to feed
the horses on the way, and the wonder my costume excites becomes very
annoying, I to-day took refuge in the stable, and saw there a great
face in a blue night-cap, staring at me through a hole in the wall.
Before reaching the town we passed a group of labourers at work, and
men and women ran to the edge of the high bank above the road to look
down at me. I laughed at their astonishment; a fact the foremost of the
group communicated to the rest, saying, “Voilà que cela nous rit.”
“Cela” does not mean a human being, so that I do not exactly know for
what they took me. Mons. Digy’s printed card asserts, in English, that
“Post hotel is situated in the most fine quarter of town,” which means,
the dirtiest end of the long street. The wind is high, and this room
smokes, so that we sit with the door ajar, and the creaking sign, which
hangs just at our windows by iron links, and swings backwards and
forwards, excites agreeable thoughts of dead men hung in chains. We are
to remain a day or two, notwithstanding, as I am not well.
We hear there is great poverty hereabouts, yet provisions, except
bread, which sells at the Paris price, are very reasonable. Meat is
only eight or nine sous a pound; but the labourer receives no more than
twenty-four sous for his day’s hire, and the country people, like the
Irish, live almost entirely on potatoes.
19th April.
Left Rouvray for Arnay le Duc, and saw nothing which at all interested
me by the way, excepting the return post horses trotting gaily home by
themselves. We have fine weather at last, and so warm, that we stopped
on a little plain, and sat in the shelter of one of its hillocks,
thinking to do so undisturbed; but a bevy of half black Bourguignonnes,
who were tending thin sheep and unsightly pigs at a distance, took up a
position which commanded ours, and grinned fearfully till they drove us
out. They form a very unengaging population. The women, from hard work,
soon lose all trace of feminine features, and their costume is
unbecoming, as their short petticoats display their bare, thick, brown
ancles. Arnay le Duc is rather prettily situated on the river Arroux,
in a valley, which was formerly commanded by its strong castle, of
which remains but one heavy tower. The Hôtel de la Poste is exceedingly
good, and through this town, for the first time, I was not hooted, as
near it lives a young French lady, who rides.
20th April, Hôtel du Parc, Chalons.
Sixty miles in two days of burning weather. I feared Fanny might
suffer, and we decided on remaining a day in this noisy inn, which is
not an agreeable one. I believe the “Trois Faisans” to be better. The
plain of Givry, which we passed over, is surrounded by an interesting
country, as on the right are wooded defiles, backed by a range of bold
hills; and to the left, beyond the slender white pillar raised in the
meadows, (none could tell me wherefore,) the view is fertile and
extensive, stretching back towards Arnay. In front lay the dirty town,
once fortified. We fed our horses there, and found the inhabitants more
savagely insolent than usual. When we remounted, Fanny, and even the
patient Grizzel, excited by their shouts, plunged so violently that
they soon cleared a way through the night-capped crowd. From the long
hill above Givry, the green plains and distant heights look to
advantage, as does the old château, with peaked roof and turrets, which
stands by the winding river in the hollow. We next came on a broad
moor, and the horses enjoyed a long gallop over turf, the first since
Salisbury Plain. It is broken by a few patches of brushwood, and
covered with a very beautiful purple flower, whose name is unknown to
me. We saw no habitation for miles; none, indeed, till we reached its
extremity, where there is a lone inn, with ruined outhouses, in a wild
and solitary situation, just fitting for the last scene of a Porte St.
Martin melodrama.
The road thence descends suddenly, edging a precipice, and commanding a
view which is a contrast to all we have toiled through till now. We
rode under abrupt banks, and fragments of reddish rock, and below was a
glen, shut in by hills, or rather small stony mountains, planted with
vines, wherever cultivation is not impossible. There was no verdure,
for the vine stalks are yet bare of leaves, and the face of the hills
is only varied by the different tints of rock and soil, and the
enclosures of the small fields, formed by piles of slaty stones thrown
up from them; yet the prospect was beautiful as well as grand. The
broken hill nearest us stood forth in deep shadow; those before, as
well as the narrow valley, lay in splendid sunshine, and beyond them,
through the haze of heat and distance, shone the windings of the Saône,
and stretched the rich plains of Bresse, and above all towered the
range of the Jura, resembling the cloud which hung over it, but that
its rosy white was more delicate still. At our feet were two villages,
so hidden in their nooks, that we perceived them only when the road
passed directly above. The furthest is La Rochepot; its square castle,
flanked by four massive towers, covers the surface of the solitary rock
which forms its foundation, and rises among the cabins, yet at a
commanding distance, as (ere power had departed and respect had
followed) the old noble once did among his vassals.
Two watch-towers are still standing, and the windows opened at
different epochs, some arched, some Elizabethan, make frames for the
blue sky seen through them, or are lightly curtained by ivy, which
seldom grows luxuriantly in France; its situation and itself are such,
as, had Scott seen, would not have been left without a story.
The grande route winding, passes directly in its front, and the
precipice is scarcely pleasant with a starting horse, particularly as
the carters we meet crack their whips at me, kindly curious to know
whether the lady’s seat is as unsafe as strange. Arrived at the stone
cross on the hill, we lost sight of the castle, but obtained a lovelier
view of the valley, as green meadows and fruit-trees in flower
enlivened the same bold scenery. I had led Fanny down, as the descent
is rapid, and as I was about to remount, only Grizzel’s affectionate
disposition spared us an inconvenient adventure. By the road-side are
various marly pools, whose thin mud seems unlikely to tempt even a
thirsty horse; yet Grizzel left free when D—— came to assist me,
walked towards, and into it, bending her knees and making preparations
for rolling, in utter disregard of the saddle and valise she carries.
D—— ran to the edge, but the edge was slippery and the pool deep, and
Grizzel too intent on her bath to listen to shouts or commands; a
stroke of the long whip was the last resource, and out of the water she
splashed, and, to our dismay, trotted up a by-path. What was to be
done? to pursue would have quickened her retreat; by a lucky thought,
we led away little Fanny, and the poor grey had not gone a hundred
yards ere she turned to look for her, and though she hesitated a
little, preferred the risk of feeling the whip again to losing her
companion; so we rode peaceably on to Chagny, which is situated in a
rather pretty country, though beyond the valley. I asked an old woman
who was there at work, the name of its tiny river; she turned round to
gaze at it, as if she then saw it for the first time, and said “Cela?
cela s’appelle la _rivière_.” Met again to-day several soldiers going
on furlough; one from Africa, bronzed by its sun. We stopped him to ask
whether we are likely to find our friend Captain ——’s regiment at
Lyons. From Chagny to Chalons, though but four leagues, seemed a long
distance from the badness of the road: between them, on a lone flat, we
passed the stone erected to the memory of Antoine Prévost a countryman,
assassinated here for the sake of a five-franc piece in his pocket. Met
an exceedingly uncivil waggoner with his team, who made a face at me!
and got in at sunset, the frogs in the ditches croaking so loud a “good
night,” that they startled the horses.
Chalons existed as a town of importance, even previous to Cæsar’s
entrance into Gaul, and was called Orbandale. Cæsar made it the
head-quarters of several legions, and it increased in importance till
the reign of Constantine. The inhabitants boast that near their city he
beheld in the clouds the luminous cross which converted him to
Christianity.
It was at Chalons that the marriage was negotiated between Clovis and
Clotilda, by whose influence he afterwards became first Christian King
of France. It was to him that St. Remy made that fine speech before his
baptism; “Bow the head, barbarian! burn what you have adored; reverence
what you have burned.” The scene of the exploits of the famous
Brunehaud was also laid here; she was second wife to King Gontran; his
first spouse Austragilda, who died at Chalons, made a singular request
to her husband:—“I pray you, sire, put to death all those unskilful
leeches who have failed to cure my malady.” King Gontran promised to
give her this token of affection, and kept his word, and yet—he has
been canonized!!! The parish of St. Laurent, which was formerly a
little town with privileges of its own, occupies an island formed by
the Saône. It had once a convent of Cordeliers, in the church of which
was the tomb of a monk who was its superior. The historian of Chalons
says he was the only brother of Alphonso the Fifth, King of Portugal;
in 1481, he wandered hither and assumed the cowl: the king dying
childless, ambassadors came to offer him the crown he had inherited; he
refused it, and dismissed them as well as his mother the queen dowager,
who strove to persuade him by entreaties and vain tears. At last, in
despair, she departed and retired to die among the poor Cordeliers of
St. Claire of Auxonne, where she is interred. Of all the riches of
Portugal, Father John only accepted what sufficed to decorate the
church of his convent, and died in 1525, having chosen to be the
principal of five and twenty mendicant monks, rather than to rule a
kingdom.
Having purchased a bonnet, I walked after dinner to the cathedral. It
is believed to have existed from the earliest epoch of Christianity;
ruined by the Saracens, it was magnificently rebuilt by Charlemagne in
the commencement of the ninth century. It fell into decay five hundred
years after, and the present edifice is of the fourteenth and fifteenth
centuries. It is an extensive and solemn-looking building. We saw it
imperfectly and for a few minutes only; not arriving till after sunset.
The side aisles are shorter than the nave, and the arch, which descends
lower where the transept crosses the latter, gives it weight and gloom;
but the nun’s walk, with an open gallery below and above, is light and
beautiful. The armed and gilded figures, which seem to guard the choir,
belong to the tombs of some of the old Counts of Chalons buried here.
The chapels are rich in ornaments, having belonged to the chief
families of the country, mostly to those which have given bishops to
Chalons. In one of them kneels a painted statue attired in its robes,
which, though it might possess little illusion in broad daylight, made
us start in the gloom, looking though “lifeless so very lifelike.” The
unfinished portal is about to be completed; and this part of the
cathedral is screened off for the present by most curious old tapestry,
seemingly of Francis the First’s time. The small irregular place in
front of the church is surrounded by houses with projecting upper
stories, and carved cherubims at their corners, resembling those at
Tewkesbury; but nothing at Chalons appears to date back to 590, though
it is pretended that a part of the palace occupied by King Gontran
still remains. We go to-morrow, for the quay below our windows is the
spot whence the Saône steamers start; and the noise exceeds that of a
Saturday night at Birmingham: the horses are uncomfortably situated,
not only from the extreme filthiness of the stable, but because one end
of its enormous space is merely separated by a curtain from the open
coach-house, and the other by a glass partition from the kitchen;
luckily they are good travellers. We dined yesterday in our own rooms
and well, and to-day at the table d’hôte, the worst I have seen yet,
and having a nasty appendage in a lavoir opposite, with often-used soap
on its edge, and dirty towels for drapery; the diners washed their
hands as they came in—a most odious custom.