Jasmin published no further poems for three or four years. His time was
taken up with his trade and his philanthropic missions. Besides, he
did not compose with rapidity; he elaborated his poems by degrees; he
arranged the plot of his story, and then he clothed it with poetical
words and images. While he walked and journeyed from place to place, he
was dreaming and thinking of his next dramatic poem--his Franconnette,
which many of his critics regard as his masterpiece.
Like most of his previous poems, Jasmin wrote Franconnette in the Gascon
dialect. Some of his intimate friends continued to expostulate with
him for using this almost dead and virtually illiterate patois. Why not
write in classical French? M. Dumon, his colleague at the Academy
of Agen, again urged him to employ the national language, which all
intelligent readers could understand.
"Under the reign of our Henry IV.," said M. Dumon, "the Langue d'Oil
became, with modifications, the language of the French, while the Langue
d'Oc remained merely a patois. Do not therefore sing in the dialect of
the past, but in the language of the present, like Beranger, Lamartine,
and Victor Hugo.
"What," asked M. Dumon, "will be the fate of your original poetry? It
will live, no doubt, like the dialect in which it is written; but
is this, the Gascon patois, likely to live? Will it be spoken by our
posterity as long as it has been spoken by our ancestors? I hope not;
at least I wish it may be less spoken. Yet I love its artless and
picturesque expressions, its lively recollections of customs and manners
which have long ceased to exist, like those old ruins which still
embellish our landscape. But the tendency which is gradually effacing
the vestiges of our old language and customs is but the tendency of
civilisation itself.
"When Rome fell under the blows of the barbarians, she was entirely
conquered; her laws were subjected at the same time as her armies. The
conquest dismembered her idiom as well as her empire.... The last
trace of national unity disappeared in this country after the Roman
occupation. It had been Gaul, but now it became France. The force of
centralisation which has civilised Europe, covering this immense
chaos, has brought to light, after more than a hundred years, this most
magnificent creation the French monarchy and the French language. Let
us lament, if you will, that the poetical imagination and the
characteristic language of our ancestors have not left a more profound
impression. But the sentence is pronounced; even our Henry IV. could not
change it. Under his reign the Langue d'Oil became for ever the French
language, and the Langue d'Oc remained but a patois.
"Popular poet as you are, you sing to posterity in the language of the
past. This language, which you recite so well, you have restored and
perhaps even created; yet you do not feel that it is the national
language; this powerful instrument of a new era, which invades and
besieges yours on all sides like the last fortress of an obsolete
civilisation."
Jasmin was cut to the quick by this severe letter of his friend, and he
lost not a moment in publishing a defence of the language condemned to
death by his opponent. He even displayed the force and harmony of
the language which had been denounced by M. Dumon as a patois. He
endeavoured to express himself in the most characteristic and poetical
style, as evidence of the vitality of his native Gascon. He compared it
to a widowed mother who dies, and also to a mother who does not die,
but continues young, lovely, and alert, even to the last. Dumon had
published his protest on the 28th of August, 1837, and a few days later,
on the 2nd of September, Jasmin replied in the following poem:--
"There's not a deeper grief to man
Than when his mother, faint with years,
Decrepit, old, and weak and wan,
Beyond the leech's art appears;
When by her couch her son may stay,
And press her hand, and watch her eyes,
And feel, though she revives to-day,
Perchance his hope to-morrow dies.
It is not thus, believe me, sir,
With this enchantress--she will call
Our second mother: Frenchmen err,
Who, cent'ries since, proclaimed her fall!
Our mother-tongue--all melody--
While music lives can never die.
Yes! she still lives, her words still ring;
Her children yet her carols sing;
And thousand years may roll away
Before her magic notes decay.
The people love their ancient songs, and will
While yet a people, love and keep them still:
These lays are as their mother; they recall
Fond thoughts of mother, sister, friends, and all
The many little things that please the heart,
The dreams, the hopes, from which we cannot part.
These songs are as sweet waters, where we find
Health in the sparkling wave that nerves the mind.
In ev'ry home, at ev'ry cottage door,
By ev'ry fireside, when our toil is o'er,
These songs are round us--near our cradles sigh,
And to the grave attend us when we die.
Oh, think, cold critics! 'twill be late and long,
Ere time shall sweep away this flood of song!
There are who bid this music sound no more,
And you can hear them, nor defend--deplore!
You, who were born where its first daisies grew,
Have fed upon its honey, sipp'd its dew,
Slept in its arms, and wakened to its kiss,
Danced to its sounds, and warbled to its tone--
You can forsake it in an hour like this!
Yes, weary of its age, renounce--disown--
And blame one minstrel who is true--alone!"{1}
This is but a paraphrase of Jasmin's poem, which, as we have already
said, cannot be verbally translated into any other language. Even the
last editor of Jasmin's poems--Boyer d'Agen--does not translate them
into French poetry, but into French prose. Much of the aroma of poetry
evaporates in converting poetical thoughts from one language into
another.
Jasmin, in one part of his poem, compares the ancient patois to one of
the grand old elms in the Promenade de Gravier, which, having in a storm
had some of its branches torn away, was ordered by the local authorities
to be rooted up. The labourers worked away, but their pick-axes became
unhafted. They could not up-root the tree; they grew tired and forsook
the work. When the summer came, glorious verdure again clothed the
remaining boughs; the birds sang sweetly in the branches, and the
neighbours rejoiced that its roots had been so numerous and the tree had
been so firmly planted.
Jasmin's description of his mother-tongue is most touching. Seasons
pass away, and, as they roll on, their echoes sound in our ears; but the
loved tongue shall not and must not die. The mother-tongue recalls our
own dear mother, sisters, friends, and crowds of bygone associations,
which press into our minds while sitting by the evening fire. This
tongue is the language of our toils and labours; she comes to us at our
birth, she lingers at our tomb.
"No, no--I cannot desert my mother-tongue!" said Jasmin. "It preserves
the folk-lore of the district; it is the language of the poor, of the
labourer, the shepherd, the farmer and grape-gatherers, of boys and
girls, of brides and bridegrooms. The people," he said to M. Dumon,
"love to hear my songs in their native dialect. You have enough poetry
in classical French; leave me to please my compatriots in the dialect
which they love. I cannot give up this harmonious language, our second
mother, even though it has been condemned for three hundred years. Why!
she still lives, her voice still sounds; like her, the seasons pass, the
bells ring out their peals, and though a hundred thousand years may roll
away, they will still be sounding and ringing!"
Jasmin has been compared to Dante. But there is this immense difference
between them. Dante was virtually the creator of the Italian language,
which was in its infancy when he wrote his 'Divine Comedy' some six
hundred years ago, while Jasmin was merely reviving a gradually-expiring
dialect. Drouilhet de Sigalas has said that Dante lived at the sunrise
of his language, while Jasmin lived at its sunset. Indeed, Gascon was
not a written language, and Jasmin had to collect his lexicon, grammar,
and speech mostly from the peasants who lived in the neighbourhood of
Agen. Dante virtually created the Italian language, while Jasmin merely
resuscitated for a time the Gascon dialect.
Jasmin was not deterred by the expostulations of Dumon, but again wrote
his new epic of Franconnette in Gascon. It took him a long time to
clothe his poetical thoughts in words. Nearly five years had elapsed
since he recited The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille to the citizens of
Bordeaux; since then he had written a few poetical themes, but he was
mainly thinking and dreaming, and at times writing down his new epic
Franconnette. It was completed in 1840, when he dedicated the poem to
the city of Toulouse.
The story embodied in the poem was founded on an ancient tradition. The
time at which it occurred was towards the end of the sixteenth century,
when France was torn to pieces by the civil war between the Huguenots
and the Catholics. Agen was then a centre of Protestantism. It was
taken and retaken by both parties again and again. The Huguenot captain,
Truelle, occupied the town in April 1562; but Blaize de Montluc, "a
fierce Catholic," as he is termed by M. Paul Joanne, assailed the town
with a strong force and recaptured it. On entering the place, Montluc
found that the inhabitants had fled with the garrison, and "the terrible
chief was greatly disappointed at not finding any person in Agen to
slaughter."{2} Montluc struck with a heavy hand the Protestants of the
South. In the name of the God of Mercy he hewed the Huguenots to pieces,
and, after spreading desolation through the South, he retired to his
fortress at Estellac, knelt before the altar, took the communion, and
was welcomed by his party as one of the greatest friends of the Church.
The civil war went on for ten years, until in August 1572 the massacre
of Saint Bartholomew took place. After that event the word "Huguenot"
was abolished, or was only mentioned with terror. Montluc's castle
of Estellac, situated near the pretty village of Estanquet, near
Roquefort--famous for its cheese--still exists; his cabinet is
preserved, and his tomb and statue are to be seen in the adjoining
garden. The principal scenes of the following story are supposed to have
occurred at Estanquet, a few miles to the south of Agen.
Franconnette, like The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille, is a story of
rivalry in love; but, though more full of adventure, it ends more
happily. Franconnette was a village beauty. Her brilliant eyes, her rosy
complexion, her cherry lips, her lithe and handsome figure, brought all
the young fellows of the neighbourhood to her feet. Her father was a
banished Huguenot, but beauty of person sets differences of belief at
defiance.
The village lads praised her and tried to win her affections; but, like
beauties in general, surrounded by admirers, she was a bit of a flirt.
At length two rivals appeared--one Marcel, a soldier under Montluc,
favoured by Franconnette's grandmother, and Pascal, the village
blacksmith, favoured by the girl herself. One Sunday afternoon a number
of young men and maidens assembled at the foot of Montluc's castle
of Estellac on the votive festival of St. Jacques at Roquefort.
Franconnette was there, as well as Marcel and Pascal, her special
admirers. Dancing began to the music of the fife; but Pascal, the
handsomest of the young men, seemed to avoid the village beauty.
Franconnette was indignant at his neglect, but was anxious to secure
his attention and devotion. She danced away, sliding, whirling, and
pirouetting. What would not the admiring youths have given to impress
two kisses on her lovely cheek!{3}
In these village dances, it is the custom for the young men to kiss
their partners, if they can tire them out; but in some cases, when the
girl is strong; and an accomplished dancer, she declines to be
tired until she wishes to cease dancing. First one youth danced with
Franconnette, then another; but she tired them all. Then came Marcel,
the soldier, wearing his sabre, with a cockade in his cap--a tall and
stately fellow, determined to win the reward. But he too, after much
whirling and dancing, was at last tired out: he was about to fall with
dizziness, and then gave in. On goes the dance; Franconnette waits for
another partner; Pascal springs to her side, and takes her round the
waist. Before they had made a dozen steps, the girl smiles and stops,
and turns her blushing cheeks to receive her partner's willing kisses.
Marcel started up in a rage, and drawing himself to his full height, he
strode to Pascal. "Peasant!" he said, "thou hast supplied my place too
quickly," and then dealt him a thundering blow between the eyes. Pascal
was not felled; he raised his arm, and his fist descended on Marcel's
head like a bolt. The soldier attempted to draw his sabre. When Pascal
saw this, he closed with Marcel, grasped him in his arms, and dashed him
to the ground, crushed and senseless.
Marcel was about to rise to renew the duel, when suddenly Montluc, who
happened to be passing with the Baron of Roquefort, stepped forward and
sternly ordered the combatants to separate. This terrible encounter put
an end to the fete. The girls fled like frightened doves. The young
men escorted Pascal to his home preceded by the fifers. Marcel was not
discouraged. On recovering his speech, he stammered out, grinding his
teeth: "They shall pay clearly for this jesting; Franconnette shall have
no other husband than myself."
Many months passed. The harvest was gathered in. There were no more
out-door fetes or dances. The villagers of Estanquet assembled round
their firesides. Christmas arrived with it games and carol-singing. Then
came the Feast of Lovers, called the Buscou,{4} on the last day of the
year, where, in a large chamber, some hundred distaffs were turning, and
boys and girls, with nimble fingers, were winding thread of the finest
flax. Franconnette was there, and appointed queen of the games. After
the winding was over, the songs and dances began to the music of a
tambourin. The queen, admired by all, sang and danced like the rest.
Pascal was not there; his mother was poor, and she endeavoured to
persuade him to remain at home and work. After a short struggle
with himself, Pascal yielded. He turned aside to his forge in silent
dejection; and soon the anvil was ringing and the sparks were flying,
while away down in the village the busking went merrily on. "If the
prettiest were always the most sensible," says Jasmin, "how much my
Franconnette might have accomplished;" but instead of this, she flitted
from place to place, idle and gay, jesting, singing, dancing, and, as
usual, bewitching all.
Then Thomas, Pascal's friend, asked leave to sing a few verses; and,
fixing his keen eyes upon the coquette, he began in tones of lute-like
sweetness the following song, entitled 'The Syren with a Heart of Ice.'
We have translated it, as nearly as possible, from the Gascon dialect.
"Faribolo pastouro,
Sereno al co de glas,
Oh! digo, digo couro
Entendren tinda l'houro
Oun t'amistouzaras.
Toutjour fariboulejes,
Et quand parpailloulejes
La foulo que mestrejes,
Sur toun cami set met
Et te siet.
Mais res d'acos, maynado,
Al bounhur pot mena;
Qu'es acos d'estre aymado,
Quand on sat pas ayma?"
"Wayward shepherd maid,
Syren with heart of ice,
Oh! tell us, tell us! when
We listen for the hour
When thou shalt feel
Ever so free and gay,
And when you flutter o'er
The number you subdue,
Upon thy path they fall
At thy feet.
But nothing comes of this, young maid,
To happiness it never leads;
What is it to be loved like this
If you ne'er can love again?"
Such poetry however defies translation. The more exquisite the mastery
of a writer over his own language, the more difficult it is to reproduce
it in another. But the spirit of the song is in Miss Costello's
translation,{5} as given in Franconnette at the close of this volume.
When reciting Franconnette, Jasmin usually sang The Syren to music of
his own composition. We accordingly annex his music.
All were transported with admiration at the beautiful song. When Thomas
had finished, loud shouts were raised for the name of the poet. "Who had
composed this beautiful lay?" "It is Pascal," replied Thomas. "Bravo,
Pascal! Long live Pascal!" was the cry of the young people. Franconnette
was unwontedly touched by the song. "But where is Pascal?" she said. "If
he loves, why does he not appear?" "Oh," said Laurent, another of his
rivals, in a jealous and piqued tone, "he is too poor, he is obliged
to stay at home, his father is so infirm that he lives upon alms!" "You
lie," cried Thomas. "Pascal is unfortunate; he has been six months ill
from the wounds he received in defence of Franconnette, and now his
family is dependent upon him; but he has industry and courage, and will
soon recover from his misfortunes."
Franconnette remained quiet, concealing her emotions. Then the games
began. They played at Cache Couteau or Hunt the Slipper. Dancing came
next; Franconnette was challenged by Laurent, and after many rounds the
girl was tired, and Laurent claimed the kisses that she had forfeited.
Franconnette flew away like a bird; Laurent ran after her, caught
her, and was claiming the customary forfeit, when, struggling to free
herself, Laurent slipped upon the floor, fell heavily, and broke his
arm.
Franconnette was again unfortunate. Ill-luck seems to have pursued
the girl. The games came to an end, and the young people were about to
disperse when, at this unlucky moment, the door was burst open and
a sombre apparition appeared. It was the Black Forest sorcerer, the
supposed warlock of the neighbourhood.
"Unthinking creatures," he said, "I have come from my gloomy rocks up
yonder to open your eyes. You all adore this Franconnette. Behold, she
is accursed! While in her cradle her father, the Huguenot, sold her to
the devil. He has punished Pascal and Laurent for the light embrace she
gave them. He warned in time and avoid her. The demon alone has a claim
to her."
The sorcerer ended; sparks of fire surrounded him, and after turning
four times round in a circle he suddenly disappeared! Franconnette's
friends at once held aloof from her. They called out to her, "Begone!"
All in a maze the girl shuddered and sickened; she became senseless, and
fell down on the floor in a swoon. The young people fled, leaving her
helpless. And thus ended the second fete which began so gaily.
The grossest superstition then prevailed in France, as everywhere.
Witches and warlocks were thoroughly believed in, far more so than
belief in God and His Son. The news spread abroad that the girl was
accursed and sold to the Evil One, and she was avoided by everybody. She
felt herself doomed. At length she reached her grandmother's house,
but she could not work, she could scarcely stand. The once radiant
Franconnette could neither play nor sing; she could only weep.
Thus ended two cantos of the poem. The third opens with a lovely picture
of a cottage by a leafy brookside in the hamlet of Estanquet. The
spring brought out the singing-birds to pair and build their nests. They
listened, but could no longer hear the music which, in former years, had
been almost sweeter than their own. The nightingales, more curious
than the rest, flew into the maid's garden; they saw her straw hat on
a bench, a rake and watering-pot among the neglected jonquils, and the
rose branches running riot. Peering yet further and peeping into the
cottage door, the curious birds discovered an old woman asleep in her
arm-chair, and a pale, quiet girl beside her, dropping tears upon her
lily hands. "Yes, yes, it is. Franconnette," says the poet. "You
will have guessed that already. A poor girl, weeping in solitude, the
daughter of a Huguenot, banned by the Church and sold to the devil!
Could anything be more frightful?"
Nevertheless her grandmother said to her, "My child, it is not true; the
sorcerer's charge is false. He of good cheer, you are more lovely than
ever." One gleam of hope had come to Franconnette; she hears that Pascal
has defended her everywhere, and boldly declared her to be the victim
of a brutal plot. She now realised how great was his goodness, and her
proud spirit was softened even to tears. The grandmother put in a good
word for Marcel, but the girl turned aside. Then the old woman said,
"To-morrow is Easter Day; go to Mass, pray as you never prayed before,
and take the blessed bread, proving that you are numbered with His
children for ever."
The girl consented, and went to the Church of Saint Peter on Easter
morning. She knelt, with her chaplet of beads, among the rest, imploring
Heaven's mercy. But she knelt alone in the midst of a wide circle. All
the communicants avoided her. The churchwarden, Marcel's uncle, in
his long-tailed coat, with a pompous step, passed her entirely by, and
refused her the heavenly meal. Pascal was there and came to her help.
He went forward to the churchwarden and took from the silver plate the
crown piece{6} of the holy element covered with flowers, and took and
presented two pieces of the holy bread to Franconnette--one for herself,
the other for her grandmother.
From that moment she begins to live a new life, and to understand the
magic of love. She carries home the blessed bread to the ancient
dame, and retires to her chamber to give herself up, with the utmost
gratefulness, to the rapturous delight of loving. "Ah," says Jasmin in
his poem, "the sorrowing heart aye loveth best!"
Yet still she remembers the fatal doom of the sorcerer that she is sold
for a price to the demon. All seem to believe the hideous tale, and no
one takes her part save Pascal and her grandmother. She kneels before
her little shrine and prays to the Holy Virgin for help and succour.
At the next fete day she repaired to the church of Notre Dame de bon
Encontre,{7} where the inhabitants of half a dozen of the neighbouring
villages had assembled, with priests and crucifixes, garlands and
tapers, banners and angels. The latter, girls about to be confirmed,
walked in procession and sang the Angelus at the appropriate hours. The
report had spread abroad that Franconnette would entreat the Blessed
Virgin to save her from the demon. The strangers were more kind to her
than her immediate neighbours, and from many a pitying heart the prayer
went up that a miracle might be wrought in favour of the beautiful
maiden. She felt their sympathy, and it gave her confidence. The
special suppliants passed up to the altar one by one--Anxious mothers,
disappointed lovers, orphans and children. They kneel, they ask for
blessings, they present their candles for the old priest to bless, and
then they retire.
Now came the turn of Franconnette. Pascal was in sight and prayed for
her success. She went forward in a happy frame of mind, with her taper
and a bouquet of flowers. She knelt before the priest. He took the
sacred image and presented it to her; but scarcely had it touched the
lips of the orphan when a terrible peal of thunder rent the heavens, and
a bolt of lightning struck the spire of the church, extinguishing her
taper as well as the altar lights. This was a most unlucky coincidence
for the terrified girl; and, cowering like a lost soul, she crept out of
the church. The people were in consternation. "It was all true, she was
now sold to the devil! Put her to death, that is the only way of ending
our misfortunes!"
The truth is that the storm of thunder and lightning prevailed
throughout the neighbourhood. It is a common thing in southern climes.
The storm which broke out at Notre Dame destroyed the belfry; the church
of Roquefort was demolished by a bolt of lightning, the spire of Saint
Pierre was ruined. The storm was followed by a tempest of hail and rain.
Agen was engulfed by the waters; her bridge was destroyed,{8} and many
of the neighbouring vineyards were devastated. And all this ruin was
laid at the door of poor Franconnette!
The neighbours--her worst enemies--determined to burn the daughter of
the Huguenot out of her cottage. The grandmother first heard the cries
of the villagers: "Fire them, let them both burn together." Franconnette
rushed to the door and pleaded for mercy. "Go back," cried the crowd,
"you must both roast together." They set fire to the rick outside and
then proceeded to fire the thatch of the cottage. "Hold, hold!" cried
a stern voice, and Pascal rushed in amongst them. "Cowards! would you
murder two defenceless women? Tigers that you are, would you fire and
burn them in their dwelling?"
Marcel too appeared; he had not yet given up the hope of winning
Franconnette's love. He now joined Pascal in defending her and the
old dame, and being a soldier of Montluc, he was a powerful man in the
neighbourhood. The girl was again asked to choose between the two. At
last, after refusing any marriage under present circumstances, she clung
to Pascal. "I would have died alone," she said, "but since you will have
it so, I resist no longer. It is our fate; we will die together." Pascal
was willing to die with her, and turning to Marcel he said: "I have been
more fortunate than you, but you are a brave man and you will forgive
me. I have no friend, but will you act as a squire and see me to my
grave?" After struggling with his feelings, Marcel at last said: "Since
it is her wish, I will be your friend."
A fortnight later, the marriage between the unhappy lovers took place.
Every one foreboded disaster. The wedding procession went down the green
hill towards the church of Notre Dame. There was no singing, no dancing,
no merriment, as was usual on such occasions. The rustics shuddered at
heart over the doom of Pascal. The soldier Marcel marched at the head of
the wedding-party. At the church an old woman appeared, Pascal's mother.
She flung her arms about him and adjured him to fly from his false
bride, for his marriage would doom him to death. She even fell at the
feet of her son and said that he should pass over her body rather than
be married. Pascal turned to Marcel and said: "Love overpowers me! If I
die, will you take care of my mother?"
Then the gallant soldier dispelled the gloom which had overshadowed the
union of the loving pair. "I can do no more," he said; "your mother
has conquered me. Franconnette is good, and pure, and true. I loved the
maid, Pascal, and would have shed my blood for her, but she loved you
instead of me.
"Know that she is not sold to the Evil One. In my despair I hired the
sorcerer to frighten you with his mischievous tale, and chance did the
rest. When we both demanded her, she confessed her love for you. It was
more than I could bear, and I resolved that we should both die.
"But your mother has disarmed me; she reminds me of my own. Live,
Pascal, for your wife and your mother! You need have no more fear of me.
It is better that I should die the death of a soldier than with a crime
upon my conscience."
Thus saying, he vanished from the crowd, who burst into cheers. The
happy lovers fell into each other's arms. "And now," said Jasmin, in
concluding his poem, "I must lay aside my pencil. I had colours for
sorrow; I have none for such happiness as theirs!"
Endnotes to Chapter IX.
{1} The whole of Jasmin's answer to M. Dumon will be found in the
Appendix at the end of this volume.
{2}'Gascogne et Languedoc,' par Paul Joanne, p. 95 (edit. 1883).
{3} The dance still exists in the neighbourhood of Agen. When there a
few years ago, I was drawn by the sound of a fife and a drum to the spot
where a dance of this sort was going on. It was beyond the suspension
bridge over the Garonne, a little to the south of Agen. A number of men
and women of the working-class were assembled on the grassy sward,
and were dancing, whirling, and pirouetting to their hearts' content.
Sometimes the girls bounded from the circle, were followed by their
sweethearts, and kissed. It reminded one of the dance so vigorously
depicted by Jasmin in Franconnette.
{4} Miss Harriet Preston, of Boston, U.S., published part of a
translation of Franconnette in the 'Atlantic Monthly' for February,
1876, and adds the following note: "The buscou, or busking, was a kind
of bee, at which the young people assembled, bringing the thread of
their late spinning, which was divided into skeins of the proper size
by a broad and thin plate of steel or whalebone called a busc. The same
thing, under precisely the same name, figured in the toilets of our
grandmothers, and hence, probably, the Scotch use of the verb to busk,
or attire."
{5} Miss Louisa Stuart Costello in 'Bearn and the Pyrenees.'
{6} A custom which then existed in certain parts of France. It was taken
by the French emigrants to Canada, where it existed not long ago. The
crown of the sacramental bread used to be reserved for the family of the
seigneur or other communicants of distinction.
{7} A church in the suburbs of Agen, celebrated for its legends and
miracles, to which numerous pilgrimages are made in the month of May.
{8} A long time ago the inhabitants of the town of Agen communicated
with the other side of the Garonne by means of little boats. The first
wooden bridge was commenced when Aquitaine was governed by the English,
in the reign of Richard Coeur-de-lion, at the end of the twelfth
century. The bridge was destroyed and repaired many times, and one
of the piles on which the bridge was built is still to be seen. It is
attributed to Napoleon I. that he caused the first bridge of stone to
be erected, for the purpose of facilitating the passage of his troops to
Spain. The work was, however, abandoned during his reign, and it was
not until the Restoration that the bridge was completed. Since that time
other bridges, especially the suspension bridge, have been erected, to
enable the inhabitants of the towns on the Garonne to communicate freely
with each other.