THE CITY OF THE DUKES
After this long historical digression, it is quite time that we
returned to the Salle des Gardes, where there are many good things
to be seen beside the tombs of the Dukes. Not the least interesting
are the ducal portraits, all very Jewish, and bearing a strong family
likeness. In the picture gallery adjoining is a portrait of Charles le
Téméraire, by Van Hemerren, done, it is said, shortly before his death
at Nancy. Here is Valois madness, indeed; shown in the wildly staring
eyes, the furrowed brow, the pursed lips, the poised head, the spread
hands, and straying fingers--a mind and body in extreme of tension.
What brought the last of the Valois Dukes to such a pass? Readers who
do not know will discover, when we come to talk of--the Post Office!
Upon the many other things worth seeing in that Salle des Gardes,
I have no time to dwell; also the reader will find them catalogued
in any guide. But one or two I will mention. The most striking of
all, perhaps, is the magnificent chimney-piece, built in 1504, after
the great fire, which, in 1502, destroyed all the decorations and
the original ceiling of the chamber. On the walls are two gorgeous
altarpieces in wood-gilt, done by a Flemish artist, Jacques de Baerze,
to the order of Philippe le Bon, in 1391. The subjects of one are: The
Execution of John the Baptist, The Martyrdom of St. Catherine; and the
Temptation of St. Anthony. Those of the other include the Adoration of
the Magi, Calvary, and the Entombment. All the figures, especially the
Roman soldiery, in very mediæval clothing, playing dice for Christ's
vesture at the foot of the Cross, and the weeping relatives, are
treated with the usual vivacity and realism of the Burgundian school;
the whole is decorated with flamboyant Gothic detail of richness
unrivalled, so far as I am aware, by any similar work, excepting,
possibly, the famous rétable at the Eglise de Brou. The painting and
gilding of the volets is by Melchior Broederlam, court painter to
Philippe le Hardi.
[Illustration: PRAYING WOMAN DIJON]
There are also two charming sixteenth century renaissance doors, from
the Palais de Justice, carved with the most perfect arabesques, and
a torso by Hugues Sambin, the famous architect who built the curious
façade of the Eglise St. Michel. The guide will point out to you, in
the centre cabinets, St. Bernard's Cup, the cross of his friend St.
Robert, who received him when he first came to Citeaux, and other good
relics, including a cast of a skull, said to be that of Jean sans Peur,
with a slit in it--the slit through which the English entered France,
as our guide sagely remarked. The epigram earned for him the respect
due to an homme instruit, until he proffered the information that the
église Notre Dame is not a thirteenth century church!
If you want to get an idea of Dijon in mediæval times, study the
sixteenth century tapestry in this salle. It shows a walled city with
many churches, most of which have now disappeared. Indeed, with the
exception of the Tour du Logis du Roi, or Tour de la Terrasse, beneath
which you are standing at the moment, very few of the buildings are
easily recognisable. The subject represents the siege of the City by
the Swiss. The black virgin, now, I believe, in the Eglise Notre
Dame, has been borne out to assist in the relief of the City, and the
mayor of the town is in negotiation with the enemy. They covenanted to
raise the siege for a specified sum; but were foolish enough to depart
without the cash, which, consequently was never paid.
The remainder of the musée installed in the Palace has little that is
of first-rate interest, except, the ducal kitchen, some good Burgundian
altarpieces, and a large collection of modern statues, chiefly by the
Burgundian Rude (1784-1855).[168] Among hundreds of inferior pictures,
I was most interested in three paintings of Dijon Castle, in salle 8,
by G. P. H. Jeanniot. Dijon Castle does not now exist. If the reader
can endure more history, I will tell him the reason why.
If you will walk down the Rue de la Liberté, in this town, and turn,
two hundred yards or so below the arch, along one of the narrow streets
to the left, you will emerge on to a large _place_, in the centre of
which stands a great, white building. That white building, the Post
Office, occupies the site of the Castle, which, until a few years ago,
stood as a memento of the end of the Valois Dukes. Dijon, however, now
grown to be a great and prosperous city, a centre of the wine trade,
is more concerned with the development of her industries than with her
historical monuments; consequently, when a new Post Office was needed,
the authorities came to the conclusion that a castle so centrally
situate must go.[169] It went: but its memories remain. Its story is that
of the final struggle between Burgundy and France, between Charles le
Téméraire and Louis XI., respective champions of the old order and the
new.[169]
These rivals were not well matched. It was the unequal combat of the
matador against the bull. Charles, though a prince of great charm and
ability, endowed with the dual qualities of scholar and general, was
still but a man of his time. If he possessed the virtues of the middle
ages--courage, daring, resolution,--he shared also its defects--pride,
obstinacy, shortsightedness, boundless ambition, and a touch, perhaps,
of the hereditary insanity of the House of Valois. Dreams of more than
feudal glory, of empire, even, dazzled him.
His father had been "Philip the Good"; the son should be Alexander the
Great. "Si grand et si puissant qu'il put être conducteur et meneur des
autres." He would re-establish in greater glory, with wider bounds, the
ancient Kingdom of Burgundy. And France! He reckoned without France.
It was not within the power of this man to fathom nor to play move for
move against such an opponent as Louis. He had held the king in his
grasp once,[170] and had let him go. The opportunity would never recur.
Patient, untiring Louis, touched, just as his rival was, with insanity,
endowed with more than the common cunning of his type, possessed a mind
as modern, almost, in essentials, as was that of Bacon half a century
later. He foresaw clearly enough the coming death of feudalism, and,
while waiting wolf-like, to prey upon the corpse, he bent his mind
to the wider constructive processes of a subtler, more Machiavellian
policy.
The reigning princes of Europe were old; Louis, noting the fact,
realized that he had only to wait, leaving the active part to his ally,
Death, a power as certain as God's, and one, moreover, that he need
not cajole with prayers, nor bribe with silver balustrades. He waited,
while the black angel shook the tree; then he gathered the plums as
they fell: and France was his.
King Charles, meanwhile--king in all but name--was burning to fight
all comers. He flung himself first upon the Swiss, who were in league
against him. He was defeated at Grandson, and again at Morat, on the
22nd June, 1476, losing many men and much spoil, including his great
diamond, one of the largest in Christendom.[171] He lost heart, too,
and retired into solitude, letting his beard grow, and dreaming of
revenge. There was to be no revenge for him.
On the 22nd October, he commenced the siege of Nancy, which he
prosecuted with quiet energy, until, in the following January, he heard
that the Swiss were advancing against him to the relief of the town.
The doomed Duke turned to meet them, and his fate. His army, wearied by
much campaigning, was completely routed. The following day Duke Charles
could not be found; various rumours were current in the town concerning
him.
He was dead; he was not dead. "Beware," said the timid ones, "lest you
behave otherwise than if he were yet alive, for his vengeance will be
terrible on his return." On 6th January there was brought to Duke René,
a young page, named Jean Baptiste Colonna, who said he had seen his
master fall, and could find the place. The next day they recommenced
their search for the body. The page led them to a pond called the Etang
de St. Jean, distant about three culverin shots from the town. There,
half-buried in the mud-banks of a little stream, near a chapel, lay a
dozen despoiled corpses. "They commenced to search all the dead; all
were naked and frozen, scarcely could one know them; the page, passing
here and there, found many mighty ones, and great and small, white
as snow. And all turned them over. 'Alas!' said he, 'Here is my good
master.'"[172]
Others gathered round. As they lifted the head from the ice to which
it had frozen, the skin was torn from the face. Already the wolves and
dogs had been at work upon the other cheek; moreover a great wound had
split the head from the ear to the mouth.[173]
In such condition the corpse was not easily recognisable, but Olivier
de la Marche and others identified it by the teeth and the nails, and
by certain marks, such as the scar of the wound received at Montlhéri.
When they had washed the body in warm water and wine, it was easily
recognised by all. In addition to the wound in the head, there were
two others, one through the thighs, and another below the loins. The
dead Duke was borne into the town, and placed in a velvet bed beneath
a canopy of black satin. The corpse was clothed in a camisole of white
satin, and covered with a crimson mantle of the same material. A Ducal
crown was laid on the head, scarlet shoes and golden spurs upon the
feet. "The said Duke being honourably clothed, he was white as snow; he
was small and well-limbed; on a table, well wrapped up in white sheets,
upon a silk pillow, on the head a red cap set, the hands joined, the
cross and holy water beside him; all who would might see him, none were
turned away; some prayed God for him, and others not." The victorious
René, Duke of Lorraine, came to throw holy water upon the body of the
unhappy prince.
He took the hand beneath the coverlet; tears came into his eyes. "Ah!
dear cousin," said he, "may God receive your soul, you have brought on
us many an ill and many a sorrow." Then he kissed the hand, fell upon
his knees, and remained for a quarter of an hour in prayer.[174]
Louis XI. made no attempt to conceal his rejoicing over the tragedy of
Nancy. A silver balustrade, weighing 6,776 marks, erected around the
tomb of St. Martin de Tours, testified his gratitude to the heavenly
powers, who had removed the rival of the most Christian King. Then,
with great energy, he proceeded to support his claim to Burgundy.
Towns were occupied; rebels and seditious persons were executed and
proscribed, and a castle was erected at the gates of Beaune, in
addition to that at Dijon. Both were occupied by royal garrisons
responsible for the subjection of the country.
On July 31st, 1479, the king made his solemn entry into Dijon. "The
mayor, the échevins, the procureurs, clothed in scarlet robes, walked
before him, as they had formerly walked before the Dukes; the clergy
in their chapes bore the holy relics. Louis proceeded first to the
Abbey of St. Bénigne, where the Dijonnais swore fealty to him, as to
their natural lord, and prayed him to hold them in his good grace;
then, preceded by trumpets, tambourines, and minstrels, he went to
lodge at the Ducal Palace. Everywhere they covered with lime the arms
of Burgundy, broke the windows of the Chambre Des Comtes which bore
that device, and replaced it by that of the King with the cord of St.
Michael and the arms of the Dauphin."[175]
So ended the power of Burgundy. From the days of Philippe le Hardi,
onwards, there had arisen in the minds of those proud dukes--who
were more than dukes--a dream of a new kingdom that should exceed
in extent and in dominion the old Burgundy of their fathers--a
kingdom, an empire, perhaps, freed for ever from the hated rivalry
of the Fleur-de-lys. But that dream was not to be realised. All the
conditions, geographical, historical, psychological, were against them;
nor had the dukes themselves, for all their abilities, the constructive
minds necessary for the accomplishment of such a task. Louis, on the
other hand, as we have seen, possessed such a mind; and destiny and
death, as though consciously realizing the fact, worked for him.
Burgundy was no more than the greatest of the fruits that fell into his
lap.
[Illustration: STREET IN DIJON
_Facing page 208_]
Nevertheless, we shall surely do well to remember these years, and
these Dukes, that went to the making of France. Dijon, it appears,
proud of her mustard, and of her wine-begotten prosperity, does
not care to remember. She has pulled down the unworthy memento of
subjection. Truly she has her reward. She has the best Post Office in
the Duchy.
* * * * *
Now, after all this history, what of Dijon as it is to-day? Well,
modern Dijon, despite the ever-to-be-deplored demolition of the Castle,
remains one of the most individual and fascinating of French towns--a
cheerful, lively, bustling little city, full of fine buildings, and
unexpected architectural surprises of the Renaissance and earlier
times. For its size, I know no town in France in which past and present
have blended more happily. Wherever you walk, in the heart of the town,
the next corner has something fascinating to show.
The building which first calls for attention is the Cathedral of
St. Bénigne. Of the early, circular, Romanesque church, which dated
from the eleventh century, and was probably imitated from the Holy
Sepulchre, nothing now remains but the crypt. The primitive, carved
pillars are the oldest of their kind in Burgundy, and mark the origin
of an art of sculpture, that, as we have already seen, was to go far.
In this rude church was buried St. Bénigne, the Christian martyr of the
third century; here, too, the pious Alèthe, St. Bernard's mother, was
laid, probably in the year 1110; and here, many a time, Bernard himself
came down from his father's castle at Fontaine, to pray, in those early
days when his spirit was torn between the claims of cloister and the
world. The cathedral, above ground, though historically interesting,
as the scene of the inaugural ceremonies of the great Dukes, and
the solemn merger of the duchy into the kingdom of France, is not
architecturally of first-rate interest. Gothic art was not always well
inspired in Burgundy during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries;
and St. Bénigne is no exception to the rule. The façade is very bold,
for a church of cathedral rank; the west window is weak and shallow,
and the parvis mean and uninteresting. Nor is the interior successful.
The triforium, one of the feeblest I know, is suggestive of a cardboard
model, and the simplicity of the nave has been broken by a series of
restless yearning statues, that, poised upon the abaci of the capitals,
grimace at one another across the nave. The thirteenth-century choir
is better; though spoiled architecturally by bare spaces of wall
between the triforium and the sills of the clerestory. The exterior,
however, especially as seen from the east-end, is impressive, and
the "Snake-skin" tiling, though rather trying at first, is rich and
effective, when the eye has become accustomed to the shock.
Opposite to St. Bénigne is a typical Burgundian church of the twelfth
century, with a triple porch and narthex, an octagonal tower, and a
beautiful Romanesque south doorway. It is now a secular building,
as are several other old churches of Dijon. You may look, as I did,
through a decorated window of St. Etienne, and see a man changing his
shirt!
Another church of considerable interest, from the architectural point
of view, is St. Michel. I am not referring to the interior, which
is, on the whole, an ineffective example of late Gothic, with clumsy
vaulting ribs, and heavy, square, nave piers, rounded off by vaulting
shafts at the angles--but to the façade, one of the best examples I
know of Gothic design worked out in Renaissance detail, with four
classical orders superposed.[176] Hugues Sambin, the architect, or
reputed architect--he who did those beautiful doors for the Palace
de Justice, that we have seen in the Musée--has made so harmonious
a compromise of the two styles, that I wonder he has not found more
imitators. The fact that others dared not follow emphasises the
difficulty of the task.
But the most interesting, by far, of all the churches of Dijon, is
Notre Dame, that, within hail of the Palace, and dedicated to Our Lady,
enjoyed the special patronage of the Dukes. It was here that, after the
great tournament at the arbre Charlemagne, in the plain south of Dijon,
to be spoken of presently, the competing knights came to hang up their
shields, and to render thanks to their preserver. Here, too, in 1453,
after long imprisonment in the east, came Philippe Pot, whom also we
shall meet again, barefooted, amidst a brilliant assemblage, to fulfil
his vows to Notre Dame de Bon Espoir.
Notre Dame is a purely Burgundian Gothic church, of the thirteenth
century. The interior, with its typical stiff leaf capitals, and
pointed arches, is not very remarkable. The arcade round the choir is
good; but the square blocks above the abaci, that take the vaulting
shafts, are clumsy, and the rose windows without tracery, in the
transept, are not effective. As with St. Michel, it is the exterior
design that makes the church so remarkable from an architectural point
of view. The triple porch--if its carvings were as good as those
above--must have been very charming before the revolutionary gentlemen
set to work with hammer and axe upon tympanum and arch.
[Illustration: · DOOR OF THE EGLISE ST. MICHAEL · DIJON ·]
Even now it is pleasing. Indeed, the west front, as seen from the
Rue des Forges, though, perhaps, a little stiff, is most striking,
especially when the bright sun of Burgundy is picking out in warm light
and pitchy shadow the triple row of strange eager faces, that, craning
their necks out over the street, gaze down upon the passers-by. These
grotesque beasts, and the friezes in which they dwell, are among the
best examples of Burgundian sculpture to be seen anywhere. They have
all the vigour, individuality, and vivacity that are characteristic of
the Province. The façade, as a whole, with its double arcade, between
the friezes, surmounting the triple porch, is one of the most original
in France, and would be much more effective than it is, could it be
better seen. The tower, too, and the flanking turrets, are boldly
designed, and relieved with little sculptures, grinning suns and
grimacing heads, on the corbels and the springings, that suggest an
art lively and alert compared with the conventional dulness of St.
Bénigne. The sense of realism is increased by the many pigeons--not of
stone--who glide all day over monsters' backs, and coo into old monks'
ears.
[Illustration: · EGLISE · ST. MICHEL · DIJON]
The Jacquemart clock on the tower was brought to Dijon by Philippe le
Hardi, after the sack of Courtrai, in 1383. Froissart, charmed with it,
declared it to be "ouvrage le plus beau qu'on put trouver deçà ni delà
la mer." Philip may have thought so, too; since he chose it for his
trophy.
Nearly every street in this central part of old Dijon, around the
palace of the Dukes, has many good things. Late Gothic buildings meet
you at every turn, and in no town of France that I know, except,
perhaps, Toulouse, will you find better Renaissance houses. The fronts
of the Maison Milsand and the Maison des Caryatides, are both charming
of their kind; and so is the courtyard of the Maison Richard, or
Hotel des Ambassadeurs, with a magnificent mediæval staircase, and a
fifteenth century gallery of perpendicular woodwork. Behind Notre Dame
is the old Hotel Vogué, with one of the fine snake-skin roofs that are
a feature of Dijon.
[Illustration: Sculpture; Notre Dame de Dijon]
But of all the quiet haunts in the city, the best are the little garden
without, and the courtyard within, the Palace of the Dukes. Looking
up through green boughs at the beautiful windows of the Salle des
Gardes and the Tour de la Terrasse, or, from a post upon the inner
flag-stones, peering into the dark shadows of the lovely Renaissance
staircase that mounts by the Tour de Bar,[177] you may go back again
into the days when Dijon was more famous, more alive, than mustard and
gingerbread can ever make it.
The mention of mustard and gingerbread, reminds me that here, opposite
to the staircase, is the kitchen, where, between eight great furnaces,
two in each wall, below a converging shaft, fashioned to carry the
fumes upward to the blue sky, the Duke's chef superintended a small
army of perspiring cooks and scullions.
My wife's brains were busy with such dreams, as she sat in that
courtyard sketching the well, the staircase, and little Marie Bon,
who, for two sous, and the privilege of being allowed to tell about
her uncle, also a painter--he worked on back doors--allowed herself
to be drawn. And while the picture grew, tiresome boys would come
up and jostle each other, and make remarks--usually, however, of a
complimentary nature.
[Illustration: · WELL OUTSIDE THE DUKE'S KITCHEN ·]
"Ma foi, c'est épatant, ça!" "C'est très chic--beaucoup mieux qu'une
photographie."
Gallant young men, too, would come, and say boldly, as though prepared
to step into the breach, "Madame, n'a pas de cavalier aujourdhui!" And
diffident old ladies, shy, but unable to restrain their curiosity,
would come up and say, "Est-ce qu'on est permis de regarder un peu,
Madame?" And my wife would smile and reply, "Mais oui, certainement."
For towards good and diffident old ladies her heart is as soft as it is
adamantine towards small and cheeky urchins.
[Illustration: Vine Ornament]
One other building in Dijon I will mention--the Palais de Justice,
which has a beautiful Renaissance façade, with a high gable in the
Flemish style, and a domed Corinthian porch. The threatening darkness
of the stone, and the grim, lurid, purplish colours it takes in certain
lights, harmonise well with our memories of deeds done in that Salle
des Pas Perdus, and the torture chamber of the prisons within. This
Palace was also the Parliament House of the Valois Dukes.
* * * * *
But we, who pass our days in London, soon weary of other cities, even
though they be ancient and French; besides, we wanted to see something
of the environs of Dijon; so a fine afternoon found us cycling along
the five kilometres of flat yet attractive road that leads by the
Canal de Bourgogne to Plombières, in the valley of the Ouche. There
was music all the way; the breeze that whispered to the "paint-brush"
poplars, and rustled in the reeds and grasses of the bank; the song
of the grasshoppers, the "sound of waters shaken" where they curled
foaming through the lock gates. We had beauty with us, too; all the
mature beauty of a bright autumn day, as we glided beside the still
water, between waving grasses and lichen-gilded trunks. On our left
were golden vineyards, and, beneath them, rose-embowered cottages and
jagged quarries where brawny quarrymen were dealing mighty, swinging
strokes that echoed through the valley. To our right were the terraced
hills of Talant, and ahead the tower of Plombières church, high above
the village roofs. We passed white-hooded peasants--ample women with
genuine, solid bodies, ambling homeward from the markets of Dijon,
and black-bloused peasants, who, blessed with a patience that was
never given to us, were "soaking an indefinite bait in an indifferent
stream;" we passed blazing bonfires by the side of the road, whereon
girls were heaping all the grasses they had cut during a busy day with
the sickle. And when we got there, we found the mairie besieged by
women in white dresses and men in black coats. There was a wedding; and
couples were whirling in the Salle de Bal.
That Talant I spoke of, on the hill, is another spot to make for
between tea and dinner; if only for the views it gives you down over
the City of Dijon and the Valley of the Ouche. From the village green,
shaded with ancient walnut trees, between which the children play with
their dappled goats, there lie before you, across the willow-fringed
silver streak that is the Canal de Bourgogne, the hills of the Côte
d'Or, now shrouded in the purple mists of evening. Southward, looming
through the red smoke-wreaths, that curl upwards from its factories,
rise the towered palace, and the spires of the ducal city. Below,
among the vines and fruit trees, beside the red gravel pit in the grey
cemetery, the flames of the peasants' fires, flashing in lines, like
the camp fires of a beleaguered town, are deepening with an opalesque
veil of floating vapour the gathering mysteries of the night.
As we climbed the road that winds up the hill to Talant, whose old
Castle, by the way, was the scene of a hundred memorable events, that
I have no time to remember now, we saw on our right another wooded
spur of the Côte d'Or, crowned with a big church and a little one. We
knew it at once for Fontaine, the home of St. Bernard--a spot not to
be missed. The next day found us there. Passing through the village,
we came to a small, round pool at the foot of the steep, shaded with
a ring of poplars and walnut trees. This must be the very pool in
which St. Bernard plunged, when, in the hey-day of youth, he felt his
blood glowing too warmly within him. I wonder that the peasants, or
the priests, have not made holy water of it before this. We climbed
the hill, and, sitting on a broken stone wall, caught glimpses, across
the changing vines, of distant Dijon towers, while those improvident
grasshoppers, who should have been harvesting against a coming winter,
just sang and sang, as though they would out-sing the larks.
Then I wandered through the little Burgundian church, and the tangled
wilderness of a churchyard, while my wife, sitting enthroned in lilac
bushes, and eating blackberries of her own picking, watched the western
sun gilding, height beyond height, the distant hills, and dreamed of
Bernard, her chosen patron saint. How often must he, torn between
chivalry and church, have wrestled with his spirit upon that very spot.
This great building near us, on the crest of the hill, is built on
the site of Tescelin le Roux's castle; and contains, I believe, some
remnants of it; but it has no longer any attraction for us. Restoration
and modern additions[178] have stolen away its hoary age. We may be
foolish in these matters; but we got more pleasure from a wooden bust
of St. Bernard, that we bought for three francs from a white-winged
sister, in the pilgrimage shop beside the basilica. We still look at
it daily, and believe it--quite wrongly, no doubt--to be a perfect
likeness of Tescelin's perfect son.
* * * * *
Before we part from Dijon, there is one other episode in its history to
which I should like to refer.
Leaving the town by the southward road that leads to the ancient
village of Rouvres--Philippe le Hardi, by the way, before his accession
to the dukedom, was Philippe de Rouvres--you come upon a vast plain
traversed by many poplar-fringed roads.
It was in this plain, close to Dijon, towards Nuits, that was held,
in July, 1443, the great tournament known as the Tournoi de l'Arbre
Charlemagne, given by the Seigneur de Charny and twelve other noblemen
of Burgundy. Two lists were dressed--the smaller one for combats on
foot, and the other, much larger, for mounted knights with the lance.
Between them was a great pavilion of wood. The larger list had two
steps at one end, to enable attendants to assist, to arm, or to disarm
their knight, without compelling him to dismount. On the Dijon side of
the lists was a great tent, for use as occasion might require. The tree
of Charlemagne, close by, was draped with cloth of high warp, bearing
the arms of the Lord of Charny; near it was "a fountain large and fair
with a high stone capital above which were images of God, of Our Lady,
and of Madame St. Anne, and upon the said capital were raised in stone
the thirteen blazons of the arms of the said Lord of Charny and of his
companions."
[Illustration: Dijon; a fifteenth century Window]
On that 11th July, "the princes having come they entered the house
set apart for this purpose (which was right honourably decked and
hung); and the Duke of Burgundy held a little white baton in his hand
to throw and separate the champions, their arms being concluded, as
is the custom in such a case. As for the lists, they were a sight
most triumphant to see; for they were decked with two pavillons for
the knights, bearing their arms and devices in blazons, banners, and
otherwise ... the entry of the assailant in the lists was on the side
of Dijon, and that of the defender and guardian of the pas was on the
side of Nuits."
The first fight between Charny and a Spanish knight, both on foot and
armed with axes, is too like that already described, in the Tournoi
de la dame de Pleurs, to justify us in giving Olivier de la Marche's
graphic description of it. We will tell, instead, of a fight on
the 9th day of the Tournament, between the Count of St. Martin and
Guillaume de Vaudrey.
"At the third course the said De Vaudrey reached the Count's great
arm-guard and disarmed him, so that they had to forge and open the
said arm-guard, and two full hours were spent before he was re-armed.
At the fourth charge the said Guillaume de Vaudrey reached the Count,
with his lance on the arm near the side, and with this stroke he
dinted his arm, and broke his lance off short at the blade, so that
the blade remained in the said Count's arm, and readily appeared the
blood and the wound. So the Duke commanded that he should at once be
disarmed, and set aright, and certes the duke and all the lords were
most troubled at this adventure; and even the said De Vaudrey regretted
right wonderfully his companion's wound."
There was much subsequent discussion as to how this accident could
have occurred; and the general opinion seemed to be that it was the
Count's own fault, by reason of a bad trick he had of riding at his man
from the corner of the lists, and so meeting him cross-wise, instead
of charging along the matting--which was laid from end to end of the
lists especially for that purpose; but, whatever the cause, as Olivier
fatalistically remarks, "Ce qui doit advenir advient: et fut telle
ceste aventure."
[Illustration: Ornament]
"On the 10th day of August, a day of St. Laurence, came Monsieur de
Bourgogne, Madame his spouse, all the ladies and lords, to see the arms
of the two noblemen, and there presented himself Jacques de Challant
Signeur de Manille, most honourably accompanied by the Lord of Charny,
and by his companions, as also by his relatives and friends; and he
presented himself on a charger, covered with cloth of blue damask,
right prettily adorned with his letters and devices; as he was mounted
and armed ready to furnish arms. On the other side presented himself
the knight (who sustained the enterprise), mounted and armed as is
fitting in such case. His horse was decked, as I remember, in satin,
half white and half violet, quartered; and right well the knight sat on
his horse, for in figure he was supple, fair to look upon, and right
agreeable to all. All due things were done and the lances distributed;
and it came about that in the first onset Jacques de Challant got home
upon the knight's arm-guard; by the which he was disarmed, so that the
said arm-guard had to be opened by the armourers, (and it took) more
than three hours, and while they made good the said arm-guard, the Lord
of Charny caused a banquet to be served to the Duke and to the Duchess
and to all the Signeurs, where they were sitting, right bounteously,
both meats and wines."
After the luncheon they set to it again.
"And at their second charge the noble men rode with all the strength
of their steeds; and so stern was this onset, that the Spaniard's
charger could not sustain the shock, so fell to the ground; and swiftly
horseman and horse were raised, but from this fall the Spaniard's
harness was so bent and forced that he was quite disarmed; and they
must needs put off those arms unto another day. Within a few days after
that the term of six weeks that this noble meeting should last was past
and expired, and the following day (which was on a Sunday, a little
before the Great Mass) the kings-at-arms and the heralds assembled from
all parts further to honour the mystery; and, having put on their coats
of arms, they brought by order and with great magnificence, the two
shields which for six weeks had been hung and fastened to the tree of
Charlemagne, and on which was founded the meeting aforesaid. Then they
entered the Church of Notre Dame de Dijon, and all kneeling offered
and presented the aforesaid shields to the glorious Virgin Mary; which
shields are still in the said church, in a chapel on the right hand as
you come to the choir."
[Illustration: End of chapter XIV; Arbre Charlemagne]
FOOTNOTES:
[168] I should add that there is a good replica of the Puits de Moïse,
which gives you an opportunity to study that work at leisure.
[169] The demolition was begun in 1870, to give work to the unemployed
at the time of the war.
[170] At Péronne.
[171] Kleinclausz, "Histoire de la Bourgogne."
[172] De Barante states that the body was found by a washerwoman,
who was attracted by the sparkle of a ring on the Duke's
finger. I have followed Michelet.
[173] Olivier de Marche, "Mémoires."
[174] De Barante, Tome XI; pp. 156-158.
[175] Kleinclausz.
[176] The classical orders are five: Doric, Ionic, Corinthian,
Tuscan, Composite.
[177] The Tour de Bar was named after Renée of Anjou (Duke of Bar),
known as good king Renée, who was imprisoned there after the
battle of Buligneville in 1431, the year in which Joan of Arc
was burned.
[178] The western portion was rebuilt under Louis XIII.
[Illustration: Heading, chapter XV; The Three Huntsmen]