Louis de Chantal was born in France, of noble parents, about the middle
of the eighteenth century; being a younger brother, he was destined from
his earliest years to the ecclesiastical state, but on arriving at a
maturer age, his tastes and inclinations were so adverse to the sacred
functions, that he proceeded no further than receiving the tonsure,
which enabled him to hold the rich ecclesiastical preferment in the gift
of his family, and entitled him to the appellation of Monsieur l'Abbé de
Chantal. He soon became commendatory abbot of two once great religious
establishments, then languishing under a sad decay of zeal and
discipline consequent on the loss of a regular head. The great object of
commendatory abbots was to keep the number of religious to the lowest
possible amount, in order to profit the more by the revenues, which they
diverted to their own private benefit and luxury. At Conques the decay
of the temporal kept pace with that of the spiritual; the buildings
which, for the most part, had been erected during the glorious period of
S. Louis, were falling fast to ruin. The regular portions, now much too
large for the habitations of the few religious that remained, exhibited
the desolate appearance of neglect and emptiness. Verdure luxuriated in
the untrodden courts, and sprung up even in the very cloister, whose
vaults had long ceased to echo the regulated tread and solemn chaunt of
the ancient Benedictines. It was evident that essential repairs could
not long be postponed, and a bull issued by the Pope a few years
previous, requiring the conventual buildings of France to be
substantially repaired out of the revenues, was still in force. The
matter was, however, deferred for a short time, as our young abbé was
about to proceed on his travels to the more classic ground of Italy, at
that period ignorantly regarded as the great repository and source of
all art and taste. The noble mediæval cathedrals of France were
considered by Monsieur de Chantal as so many specimens of ancient
barbarism, but the extravagancies of Bernini and the distortions of Le
Pautre were splendid achievements in his eyes. It may be readily
conceived what class of objects arrested his attention in his travels:
his enthusiasm on arriving at the Eternal City was boundless—he almost
believed that the heathen mythology was revived, and that he was in the
presence of those divinities whose exploits had been the study of his
early youth. The splendid galleries of voluptuous art, where the
metamorphoses and amatory combats of Ovid were depicted to the life. The
marble goddesses in shady groves, and sporting tritons cooling the air
in high and sparkling jets—the obelisks, the sarcophagi, the endless
treasures of classic art. Then even the churches, they were scarcely to
be distinguished from the exquisite taste of the heathens themselves.
Thinly draperied saints were borne into paradise by hovering Cupids.
Voluptuous female statues reclined on the sarcophagi of bishops and
ecclesiastics,—herculean martyrs writhed like dying gladiators, while
naked angels held aloft the victor's crown. Our abbé was ravished with
astonishment and delight as the eager cicerone drew him from one
far-famed object to another, each more wonderful than the last. In his
perambulations he occasionally passed some venerable looking
sanctuaries, but the usual exclamation of the guide, _eh, una
porcheria_, was quite sufficient to repress any desire of examining
them; and in a word, he returned from Italy like most of the
ecclesiastics of that period, with a thorough contempt for the ancient
traditions of church architecture, and a determination to Italianize, as
far as possible, in any work with which he might be connected. The time
had now arrived when the repairs of the abbey of Conques could be no
longer delayed, and accompanied by an architect of the Souflot style,
with a thickly curled wig reaching half-way down his shoulders, he one
morning started from his hotel at Paris, and proceeded thither. Although
only a few leagues distant, the bad roads so delayed their progress,
that it was late in the afternoon when they attained the top of the
descent that led down into the valley where the abbey was situated. A
little to the eastward of the scattered houses which formed the village,
and small but characteristic church, stood the then lofty and irregular
abbatial buildings. High above the rest rose the long grey mass of the
church, surmounted by a high leaden roof, whitened with age. A forest of
pinnacles surrounded the apse, while buttress and arc buttant continued
in regular succession to surround the vast fabric. At the western end
were two towers, but the southern one alone had been carried up to its
intended height, the other had received a temporary roof, when raised a
few feet above the nave; the abbacy shortly after fell into _commendam_,
and it rose no higher. A small but elegant leaded spire was placed at
the intersection of the nave and transept, but it was evidently a
substitute for some far grander design in the way of a centre lantern,
as might be divined by the rising of angle masonry left incomplete.
A dense mass of wood covered the opposite hill with a deep green, while
the warm tints of a westerning sun relieved each turret and pinnacle in
a glowing hue on the verdant background. A rapid descent soon brought
the abbé and his companion to the gates, which were opened with some
difficulty to admit the equipage within the first court; such vehicles
were utterly unknown when these buildings were raised, and further
progress was impossible except on foot. The abbé then alighted, and was
received with much external respect by the few religious who remained
the occupants of a monastery, where more than a hundred sons of S.
Benedict had kept the rule together in older and better times.
The next morning the architect waited on Monsieur de Chantal in his
chamber, "Monseigneur," he exclaimed, "j'ai parcouru les bâtimens;—rien
de plus gothique, de plus mauvais; point de règles, point de principes;
ces gens-là ils n'ont jamais connu le beau; il faut tout démonter, tout
démolir." This proposition, however well it might accord with the tastes
of the commendatory abbot, was by no means agreeable to his intentions,
as the proposed demolition and rebuilding would cost a considerable sum,
which he thought might be as well expended on some new gardens attached
to his hotel at Paris, and he therefore, on a personal inspection,
considerably modified the sweeping intentions of his architect, and
confined his operations to indispensable repairs and the erection of
some new offices. These points arranged, he proceeded at once to the
inspection of the church. On entering by the western cloister door, the
venerable fabric appeared nearly in its original state: the nave was
divided into nine bays with light clustered shafts, the centre one of
each running quite up to receive the groin; the triforium was divided
into compartments corresponding to the mullions of the clerestory
windows, and filled with imagery and devices in painted glass. The upper
windows contained the image of a saint in every light, under a high
canopy of rich design. The lower windows of the aisles had been altered
in the fifteenth century, the tracery was more elaborately ramified and
the glass exhibited a higher degree of pictorial skill, though inferior
in severity and style to the more ancient glazing.
The ribs of the groining were richly painted at the intersections, with
images in relief on every boss. The pavement was irregularly studded
with incised slabs of benefactors, who were permitted to repose beneath
the floor of that edifice to whose support and glory they had
contributed while living. But the most striking object that presented
itself to the sight, was a most elaborate jubé or rood loft, extending
completely across the entrance to the choir. Eight slender shafts
sustained seven arches, richly crocketted on the labels, with images of
angels in sexfoils, filling up the spandrils. Between every arch and
over the shafts, was an image standing on a corbel under a projecting
tabernacle; immediately over them were sixteen arched and canopied
recesses, each containing, in high relief, a mystery of our Lord's life
and passion, most artificially wrought in stone, and heightened with
gilding and colours, and over all, in the midst, was a great rood rising
almost to the vault of the church, with most cunning work of leaves and
foliage running up and about it, and sprouting forth at its extremities,
and on it an image of our Lord as it were a king with a diadem on his
head, and a long tunic, all gilt, reaching down to his feet, with the
borders set with crystals, and on either side an image of our Blessed
Lady and S. John, and two cherubims with images of gold. This rood,
which was held in singular veneration by neighbouring inhabitants, and
by them commonly termed Le Bon Dieu de Conques, found but little favour
in the eyes of our refined abbé; "Il faut démonter cette vieillerie-là,"
said he, turning to the architect. "Ah, mon Dieu, oui," was the ready
answer, "_ça fera du bien_; on peut y mettre une grillage en fer, comme
à S. Denis."[20]—"C'est une bonne idée!" cried Monsieur de Chantal, "et
je la ferai exécuter." It is probable that, in carrying out this
barbarous and sacrilegious intention, the abbé meant to _improve_ the
church!! Brought up in the principles of error and paganism, to him
nothing was beautiful that did not savour of classic art. It is probable
that he really meant well, as far as so debased a mind could mean well;
let us hope his ignorance obtained his final pardon, and that he was
permitted to expiate in his doleful end this terrible deed of
destruction. The religious of Conques mourned most bitterly over the
demolition of the ancient jubé. Men who live a religious life are
naturally adverse to change: the removal of an image, a picture, an
object on which they have been accustomed to look with devotion, is to
them an irreparable loss, and great were the wailings of the little
community when they learned their abbé's decision; remonstrance was,
however, useless against such superior power, and the demolition of the
whole was finally decided. But its destruction was not deplored by the
religious only,—the inhabitants of Conques, a simple-minded but devout
race, had, for many generations, regarded this ancient and edifying
imagery with singular veneration. From their early years, succeeding
fathers had taught their little ones that the great king upon the cross
was the son of the king of kings, who expired on the rood to save them,
and there was his blessed mother weeping at his side, and the beloved
disciple to whose care she was committed; and below all were wonderful
mysteries shown, from the salutation of the angel to the painful bearing
of the cross to Calvary. All these and much more were set forth and most
artificially, and great was the lamentation of the good people of
Conques when they heard that it was to be no more seen.
Impatient to begin his improvements, the abbé procured some workmen to
commence the demolition before his return to Paris. Among those who
presented themselves was a young man of great athletic powers, but of a
sinister and scornful countenance, and who appeared to proceed in the
task of destruction with singular alacrity and energy. Several men with
ropes and ladders had now ascended the upper part of the rood, while the
young man before mentioned stood at the foot, and alternately applied a
crow and axe to cut away the mortice in which the base rested and prise
it out. Before the men above had the ropes properly fast to lower all,
by a tremendous effort he forced the foot from its socket, and the
cross, inclining to the Gospel side, fell over, carrying away the image
of the Blessed Virgin in descent, and the whole mass lay broken on the
pavement. The movement was so sudden that it startled the abbé, who was
standing near the man, and a feeling of dread seemed to appal the other
workmen as they gazed on the fallen rood, but the face of the youth was
flushed with ill-concealed exultation, which the abbé remarked, and
attributed at the time to his successful display of strength; but it
came from a far deeper feeling, as he afterwards discerned to his own
destruction.
The whole screen was afterwards demolished; and by the end of the
succeeding year, when Monsieur de Chantal came to inspect the
alterations, he found, to his great satisfaction, that something of the
character of a Berninian church had been imparted to the ancient choir.
A rococo screen of open iron work, with his own arms in the centre, had
supplanted the ancient screen. Pointed arches had been turned into round
ones by help of plaster; the ancient capitals, luxuriant in salient
foliage and quaint imagery, had been transferred into heavy Corinthians;
most of the painted glass had been removed and replaced by large square
white panes. The shafts of the pillars were marbled by streaks of paint,
and this once perfect choir reduced down to a base and bad imitation of
the corrupt Italian style.
About a furlong from the abbey-gate was the old parish church, a simple
and unpretending structure, with its slate-topped steeple and gilded
cock, a most fitting emblem of the exemplary and vigilant pastor, the
Père Duchesne, a venerable priest, who for many years had most
faithfully discharged the sacred duties of his cure; a man of most
retired habits, who devoted that portion of his time that was not
occupied by parochial cares to learned researches and pursuits. He was
deeply read in liturgical lore, and held the ancient traditions and
offices of the church in great veneration. Every Sunday and feast the
most respected of his parishioners assembled round the lectern in the
chancel, where they sang the praises of God in the old plain song, for
no other music was tolerable to the ears of either priest or people. The
interior of the church, though simple, was not devoid of interest. There
were considerable remains of painted glass, especially towards the
eastern end; the high altar was coeval with the erection of the church
itself, and had been traditionally consecrated by a holy bishop, now
numbered among the saints of God. The altar of the Lady chapel dated
from the end of the fourteenth century, and was erected by a seigneur
who lived in the old chateau on the hill, then in ruins. The rood loft
was remarkable; the front was supported by four pillars, sustaining
three equal arches; the space between these pillars was enclosed by a
sort of iron trellis, set up with the original work, as a protection to
two side altars, the reredoses of which formed a solid wall for nearly
six feet high, and were then divided by mullions into lights, like a
window; these were also secured by bars, and a massive pair of doors,
with rich ornamental iron-work, closed the entrance to the chancel. I
have been thus particular in the description of this screen, as it is
important for a subsequent part of this history. Such was the church,
and such its curé. The Abbé de Chantal, in ordinary courtesy to the old
priest, determined to call at his residence previous to his departure.
On arriving, he was ushered into a small chamber, where the curé was
seated with a folio extended on the table before him. Somewhat surprised
at the sudden entrance of the abbé, and not over well pleased, as he
held such quasi ecclesiastics at the lowest estimation, he begged to
know the reason for so unlooked-for a visit. "Oh, Monsieur le curé,"
carelessly exclaimed the abbé, "I have been making great improvements at
the abbey, and I wish to know if you have seen what has been done?" "I
have, indeed, seen what has been done, or rather undone," cried the old
priest with increasing emotion, "but surely you cannot expect me to
approve the destruction of Catholic antiquity and symbolism, and the
substitution of unmeaning and offensive novelties." "_Eh, patience_,
Monsieur le curé; why I was going to propose to you to reform your
church _à l'Italienne_, and to get rid of the monstrous barrack in the
middle, _on les démonte partout_." At these words, the curé, reddening
with indignation, exclaimed, "Monsieur de Chantal, the present degraded
state of ecclesiastical discipline permits you, a layman in every
respect but in the fashion of your clothes and the form of your peruke,
to hold the highest office in a foundation where, in more ancient and
better days, you would not have been permitted to take part in the most
menial duties. You have destroyed that which your predecessors
respected; you have defaced and mangled the Temple of God; you have
dressed it out à la mode; and its solemnity is departed for ever, to the
sorrow and disgust of myself and my people. But allow me to tell you,
the parish church is under my care, and while I live not one stone of
that venerable enclosure of the holy place shall be touched or removed,
or its sacred imagery injured." The abbé, deeply mortified at the
reproaches of the curé, endeavoured to conceal his mortification by
diverting the discourse on the times and his parishioners. The curé,
however, turning to his visitor, said in a sad and solemn tone, "The
times are full of sad presage. The riches, the corruptions, immunities,
and extravagant privileges that disgrace even the highest ecclesiastics
of the land, are the subject of deep and merited murmurs among the
neglected people; men begin to hate religion for the vices of its
ministers, and those who squander in worldly vanity the revenues
intended for the service of religion and Christ's poor, will have to
give a fearful reckoning." The abbé started to his feet: "Nay, hear me,"
continued the curé. "You are one of these spoilers; it is true the abbey
was given to you as a heritage, but it was the gift of those who had no
power to bestow. Think of that choir, once filled with a hundred devout
servants of God chanting his praises by night and day, now debased and
almost deserted. The vast refectory in ruins,—its vaulted gateway, where
hundreds partook the hospitality and charity of the house, now scarcely
shelters a single straying mendicant—all is neglect and decay, and how
will it end?" "Ah, mon Dieu," cried the abbé, "I cannot bear this; how
often have I thought and tried for better things! But no, impossible. My
rank, my family honour, all must be supported." So, hastily departing,
he summoned his servants and carriage.—"To Paris!" he exclaimed. That
night the Hotel de Chantal was a blaze of light, the rendezvous of the
_élite_ of the capital; and among the many cavaliers who escorted the
fair dames of Paris that graced the mirrored and lustred saloons, none
could surpass the gallantry and devotion of the noble owner of the
mansion, the commendatory abbot of Conques....
Fifteen years had elapsed since that night of revelry—the Hotel de
Chantal is closed—it has been pillaged of its costly furniture—its
saloons are desolate: some few miserable people live in its upper
rooms—a ferocious _sans-culotte_ has replaced the liveried porter. Where
is its once noble, its wealthy owner? In the corner of a miserable
mansard of the Faubourg S. Germain crouched the figure of a man
approaching the middle age, but whose unshaven visage and neglected
state added several years to his appearance. His dress was that of a
labourer, but the coarseness of his outer garments but ill accorded with
his fair and unworked hands. A small leathern valise was by his side,
and he anxiously listened to every sound. "This was the time he should
have arrived," he exclaimed, "my retreat is only known to him. Mon Dieu!
can he have betrayed me?" At this moment a confused and increasing sound
of cries and snatches of songs was heard in the street—it is on the
staircase—the tramp of ascending footsteps, mingled with imprecations of
vengeance, strikes on the terrified ears of the unhappy Chantal, for
such was the seeming labourer. He rushed to the window, but it afforded
no chance of escape, as the eaves of the tiles were overhanging the
street at a prodigious height, and the steepness of the pitch precluded
all hope of ascending to the top. At this moment the door was assailed,
the feeble fastenings soon gave way, and a party of men rushed in, among
whom De Chantal distinguished his treacherous servant, who had betrayed
his retreat. "Le voila!" he exclaimed, and in a moment the abbé was in
the grasp of men who never spared an aristocrat. At the same time a red
handkerchief held out of the window, announced to the crowd below that
the victim had been captured and was secured, amid yells of triumph and
execration. A few moments served to drag down the unfortunate abbé to
the street, half filled by a mixed rabble, in which the women were
conspicuous for their savage exclamations and menaces. "A bas les
aristocrats, à bas les prêtres, à bas les tyrans," were heard on all
sides, while the terrified abbé was forced along, strongly grasped by
two ferocious _sans-culottes_.
In a short time they arrived at a small open space; some straw was
scattered on the pavement, and by the side of a common butcher's block,
hastily brought to the spot, stood a man of enormous muscular strength
and lofty stature, a shirt loosely bound round his waist and a pair of
sabots completed his attire, while he wielded a huge chopper or axe, in
savage impatience for his victim. The abbé cast a terrified look at this
popular executioner, and seemed indistinctly to recollect his ferocious
features. "Oh, Jesu, Jesu," he shrieked, in agony of soul, when the
furious infidel, bending towards him, in a voice of savage irony
exclaimed, "_Il n'y est plus_, Monsieur l'Abbe; _nous l'avons démonté à
Conques_, ha! ha!"—The executioner and the youth who cut away the rood
were the same.—In a few moments a badly severed head and a bleeding
corpse were tossed to and fro amid the frantic mob, and exposed to every
indignity, till a common cart removed them and bore them to an
unhallowed grave, and no cross ever marked the spot which held the
mutilated remains of the last commendatory abbot of Conques, the _Pagan
ambonoclast_.