Tournus—Greuze’s grave—Mâcon—The walking Wedding—Retirement of
a Count of Mâcon, with thirty Knights, to the Abbey of
Cluny—Dealings of his Successor with evil Spirits—His exit from
Earth in the Car of a black Visitor—His Son turning Monk through
fear—The County sold by his Daughter Alice to France—Bloodless
occupation of Mâcon by the Huguenots—Mâcon retaken through
bribery by the Marshal of Tavannes—Madame de Tavannes’ mode of
increasing her Revenues—Sauteries de Mâcon—Farce of St.
Poinct—Assassination of Huguenot Prisoners—Sang froid of
Catholic Dames—A Russian Noble—Villefranche—Privilege granted
to its married Men—Descent into Lyons—Monastère des deux Amans,
supposed Herod and Herodias—Fortress of Pierre Encise—The
Prison of Cinq Mars—Fort commanding the Croix Rousse—Homage
paid to the wooden Statue of 1550—Hôtel de l’Europe—View of
Fourvières—Its Church escaping violation throughout the
Revolution—The Antiquaille on the site of the Palace where
Germanicus was born—Traces of fire in Nero’s time—Recollections
of Princess Mary of Württemberg—Her love of Art to the
last—Nourrit’s Funeral—A Racer’s determination to trot—Going
to races—Mistaken for a Candidate—Perrache—Horses, riders, and
accoutrements—Triumph of the King’s Fête—A Boat upset—The
Tower of the fair German-Croix Rousse—Wretchedness of the
Operatives—Causes of Insurrection in 1831—The most ancient
Monastery in Gaul—Church of Aisnay.
Tournus, Hôtel de l’Europe,
23d April.
Arrived here last evening, having left the inn yard at Chalons under
the inspection of all the guests assembled there for breakfast.
Remembered, when we had crossed the bridge, having left no address for
my bonnet, which is to be sent after me to Mâcon; and were obliged to
ride back.
From Chalons to Sennecey, two posts; a long fertile plain bounded by
hills; to the left, in the distance, the Swiss mountains. The only
sights at dirty Sennecey, a horridly gigantic head grinning with its
tongue out, transplanted from some fountain to the wall of the first
house, and a very old fort at its extremity, within whose walls the
parish church has been lately erected. The extensive plain which again
succeeds is skirted by nearer and wooded hills, whose shade, as we
ascended them, made a pleasant contrast to the burning, treeless flat
below. We let poor Fanny drink from a clear stream gushing forth at the
foot, over which has been built a neat lavoir. As we walked the horses
up the steep, the view bespoke more comfort and plenty than does any
part of France I have yet travelled. Green meadows and fruit trees in
flower, and villages dotting valley and rising ground, reminded me of
England; from the summit the prospect was enchanting. The descent
before us was rapid, and a few crags made a bold foreground, as did the
Swiss mountains a splendid distance. Tournus rose in the plain, with
its old church towers and grey abbey, and suspended bridge across the
Saône, whose shores, seen for many a mile of its windings, merit their
name of “bords fleuris.” This is one of the very best inns we have yet
rested in; close to the bridge and the river; in all respects superior
to its rival, the Sauvage, which is at the entrance of the town in a
dull and dirty situation: but, as it pays postilions at a ruinous rate,
attracts the larger proportion of post carriages. My indifferent health
alters our destination, for, dreading the heat of an Italian summer, we
go hence to Switzerland instead of Nismes. Here we remain some days for
letters, and to give rest to our horses, though they appear to require
none. Our most intimate acquaintance is a fat gentleman, who is anxious
we should take a furnished château in these environs, which has its own
private theatre, (he has discovered D——’s taste already,) and, with
grounds and large vineyard, is to be let for thirty pounds a year; and
an old soldier of the empire, one of the few returned from Moscow, who
holds young France in great contempt, and showed us the scar of a lance
thrust in his throat; and a sabre cut which crippled his hand: two of
the six wounds for which a grateful country bestows on him a pension of
eight sous a day. Do not suppose him a beggar, or one to whom you could
presume to offer money. Before he was drawn for the conscription he was
a carpenter. After his military life, unable to return to his first
trade, he took up another, and is now a carrier, and transports goods
in his cariole from Tournus to the villages surrounding it. We made
acquaintance in the stable, where I had gone to see Fanny luxuriously
rolling on her clean straw; and he particularly prides himself on being
divested of all prejudices belonging to the untravelled. Greuze, the
painter of the sweet family-pieces we have so often admired in the
Louvre, was born at Tournus; in the church is a monument erected in his
honour.
27th April, Mâcon.
We loitered away the fine weather at Tournus, and took to-day the
melancholy road hither, with a north-east wind which whirled its dust
in our faces, and made us shiver, as we rode up and down long hills,
which succeed each other without view or interest. We met a wedding
trudging along a little path which wound through the clods of a
ploughed field, and crossing the high road and ourselves in the
direction of a village. Three fiddles preceded bride and bridegroom,
who walked arm in arm, and half a dozen couples of friends and
relatives followed; we made a bow to the bride, who was very plain and
looked very proud. The fiddlers were conscientiously playing with all
their might, and we heard the sharp, squeaking notes, “like the cracked
treble of an old man’s voice,” long after we lost sight of them. The
female peasantry hereabouts wear a strange kind of tiny hat tied on the
top of the head, and the white cap: it is about large enough to fit
that of a doll, and above a fair face might be picturesque, but worn
over weather-beaten features, which the “foreign aid of ornament cannot
serve,” adds to their natural ugliness; and being so small as barely to
shade one eye, affords no protection against the burning summer. The
Hôtel de l’Europe where we are lodged is a good inn situated on the
quay: the view is pretty across the broad river, and to the plains
beyond, and bounded by the Alps. The inn has good beds and civil
masters, but a bad cook. We dined to-day at the table d’hôte, which
consisted of only two besides ourselves, young men of no very brilliant
intellect, for one asked the waiter whether the radishes served at
table were of this or last year’s growth; and nothing could persuade
the other that the insurrection of the Lyons workmen was not suscitated
by the English, with a view to destroy the silk-trade. There is an old
horse in these stables thirty-two years of age, they tell me once a
favourite charger of Napoleon.
Mâcon is a very ancient town, and was of importance even in Cæsar’s
time. Under the first race of French kings it formed part of the
kingdom of Burgundy; under the second race the Counts of Mâcon had
insensibly become hereditary, and after the reign of Hugues Capet, one
of these, yielding to the devotional feelings which took sudden and
absorbing possession of his mind, retired with his sons and thirty
knights to the monastery of Cluny, where they assumed the cowl, while
at the same time their wives became nuns in the abbey of Marcigny. The
county of Mâcon then again formed part of Burgundy, and in 1245 it was
sold to St. Louis, King of France, by Alice, who had inherited it from
her father and brother.
The parent of the Countess Alice had, it was said, dark dealings with
bad spirits; and choosing to place no bridle on his love of enjoyment,
laid violent hands on property belonging to the two chapters of Mâcon,
and to the abbey of Cluny. The hour of reckoning came, and a black man
of fearful exterior appeared one day, and summoned the count at the
foot of his palace stair. Forced to obey, he mounted, at his silent
companion’s sign, a kind of car, and thereupon miraculously disappeared
from his wondering subjects. His cries of despair were heard and lost
in the distance. “Had he sunk into earth, or melted in air,” they knew
not; but his son, witness of this event, became a monk, and ceded the
county to his sister Alice, who had espoused a prince of the blood of
France, and her wishes according with her husband’s, sold to Louis the
holy king, a domain whose unholy lords ended so fatally. The palace was
allowed to go to decay, and in the sixteenth century its ruined walls
were still visible within the citadel which was in the centre of the
town. The Countess Alice retired to the Abbaye des Lis near Melun, and
died its abbess. Long after, in the year 1562, the Huguenots had
obtained possession of Mâcon with little violence, and no shedding of
blood. The Marshal of Tavannes several times, and each unsuccessfully,
attempted to retake the town, until at last he entered it by the means
of traitors bought over. Notwithstanding, in each street a combat
awaited him, but the Huguenot party, weaker than his own, and
unprepared, wasted its bravery. With the victorious troops there
re-entered the town a number of women, who, on account of their
shameful lives, had been expelled thence, as well as the priests, in
whose habitations many of them had been found: they served to point out
the houses belonging to men of the Huguenot creed, particularly of
those who had been active in driving them forth.
The butchery which took place would be too horrid for minute detail;
and by means of merciless pillage, Tavannes and other leaders made or
augmented their fortunes. Madame de Tavannes was noted for being
particularly clever in discovering in houses, which already seemed
sacked, the hiding-places of plate, jewels and linen, with all which
Mâcon at this time was better supplied than any town in France. The
mournfully famous Sauteries de Mâcon took place when Tavannes, having
departed, left in his place as governor, a certain St. Poinct, son of a
woman who asserted that a priest was his father. This man was in the
habit of terminating pastimes and festivals, to which he had invited
all the Catholic ladies of the town, by inquiring if the farce were
ready to be acted (it has since been called the farce of St. Poinct);
and on receiving a reply in the affirmative, he led the way to the
bridge—I believe the very same which still crosses from Mâcon to
Bresse, built of stone, with thirteen arches. Hither by his command,
one or two, sometimes more, of the Huguenot prisoners had already been
summoned; and when St. Poinct arrived, surrounded by ladies richly
attired, he would enter into gay conversation, joke with them, and give
them hope of pardon, till at his well-known signal they were seized and
cast from the bridge into the river. It does no honour to the Catholic
dames and damsels of the day, that D’Aubigné wrote that “this man could
instil into the minds of females, even maids and children, with the
fruits and wines of his desserts, such feelings as taught them to look
on without pity at the execution of a Huguenot.” Last night there
arrived a Russian noble, with his train of serfs. The north-east wind
blew bitterly, yet by the master’s order the groom, who had in some
wise offended, passed the hours till morning, shivering on the box of
the travelling-carriage. One of the hôtel waiters in pity carried him a
bottle of wine, but as he passed
“Betwixt the wind and his nobility,”
the Russian interfered, the servant received a reprimand, and the serf
no wine.
28th April.
From Mâcon to Villefranche the country improving; the low hills on the
right relieve the eye, barren as they are. At St. George de Rognain’s,
through which we passed, it was fair-day, and the streets so crowded,
that we were forced to proceed at a slow walk,—stared, laughed, and
hooted at, with what patience we might. At Villefranche it was
market-day, and our progress was impeded by droves of horned cattle
along the road: found, when we arrived, all the good rooms occupied at
the post-house, therefore pay high prices for bad accommodation. We
dined at the same table with a gentleman who has travelled on horseback
from Dijon hither, and complains of the fatigue piteously! Humbert the
Fourth, sire de Beaujeu, who died in 1202, singularly privileged the
husbands of Villefranche, allowing them to beat their wives till the
blood flowed, provided they did not die!!
29th April.
From Villefranche to Anse,
La plus belle lieue de France,
says the popular rhyme, and truly as we rode it, this warm, lovely
morning, it was fair and fertile beyond any country we have travelled
over. The high grounds on the right covered with vineyards; on the
left, the meadows rich and green, and the Saône—a sheet of silver, and
enough hill to give the scenery the boldness it would want otherwise.
Droves of oxen again on their way to supply Lyons; their drivers not
more civil than yesterday,—for they merely said they were dangerous,
without an attempt to leave us room at either side of the broad road;
and their being savage was a likely consequence of the heat, and their
fatigue—joined to the blows of the men, and the bites of their dogs.
We kept in the rear till they opened their ranks themselves, and then
cantered through this most unromantic peril. Our next meeting was with
a runaway cow! galloping at full speed from her master, whom her
unceremonious haste had commenced by overturning at the top of the
hill, and who was making vain efforts to come up with her. As we left
valiantly as much room with as little delay as possible for the
fugitive, two post-carriages passed us, their inmates asleep as usual.
We have not yet met two travellers with their eyes open.
We passed Anse, and its bridge over the narrow river, which is perhaps
a branch of the Saône:—there is an air of comfort about the
habitations of the poor, not visible in the north of France or nearer
Paris. We noticed that the improvement commenced near Chalons. At Anse
the cottages have neatly-enclosed gardens, gay with flowers and fruit
trees; the sides of the Grande Route, which here turns abruptly towards
the high hill which towers between it and Lyons, is bordered by poplars
and willows; the green lanes, branching from it, have hedges, now white
with hawthorn; and the peach-trees, which it is here the custom to
plant between the rows of vine, are covered with their delicate
blossoms. We remarked, that nowhere had we noticed so many fine
châteaux as we saw dotting the country here; either placed, in
commanding situations, on the hills to the right, or nestled in the
nooks of the Mount d’Or itself, which we were ascending. Perhaps this
accounts for the happier aspect of the dwellings of the poor: they are
not, like those in Normandy, long, unmeaning buildings, with mansarde
roofs; but for the most part extremely picturesque, built with high
peaked turrets,—probably in the architecture of Henry the Fourth’s
time. The steep road is uneven and stony, and we suffered from its
dust, as well as the heat of the day; but the view of the country to
the left, and that we were leaving behind, was at every step lovelier,
and when we reached the summit, that of Lyons and its environs which
lay below, in no degree inferior to it, though a thick haze shut out
the Swiss mountains. We asked three men, within the space of five
minutes, what might be the distance to Lyons: the first said two
leagues; the second, one; and the third, three. The descent is long and
rapid, passing some wild and beautiful gorges of the mountain, where
the summer residences of the Lyonnese citizens are thickly scattered,
and when we reached the bottom we were on the bank of the Saône, its
windings on the left hand leading among green shores, and to the Isle
Barbe, and on the right into Lyons. The Faubourg de Vaise, through
which the grande route runs, gives no very favourable first impression.
We believed that we had mistaken our way; but the crooked, narrow
streets opened at last on the fine quay, and the finest town-view ever
seen. We both made an exclamation of surprise at its beauty, which
increased as we proceeded; but my enjoyment of which Fanny very much
interfered with, as she chose to start more violently than ever, and
the busy quays have often no barrier between them and the river below
but rare placed curbed stones; sometimes not even these. We passed the
ruined Monastery des Deux Amans, a Gothic building, of which little
remains but the walls and a few windows with light and elegant tracery.
It was of the order of St. Francis, and took its name from a tomb
without an inscription, which existed here in the sixteenth century,
and from time immemorial had been called that of the Two Lovers. Some,
who exercised their erudition on the monument, affirmed it to be that
of Herod, king of Judea, and his mistress Herodias, exiled to Lyons by
Caligula. The high crag, which we rode beneath immediately after,
starting so strangely up from the quay and among houses, with
vegetation on its top, and a mere vestige of broken wall, was the seat
of the strong fortress of Pierre Scise, held by the archbishops of
Lyons till Henry the Fourth thought it wiser to take possession of it
for the crown.
During Louis the Thirteenth’s reign, it was a state prison, and became
that of Cinq Mars, whose memory Alfred de Vigny has made imperishable;
another victim to the weakness of Gaston, and the jealousy of
Richelieu. The rock was of considerable extent, for its fortifications
were cut in its stone, and it hung over the river; but it has been
blasted, and removed, to widen the quay and afford a passage for the
fine road which leads in zigzags up the hill to the new fort, which
commands the entire city, and whose cannon would above all find no
difficulty in reducing to powder the Faubourg of the Croix Rousse,
(built on a corresponding elevation on the other side of the river,)
should the Croix Rousse think fit to renew its revolts of 31 and 34. At
a guard-house we rode by, seeing 66th regiment on the soldiers’ caps,
D—— asked news of our friend Capt. ——. His battalion is not here,
but is expected shortly, and we have decided on remaining, as “we
three” have not met for years.
After passing the rock of Pierre Scise, there is another and lower
crag, on which are the rotting remains of a wooden statue. The people
merely know that it is the bon homme de Vaise, or Monsieur de la Roche,
who, in days of yore, gave marriage portions to their daughters, as is
exemplified by the large wooden purse he holds in his hand. I find that
he was an “échevin” of Lyons, of German family: his name was John
Fleberg, and he had been so successful in commerce, that when the
domains of the traitor Constable of Bourbon were confiscated to the
crown, he was enabled to purchase various châteaux and estates situated
in the neighbourhood of Lyons, and freed the inhabitants of Vaise of
various seignorial exactions, which had before lain heavily on them.
As the statue has stood and mouldered on its present pedestal since the
year 1550, or 1560, it has been thrown down by storm or accident
several times, and on such occasions re-installed with great ceremony.
It was long the custom to carry it in procession, once a year, through
the streets, repaired and fresh painted, and adorned with flowers; but
it has been discontinued of late, and the head and one arm are now
broken away. We continued to ride along the quay till we had passed the
cathedral, and crossing the second of the splendid suspension bridges
which traverse the Saône, arrived at the Hôtel de l’Europe, whose
entrance is from the Place Bellecour, and whose superb rooms look on
the river, and the bridges of Foy and Fourvières; a glorious view, with
the lights and shadows of sunset on it. This 30th of April has been
more like August. We have arrived heated and tired, but the horses
neither: both very hungry, and little Fanny rolling: which from the
character we purposely give her, she has room to do in comfort, French
‘cochers’ standing in awe of quadrupeds.
1st of May.
I think a Frenchman, wishing to impress a foreigner favourably, might
succeed better in affording him a glimpse of Lyons, than the same of
Paris. Fancy yourself for a moment standing at one of these windows,
the atmosphere more clear than further northward in France. The old
church on the opposite bank of the Saône, with two low massive towers,
each surmounted by a cross, is St. Jean, the cathedral, in part erected
during the reign of Philip Augustus, contemporary of Richard Cœur de
Lion. The ugly ruinous looking building adjoining is the Archevêché.
Pius the Seventh, on his way to crown Napoleon, in Paris, Napoleon, on
his road to be crowned in Italy, slept here! Behind St. Jean rise
vineyards and fruit gardens in steep terraces, gay with white blossom
and delicate verdure,—a background from which the grey cathedral
stands darkly out. Directly above, on the extreme summit of the hill,
is the small church of Notre Dame des Fourvières, remarkable for having
escaped the ravages of the old revolution, during the whole of which it
remained closed, and was re-opened by Pius the Seventh. A square tower
built near it, on the same platform, in some degree hurting the effect
of the tiny steeple, is a new and useless observatory. A little to the
left, and lower on the hill, a long building with three pavilions, half
concealed among old trees, is the Antiquaille, now an hospital and
house of refuge: built on the site—it is said on the foundations—of
the palace of the emperors, where Germanicus was born. Fourvières took
its name from a splendid market erected there in Trajan’s reign, and
called Forum Vetus. On the hill have been found at various times,
pieces of fused metal and calcined stones, traces of the great fire
which ruined the city in the time of Nero. The heights of Foy join
those of Fourvières, and are equally bold, but more barren. When the
poor young Princess Mary of Württemberg came to Lyons on her way to
Pisa, where she died, she insisted on painting this view, though she
did so supported by cushions. The landlord’s sister showed me her
apartments, which join ours: she says the Princess was so gentle and
uncomplaining, her husband so attached to her, and both she and the
Prince so fond of their infant, whose sleeping place was in a cabinet
adjoining their bed-chamber, and whom they were hanging over and
admiring twenty times a-day, that it was heart-breaking to see her
increasing feebleness. When they continued their journey, he would
suffer no other person to give the assistance necessary, but himself
carried her down the hôtel stairs, and lifted her into the carriage.
She was an artist to the last; but a day or two before her decease at
Pisa, cheered by warmth and sunshine, she asked for a pencil, and
commenced a sketch of the fine view from the windows. “The ruling
passion was strong in death.” When the Prince again passed through
Lyons, on his return to Paris, without her, his appearance was so
changed, that (the people of the inn say) they barely recognized him.
I have just been summoned to the Hôtel Terrace, which looks on the
Place Bellecour, to see the passage of Nourrit’s funeral procession.
His body had arrived at Lyons in a travelling carriage, and
(transferred to a hearse only to cross the city) will again be
deposited in a coach at its gates, and hurried up to Paris. The hearse
was preceded by military, with music and drums muffled, and the pall
covered with crowns of flowers, offerings made by the towns he has thus
been borne through since Naples; but the two postilions, who in their
common dress rode the hearse horses, were out of character with its
plumes and draperies. A crowd of Lyons artists and of Nourrit’s
admirers followed, but the archbishop has refused religious rites to
the actor.
This is a most lovely night, like one in summer, and Lyons looks proud
and imposing seen through the partial obscurity. The fine deep toll of
the cathedral bell, and the discharges of cannon echoed back from the
range of hills, and carried along by the dark river, adds to its
effect. To-morrow, the fête of St. Philip, there will be gay
rejoicings. We intend riding to see the races at La Perrache; for last
year a horse who had excited great hopes, in the hour of trial, despite
whip and spur, went round the course at a trot.
May 2nd.
As we were about to mount our horses in the inn yard this morning, a
considerable crowd assembled to gaze at us, and completely filled the
archway; so that when we attempted to ride out at it, the porter was
obliged to employ rough words, as well as entreaties, and his wife
whispered in my ear, that the people were so curious, because one of
them had told the rest that I had arrived in Lyons for the sole purpose
of riding one of these races. We could do nothing but move very slowly
and patiently among the wide-eyed and open-mouthed spectators. I heard
some one say close to me in a tone of contemptuous pity, “Sure, your
honour, the likes of them knows no better,” and looking round,
wondering to find so perfect a brogue so far from its birthplace, the
speaker again replied to the expression of my face, “Is it where I come
from, your honour? why then, from Cuffe-street,” and I saw a very red
round face, with a merry blue eye, belonging to an Irishman with a
wooden leg. Paddy has been a sailor, first in the English, then in the
French service; but to quiet his conscience, which might reproach him
with this caprice of which he has been guilty, he yields to the first
the palm of superiority, which he says “altogether proceeds from the
system of flogging,” as “the French navy will never flourish without
that same.” He is now a good shoemaker, or rather he might be, for,
like many of his countrymen, he abhors control; and prefers living on
the good will of his acquaintances, in which he succeeds pretty well,
as he is allowed to walk in and out of the hôtel yard, where his humour
and appearance seldom fail to attract some traveller’s notice, though
he never begs. When hunger presses and travellers have become scarce,
he takes his line and his basket to the river and lives uncomplainingly
on scanty fare till the good times come round again. As he is
improvident, so he is popular: to-day with the silver D—— gave him,
he went away in company of the inhabitants of the stable invited by him
to share the treat. You see he keeps up his country’s character for
hospitality.
We crossed the Place Bellecour on our way to the races, a noble square
from its extent; its fine equestrian statue of Louis the Fourteenth,
the view of the heights of Foy and Fourvières seen above the tall
houses and the rows of “time honoured” lime trees, which make a shady
promenade on its southern side. The review took place here. The
race-ground is a plain forming the centre of a beauteous panorama. We
took, to arrive there, the narrow street which leads to a place looking
sufficiently desert and uncared for to be a fitting spot for the
purpose it is put to, when the execution of a criminal takes place in
Lyons; beyond is a noble boulevard, stretching from river to river, the
Rhone to the Saône. Crossing this we almost directly came on the plain
of Perrache.
Here at the starting place was erected a booth; and the ladies and
authorities of Lyons, the préfet, &c., occupied seats prepared for
them, the former elegantly attired, and the latter wearing a look of
great interest, and (what was more wonderful still) of gravity. Persons
on horseback and on foot were admitted within the well-sanded circle,
and without it were ranged a line of gay equipages; next, under the
tricoloured flag, came forth the competitors, two by two, a poster with
a tied up tail, a cart-horse with a long flowing one, a thin light
pony, a broken down English hunter, who, notwithstanding age and
infirmities, I thought would have won, as the “spirit was willing,” but
he was matched against the poster, and the last named kept up his
awkward canter longest: and others, whose appearance, from being less
decided, was not more favourable. There were six in all; the rider of
the English horse had the least ludicrous dress, for he had imitated,
though not faithfully, that of an English jockey, the rest had followed
their own various tastes. He of the pony wore loose trousers of dingy
white and a short open red jacket, both seamed and embroidered with
tarnished gold, and his shoulders adorned with epaulettes, which seemed
to have been ill-used in battle. At his saddle-bow he carried holsters;
his legs had long leather leggins, and his feet shoes with spurs, but
they rested in no stirrups. The rider of the poster wore a very long
blue jacket covering his hips, long cloth pantaloons and no spurs, and
a broad orange-coloured sash swathed him round even from under his arms.
The peasant was a very fat man, and he too had chosen a red jacket and
loose white trousers, but the latter were confined in a pair of
Wellington boots drawn up over them, and to these the wearer had added
tops of mock-yellow morocco.
The first race was between the last mentioned and the pony, for the
highest prize; and these two first made their appearance, all the
horses were ticketed; a colossal number inscribed on a white card which
hung below the left ear—these were (1) and (2); the jockeys came
forward, and with great dignity and much trouble, placed themselves on
a line, after the cart-horse, who was vicious, had backed to kick the
pony. Then the word was given, and they leaned back to the tails,
pulled with one hand and flogged with the other and started. We had no
trouble in following within the circle sufficiently close to see all
the interesting events of the race. The pony started a little, and his
rider slipped from the saddle to the sand, which was thick enough to
prevent injury; during this time the cart-horse gained on him and the
peasant won. The prize was 600 francs. I heard a spectator bet 10
francs on the pony previous to his misadventure.
The other races very much resembled this one, the horses at starting
crossed each other, and the jockeys rode them against the ropes at the
turn of the course; and each time, “when the hurly-burly was done,”
military music greeted the victor beneath the tricoloured flag. When it
was all over, the three winners, preceded by the band of the
horse-artillery, rode in triumph round the course. The self-satisfied
air of the peasant as he bowed the whole way the head at the back of
which hung the jockey-cap, was the most amusing sight possible. The sun
was burning, and the excessive heat, and the fatigue of laughing so
much, made us glad to ride home to rest.
The fireworks were splendid, and their effect enhanced by a sky which
threatened storm. The troops, ranged along both quays of the Saône,
kept up a harmless fire of those brilliant white stars which
momentarily lighted up the hills and the city with a lustre of the
purity, but more than the brightness, of moonshine. They were answered
by other soldiers posted on the height, and at intervals by the cannon
from the fort of Fourvières and the town; the country and the old
cathedral appeared and vanished by turns through the smoke and in the
varying light. On the bridge opposite was a palace of diamonds; it
brought to my memory one I saw at Rosny, at a fête given in honour of
the young Duke of Bordeaux, it was so like; there was only the change
of cypher: and last night the “L.” burned brightly, but the _P._ went
totally out. The bouquet went up almost beneath our windows, and
sprang, as it seemed to the clouds, a sheet of fire, each branch as it
burst scattering a shower, variously and gorgeously coloured, and
illuminating the town, during the few moments it lasted, more perfectly
than did the day’s sunshine. The crowd uttered an exclamation of
applause. I had no idea, at the time, that the cries of the dying were
mingled with it. Twelve persons of the working-class, to see the
feu-d’artifice better, went out on the Saône in one of their narrow and
dangerous batelets. They made a sudden movement as the bouquet rose,
and the boat overturned! Their cries were heard, and attempts to rescue
them made, which proved vain in the confusion and partial darkness.
Eight contrived to reach the shore—the remaining four went down; they
formed an entire family—mother, son, daughter, and the husband, to
whom she had been lately married.
3rd May.
As we were standing at the window yesterday morning, the two expected
battalions of the 66th regiment passed under it, and D—— ran down
stairs to ask news of his friend. As it happened, he accosted a soldier
of Capt. de ——’s own company. He is still on leave in Paris, and the
man did not know the precise time of his return. This morning we
started on an expedition we failed to accomplish; for I wished to see
the Isle Barbe, and the quays on this side the Saône which lead thither
become very narrow, and are high above the water without curb stone or
parapet, and therefore too perilous for Fanny, who full of spirit
started round from each individual we met, we took the first narrow
road which led up the hill; but, ere we did so, passed the site of a
romantic story, whose exact date is unknown to me.
Nearly opposite the diminished rock on which the fortress of Pierre
Scise or Encise once stood advanced into the water, there is still a
tower, which with the remains of a moat and drawbridge belongs to a
house called, from its present owner, “Maison Vouti.” A French
nobleman, a native of Lyons, had quitted it to seek his fortunes in
Germany, where he became not only rich, but placed and favoured at
court.
In the midst of his prosperity he contracted an unfortunate attachment
to a low-born maiden, whose grace and beauty did not, in German eyes,
excuse her origin. He married her; but, unable to bear the disgrace and
contempt which fell upon him, he broke all the ties which attached him
to her country, and conveyed her to Lyons, where it was his will to
live in almost perfect solitude. The bride pined in her lonely
habitation, rendered sadder by the now morose temper of the
disappointed noble. She seemed to recover a portion of her former
gaiety only during the visits of a young man, her husband’s sole friend
and intimate. These visits became by degrees more frequent, and at last
excited unpleasant feelings in the husband’s mind. His jealousy once
roused, intrigues and false political accusations enclosed his former
associate within the fortress walls, while his young wife was conducted
to the tower, which still bears the name of “Tour de la Belle
Allemande.”
Whether she too felt the love with which she had inspired the prisoner,
or whether indignation at her own fate and pity for his only prompted
her, the chronicler does not tell; but from the summit of her
gaol-tower she constantly looked towards Pierre Encise. At last the day
came on which the young man, profiting by a moment in which the usual
watchfulness had failed, threw himself from a window, of which he had
sawed the bar, into the river. The current of the Saône is not strong,
and he was a skilful swimmer, and arrived at the opposite shore in
safety. She had watched his progress in hope and agony; uttering cries
he could not hear, and making signs of encouragement he failed to see
during his strife with the water. At length he was near, approaching to
free her, and she repeated her signs; and her husband’s guards, who had
watched her strange motions in wonder, now at last discovered their
object. As he arrived at the foot of the tower, and stretched forth his
arms to her,—as she stooped over the battlement to greet him—he
fell—the shot had been faithfully and fatally aimed.
The steep stony road (up which D—— led Grizzle, and little Fanny
gaily carried me) led among winding lanes and stone walls to the summit
of the hill, and the Croix Rousse, which is the Faubourg of Lyons,
exclusively occupied by silk weavers, and the head-quarters of the
insurrection. Pauche the landlord said, when we returned, that those
who knew the town and its inhabitants better than ourselves would
scarcely venture there. We met with no incivility: a few squalid faces
looked out in wonder, for the descent to the quay for foot passengers
is by flights of twenty or thirty steps each; and between these the
horse-road winds, still so steep, that we had some difficulty in
leading the horses. As we passed the operatives’ dwellings we agreed
that the temptation of seeing their work in progress was not
sufficiently strong to lead us within; most were employed with their
doors open, to admit as much air as the narrow street and hot day
suffered to circulate: that which issued forth was infected; and
within, besides the heavy loom and its pale master, there seemed barely
room for the few articles of wretched furniture. On the relative
position of manufacturer and workman, my informant is Mons. Pauche the
landlord, who, besides the revenues of this hôtel, now possesses a
landed property worth about 60,000 francs a-year, and whose vineyards
yield 300 hogsheads of wine annually. He began life as a workman in the
silk trade, so that his two conditions of operative and proprietor are
likely to make him impartial. At this moment the purchaser finds silk
dear, both in Paris and Lyons; but precisely in the proportion that the
head manufacturer’s profits increase, those of the workman decline. The
former takes advantage of the latter’s necessities; offers reduced
prices, and can afford the delay, if the workman demurs, which the
wants of his family prevent his doing long, and, having food to buy and
rent to pay, he will accept fifteen or even twelve sous for his long
day’s labour. At present, the usual remuneration is twenty-two sous,
the wife earns twelve, the children so little that they do not lighten
the burthen; but supposing no incumbrances, thirty-four sous, the price
of the man and woman’s work, can hardly enable them to exist and pay
house-rent, which is dear in Lyons.
The disturbances of November 1831 had in their commencement no
reference to politics. The workmen, whose wages were miserably low,
demanded an augmentation. Their masters summoned them before the
Préfet, and the increase was agreed on in his presence. The day of
payment arrived; the manufacturers, in greater part, refused to adhere
to their engagements, and the workmen, meeting in groups of four, had
in a short time in various parts of the city gathered to the number of
many thousands; bearing on their banners the motto, “Vivre en
travaillant ou mourir en combattant.”
In the conflict which followed, the 66th, then the only regiment in
Lyons, lost two hundred men and thirteen officers. It was almost
totally unsupported; as the greater part of the National Guard, taken
from the class of which were the insurgents, refused to act against
them.
You know that Lyons is famous for its black and crimson dyes; it is
strange that this superiority should depend on the waters of the Rhone,
all parts of which, as it flows through Lyons, have not a similar
effect. In one place, for instance, the black dye attains its
perfection; a hundred yards further it fails. The workmen attribute
this to peculiar properties of springs in the bed of the river.
The most ancient monastery in this, probably in any part of Gaul, was
that of the Isle Barbe, built in the time of the Emperor Constantine,
about the year 300; its first inhabitants were a few fugitive
Christians, who had fled thence from Lyons, and from the troops of the
Emperor Severus.
The church of Aisnay, which we passed on our ride from the Place
Bellecour to La Perrache, is built on the foundations of the temple
raised by the sixty tribes of Gaul. That which exists, of partly Gothic
partly Roman architecture, is such as it was repaired in the eleventh
century, after the ravages of the Saracens. Long before, Queen
Brunehaud had ceded to the monks, who possessed a small hermitage near,
the ruins of the edifice dedicated “to Rome and to Augustus,” on which
they built a magnificent church; but this, as I said, was pillaged and
destroyed in part by the barbarians. The four massive granite columns
which sustain the roof are, however, believed to have belonged to the
Roman temple.