SAINT MARTIN'S WELL AND THE LEGEND OF SAINT MARGUERITE
Leaving my wife to run the gauntlet of the gamins of Beaune, while she
sketched the starry hood and the porch of Notre Dame, we fared forth
on our bicycles, towards the ancient village of Bouilland, fifteen
kilometres away, to which I received my first call when I happened upon
the legend of its Abbey.
Bouilland lies beyond Savigny, in the heart of the valley of the
Bouxaise, a tributary of the Saône, by a road so lonely that, between
Savigny and our destination we met only one individual--and he was
sitting in a cart, so fast asleep that, though we longed to do so, we
had not the heart to wake him.
Saint Marguerite lies high up in a hollow of the rocky hills, on the
edge of the Forêt au Maitre--one of the most deserted spots in all
Christendom. What was once a glorious building, with a Romanesque nave
and a lovely, late thirteenth-century transept and apse, lightened
with carved foliage, capitals, and graceful, slender shafts, is now a
roofless ruin. Wild fruit trees grow in the transepts; the floor of
the nave is paved with a litter of mossy stones, beneath which the ivy
and the brambles take root; cowslips and purple violets jewel the apse
with delights beyond the art of even Gothic sculptors; through the
roofless arches you look up at the whispering forest-pines. Westward of
the Abbey, beside the deserted adjunct buildings, is a grassy terrace,
stone-walled, shaded by blossoming fruit trees. From this fresh, green
garden you can look, beyond the darkness of the ancient gateway, into
the flaming yellow of a field of "Mustard," the symbol of a living
world beyond. Sit beside me on the old stone wall, and hear the legend
of Saint Marguerite.
In days of yore, there lived in the Castle of Vergy, a maiden,
beautiful and pure as an angel; she was named Marguerite.
Many young suitors of noble birth desired her hand: one, in particular,
was more handsome than all the others; but his conversation was
unchaste, and treachery lurked in his glance and in his smile.
Marguerite would never listen to his profane addresses; she repulsed
him, saying: "Speak not to me of earthly love; to me, who have chosen,
for all eternity, Jesus, the most loving and tender of husbands."
At the name of Jesus, the face of the handsome youth grew pale; and he
turned away.
The holy maid, sometimes followed by one of her companions, went to
speak of God and of heavenly things, with an old hermit, who lived in
the depths of a neighbouring forest.
One evening, when she was returning from one of these visits, and,
mounted on her mule, was crossing the great wood, she perceived the
page awaiting her at a bend of the path. Swiftly she turned the animal,
and, in her hasty flight, left her veil hanging on the branches of a
hawthorn bush.
Her steed moved swiftly; but swifter still follows the treacherous
youth; he is lighter than the wind; scarcely do the grasses bend
beneath his feet.
But--crowning misfortune--the poor girl, instead of following the broad
valley way, as her companion has done, turns into a side path that is
soon barred by a great rampart of rocks.
All is over; she must fall a victim to her pursuer.... Already he
stretches out his arms to seize her. As his hands, quivering with
passion, touch the young girl, he breaks into a peal of infernal
laughter that resounds through the whole valley.
Then Marguerite remembers her betrothed in Heaven. She calls upon Him
for aid; she murmurs His name, and arms herself with His sign.
At the name of Jesus, spoken with that faith which removes mountains,
the rock opens before her, and the mule carries the Christian maid to
safety.
But the false page, a demon in disguise, fell down into a fiery gulf
that opened suddenly beneath his feet. Afterwards, when the earth had
closed again over the spot, the peasants found, lying upon the wayside
grass, a girdle of white silk, the symbol of Marguerite's purity and
innocence.
[Illustration: ·RUINS OF THE ABBEY OF SAINT MARGUERITE·]
The maid of Vergy reined in her mule before a fountain, a few paces
from the parted rock. She dismounted, and, prostrating herself, she
consecrated to the Lord her virginity that had been so miraculously
preserved.
In a later year, with the dowry left her by her father, she built, on
this spot, a monastery, to which she gave the name of Ste. Marguerite,
her patron saint, as a song of thanksgiving in praise of her Heavenly
Spouse.
* * * * *
Philippe Pot being a name to conjure with in Burgundy, we took the
first opportunity to make acquaintance with his eagle's nest, the
Roche-Pot. The road from Beaune skirts the Côte d'Or, as far as
Pommard, and climbs, between the vineyards, into the hills. These
vineyards, in which are produced some of the choicest vines of the
district, are surrounded each with a stone wall and gateway, with the
name of the _clos_ written on it--"Clos des Chênes," "Clos des Antres,"
etc. As you rise, there opens out a lovely view over the fruitful plain
of Burgundy, a golden sea of vines. Below us, ahead, the dark roofs and
spires of Meursault rise from the trees, and beyond them, shining in a
blue mist, the widening southern hills of the Côte d'Or.
About half a mile from Meursault, the road, turning due west, plunges
down into the valley of the Clous, between the hills, rock-clad
at their summits, vine-clad below. Thence the way undulates past
Auxey-le-Grand and Melin, until suddenly you sight, above the trees,
the towers of Rochepot perched upon its crag. Leaving my wife to
sketch, I made my way up through the dilapidated village, and soon
found myself crossing the drawbridge of a mediæval castle, glowing as
brightly with gold and colour, and with blazoned coats of arms, as on
the day when it was first built. Here were round towers, machicolated
battlements, a pepper-pot roof, with not a stone or tile of them
disordered. I had expected a ruin--a lizards' playground; yet here
before my eyes was Philippe Pot's own legend, "TANT L VAUT," as fresh
as painter and gilder could make it.
"Whose is this castle?" I asked of the harmless, necessary guide, who
by now had put in an appearance, and was assuring some gaping visitors
that Philippe was called Pot because he always carried a pot about with
him--a paint pot, judging by the condition of his castle.
"This is M. Carnot's castle, Monsieur, the eldest son of the late
President. He has already spent millions in restoration, and he is
about to convert into a terrace the remains of the 11th century
Château, up there." He pointed to a fine, rounded-headed window, of two
lights, high above us on the rock. While we were being hurried round
this fortress of all the centuries, I fell to thinking of Philippe Pot,
of his home, and his legend.
[Illustration: ·LA ROCHEPOT·]
Begun in the thirteenth century, by Alexandre de Bourgogne, Prince
de Morée, the castle was fortified in the early fifteenth by René
Pot,[181] whose son Philippe[182] was the only man of them all to leave
it a popular name.
In the middle of the fifteenth century, the Ottoman Sultan, Mahomet
II., was threatening Constantinople, then in the hands of Constantine,
Emperor of Byzantium, who appealed to Pope Nicholas V. for help against
the Islamite invasion. To young Philippe Pot, nearly twenty-five years
of age, the bravest, most handsome, and most eloquent chevalier of his
day, and a poet withal--a crusade was as the candle to the moth. Never
might come such another opportunity to win his spurs away from home.
So he wrote to his fiancée, the richest and loveliest heiress of all
Burgundy, Jeanne, daughter of Pierre de Baufremont, Comte de Charny,
great chamberlain of Philippe le Bon.
"Gentille Damoiselle, I am setting forth to Constantinople; I wish
before our bridal to render myself worthy of you and of your valiant
father." Before dawn, on an August morning, in the year 1452, he left
Rochepot, and rode to Notre Dame de Dijon, where he met four hundred
other young knights sworn to follow his lead. There they heard Mass
before the altar of the Virgin, and bespoke her blessing on their
banner, that bore her picture, and the device: "Notre Dame de Bon
Espoir, soyez-nous en aide." Then they rode eastward through the
streets of Dijon. "Honneur aux preux!" shouted the crowds; "Honneur aux
chevaliers de Notre Dame!"[183]
We have no time to follow all the adventures of our chevalier in the
land of Islam--how with his own hand, he slew and slew, until the
bravest of the Saracens learned to fear the prowess of the "Chevalier
de la Mort"; how, at last, he was captured by the Turks, before
Constantinople, imprisoned, flogged, almost to death, because he would
not become the Sultan's man, nor bow to the name of the Prophet--how he
consoled himself in prison by writing verses to the Lady Virgin to whom
he was vowed.
[Illustration: PORCH OF HOTEL DIEU--BEAUNE
_Facing page 242_]
"Sauve-moi, Dame glorieuse,
De la prison tant rigoureuse,
Où l'on ne voit que cruauté;
Garde-moi d'y être bouté,
Car à chacun tu es piteuse,
Mère de Dieu."[184]
His prayer was answered. For, before long, the Sultan, wishing to make
an end of his prisoner, brought him one day into the arena, and caused
to be handed to him, for his only weapon, a light scimitar, that was
but a toy compared with the young chevalier's mighty sword, beneath
whose deadly strokes so many Turks had already fallen. Then was loosed
upon him, thus armed, a magnificent lion, that had already been the
death of many prisoner knights.
"This is no combat," murmured the assembled thousands, one to another,
"'Tis an execution--already the old lion has slain his hundreds--and he
has eaten nothing these three days," Meanwhile the adversaries stood
face to face. With two great bounds the lion is upon his man; but, as
he crouches for the third spring, the hero makes a swift movement; the
scimitar flashes, falls upon the animal's front paws. Roaring with pain
and fury, the beast rolls upon his back, and licks the stumps of his
wounded legs. Again, like lightning, the scimitar plays. In a moment
the lion's tongue is lying at the feet of the Sultan. With a last
effort the wounded beast rises, open-mouthed. Philippe, seizing his
opportunity, plunges the blade down the ravening throat. The great lion
falls dead. Loud rings the applause of the crowd, as the hero, waving
aloft his smoking weapon, cries, "Gloire à Notre Dame. Tant elle vaut!"
The Sultan, who loved courage first and last, descended into the arena,
hung a rich chain about his prisoner's neck, and said: "Such valour
deserves freedom. Return to your lady, and to your home."
So the victorious Philippe reached France again, and, in poor man's
guise, begging his bread by the way, came to Rochepot, on the day
following the Fête des Trépassés, the great Autumn festival that the
Catholic church has appointed in celebration of the dead. There he
found the castle all hung with black, and a great company mourning a
living man's death. So he made himself known, and sorrow changed into
exceeding great joy.
On the 11th November, 1453, through the fresh warm air of a St.
Martin's summer, a brilliant cortège issues from the Ducal Palace at
Dijon, and turns towards the church of Notre Dame. At their head rides
Philippe le Bon, crowned with the crown of Burgundy, and wearing,
about his neck and breast, the collar of the Golden Fleece, and a
purple mantle, lined with ermine. He is leading by the arm a slim girl,
veiled, and clothed in white. Behind them follows a young chevalier,
in shining armour, with a lion's skin clasped upon his shoulder. 'Tis
Philippe Pot; his feet still bleeding from the stones of the pilgrim
way. In one hand he carries a candle, the other arm supports the
Duchess of Burgundy, splendid in a robe of cloth of gold. Beside them
walk two heralds-at-arms, one bearing a scimitar, the other a veiled
picture. From balcony and window the people acclaim their passage:
"Noel! Noel!"
They enter Notre Dame--its walls splendid with tapestries of Arras--and
kneel in the chapel of Notre Dame de Bon-Espoir. Philippe lights his
candle, and places it upon the altar. The picture is uncovered, and
hung before the black virgin. It shows the knight, under his Lady's
protection, slaying the lion in the arena. Below are written the words--
"Tant L vaut et a valu
A celui qui a recouru
A celle pour qui dit ce mot
Le suppliant Philippe Pot
Qui de tout mal l'a secouru
TANT L VAUT."[185]
[Illustration: ·TOMB OF PHILIPPE POT·]
Having accomplished his vow, the knight puts on his spurs. The Duke of
Burgundy approaches, embraces him, gives him the collar and mantle of
the Toison d'Or. The fiancée is led forward. Lover and lady join hands,
and--the due ceremonies accomplished--Philippe and his bride leave the
church.
"Noel! Noel!" shout the people. "Honneur au chevalier de Notre Dame!"
Now you know why you may read, in letters of gold, upon the walls and
windows of Philippe's castles--at Rochepot, at Château-neuf, and at
others--that device--TANT L VAUT.[186]
* * * * *
On our way home from Rochepot, we halted for a rest at Auxey le Grand,
and dropped into an inn, where we found two workmen hobnobbing over a
bottle of red wine. One of them--the listener--was just an ordinary
workman; common, base, and popular, as Pistol would have said. His
companion, however, was a man of mark--a handsome, bronzed rascal,
whose fiercely curled moustache and Paderewski hair, well set off by
enormously baggy corduroys, a scarlet belt, and a blue shirt, suggested
the merry bandit of an Elizabethan drama. Our curiosity being aroused,
we addressed the brigand, who was not slow to reveal his identity.
He was one François Paulin, a vine-dresser, and no brigand, as he
proved by the production of a greasy document, stating that "The
administrative council of the Société Vigneronne of the arrondissement
of Beaune certifies that Monsieur Paulin (François) successfully passed
the examinations of March 24th, 1889, and is skilled in pruning (apte à
greffer) the vine, and in teaching that operation." Vines and vineyards
naturally became our topic.
"Ah!" said the brigand; "What a season we have had. Nothing but rain
and cold, cold and rain! It is just ruin for us poor workmen." He
drained his glass, and put it down, with a tense Gallic movement of the
arm. He failed, somehow, to convey the idea that he was ruined. Such
are the triumphs of personality.
"Did the crop fail utterly hereabouts?" I asked.
"Utterly, Monsieur," said Mathilde Duhesme, the innkeeper's daughter,
as she brought us our coffee. "Not a bunch of grapes."
Mathilde was a perfectly charming French girl, of the type that you
will come upon, here and there, even in the remotest part of that
country. England breeds few such women, in her station of life. That
easy, graceful manner, and natural amiability and dignity are found
here--when they are found at all--only among the educated or the
high-born.
"Yes, yes; mon Dieu, you have come in the wrong year for the vines,"
said the brigand, thumping the table. "You should have chosen a good
season. Then lots of visitors come. They come in carts, full of _belles
anges_ with gentlemen standing behind in top-hats. And they all take
photographs. This very day we ought to have been in full vendange."
[Illustration: Taking his Ease]
His pride would have been solely hurt, had he guessed how little his
description allured us.
"Let's drink to a full vendange," said I. Mathilde ran off for another
bottle.
"What do you earn, you vignerons, in a good year?"
"Four francs, and a litre of wine, per man, per day. And it is worth
it; for we make good stuff here on the hillside, though this village of
Auxey is the end of it. Yes, good wines!"
"Tell me more about them," I said.
"The best wines of all are called Aligote, and the second-best--still
very good--are called Pinot. The boite ordinaire that grows away there
in the plain, is called Gamay. When the Gamay is not red enough, we put
it into some Otellot; that's as black as your hat, and colours the rest
up beautifully. Do you drink much wine in your country, Monsieur?"
"No, only the rich drink wine in our country. The poor never taste it.
They drink mostly beer!"
"Sapristi!"
It was now our turn to be questioned. Mathilde, in particular, was very
much interested in my wife's appearance and clothes. Were we married?
Were we married in church? Why were we travelling? Were the English
peasantry poor, and were they provident?
"More poor than provident," we said.
"Ah! now; the French poor are provident. They kill one pig a year,
and lose not a hair of it. First comes the bacon; the fat is used for
preparing meat; the blood for pudding; the entrails for sausages. It
lasts from winter to winter--ah, Madame is making a picture!"
Madame was sketching the brigand.
"I shall put you into our book," said she. The brigand beamed approval.
Five minutes later my wife thoughtlessly gave him the sketch. He tried
not to look hurt--he was not, then, to go into the book, after all. Her
woman's readiness saved the situation.
"I never forget what I have once drawn," she said.
"Vous y serez quand même." He was quite pacified.
Then we left the men over their wine, while Mathilde took us the round
of the church and village. She certainly was a charming person. I am
not so sure that we shall live at Beaune after all.
* * * * *
Lest we should entirely forget the Roman occupation that was so much in
our minds at Autun, we decided to make a pilgrimage to Cussy, a village
due west of Beaune, where the Romans have set up a column, in memory
of an event, or of a person, unknown. If a motor car be not available,
you can best get there by taking the steam tramway, between Beaune and
Arnay-le-Duc, as far as Lusigny; thence by bicycle, or as you will. The
journey is worth making, for the sake of the climb you get through the
gorge of Nantoux, and up the valley of Mavilly, where the train mounts,
by a series of steep zig-zags, into the heart of the Côte d'Or. The
view that opens out is quite Swiss in quality and magnificence. You
look from the summit of a gigantic devil's cauldron, down rocky steeps,
shaped like cathedral organ-pipes, whose eerie mountain music cheers
the vignerons at their work below. All this great expanse of brown,
cliff-bound upland, dappled in spring-time with blossoming fruit trees,
is curiously chequered by dark hedges and white serpentine roads.
Stage by stage the land falls away from you, until all detail is lost,
and far away, over range after range of shining hills, the boundless
plains of lower Burgundy merge imperceptibly into the sky.
So the train puffs up to the col, then rattles down into the quaint
village of Lusigny. The road to Cussy climbs the opposite hill for two
kilometres or so, before switchbacking through the village of Montceau
to this lovely spot that the Romans, or Gallo-Romans, have so chosen to
honour.
Not a human being could we discover in all Cussy. Some destroying
angel, I thought, must have passed over, leaving only chickens alive,
and, by oversight, one old woman, of whose close-fitting, white cap we
caught a glimpse through an open window.
But my wife would not accept that solution.
"No; there has been no destroying angel here. There has just been a
most wicked old witch, who, in revenge for some insult, has changed
all the villagers into ducks and hens. Let's speak to them. I'm sure
they'll answer."
She addressed a lanky, yellow hen, that had left scratching, to watch
us. Poised on one leg it stood, with its head bent inquiringly.
"Please, Mrs. Hen; can you tell me the way to the colonne?"--only, of
course, it being a French hen--if it was really a hen at all--she spoke
to it in French. The hen moved its head to the other side.
"La colonne, Madame, est là bas, dans la prairie."
My wife danced for joy. It _was_ a talking hen. The people were really
bewitched! "How lovely!" But I knew all the time that she was wrong.
The hen had not spoken--not a word. No such luck. It was that dark
girl, who had been watching us from the shed by the house. So we just
thanked her, for politeness sake, and walked sadly down the hill
towards the Colonne. I looked round. The hen was scratching again.
We found the Colonne at last--a fine one, of the composite Corinthian
style, its shaft beautifully ornamented with the favourite Roman
leaf pattern. Round the base are eight statues in relief. Every
antiquary in the kingdom has puzzled his brains over the motif of this
column; and, except Courtepée, who says that "selon toute apparence
c'est un monument sépulcral,"[187] and Lempereur and Montfauçon,
who respectively believed it to be a Gaulish tomb, and a religious
monument, all agree that it is in memory of a great victory.
But what victory? One has said that it commemorates the triumph of
Cæsar over the Helvetii B.C. 58; another that it was raised by the
Emperor Claude, conqueror of the Goths; others believe it to have been
erected by the Aedui to Maximian Hercules, after his victory over
the Bagaudes in 286 A.D.; finally the Burgundian, Girault, maintains
that the monument remembers the victory of Silius over Sacrovir in 22
A.D.[188]
Beyond expressing a doubt whether the column is of later date than 100
A.D., and my conviction that it is triumphal not monumental, I venture
no opinion upon any of these interesting theories. The antiquarians
must settle that among themselves.
Meanwhile, let me inform the visitor who may find himself there in
the autumn, that blackberries of a very choice quality grow in those
prairies of the Colonne. I devoured them steadily, while the cows
chewed their cud, and my wife sketched. She sketched; but she was not
happy, as she usually is when thus occupied. A cruel wind came out of
the north, and chilled her to the bone. She shivered; almost she wept.
I, too, in spite of blackberries, was all comfortless within, and felt
an uncanny sensation in the small of my back.
"Come along, Marjorie; you were quite right. It _was_ the hen who
spoke. This place is bewitched." She cheered up.
"How lovely! I was so afraid witches had quite died out."
* * * * *
Then we went home in the gloaming, by the same plucky, cheerful, little
train that puffed up the hills, and chattered tumbling down them.
Opposite to us, in the dimly-lit, bare apartment, a fat farmer and a
slim little sister of mercy slept, nodding in time to the jerks and
vibrations that shook them from head to foot.
At the first station a wrinkled old woman, leaning out of the window,
held so animated a debate with another on the platform, concerning
peaches, that the company were constrained to chip in, as one may do in
democratic France. Across the compartment came the laconic tones of an
unseen listener.
"Twenty sous the livre, for peaches! eh! ma foi!"
[Illustration: ·ROMAN COLUMN AT CUSSY·]
The train started, snorting violently; the old lady sat, firm-lipped,
vigilantly on guard among her baskets of fruit. There arose around
her a running commentary concerning peaches, and the ethics of trade
therein.
"Moi, je vous dis"--"Eh bien moi je vous dis...."
"And half of them were rotten--the robber!" "Et quand même!" The old
lady defended herself warmly.
"Rattle, rattle, rattle," commented the train, as it plunged downhill
into the pitchy darkness of the valley of Nantoux. Still the passengers
babbled. I grew weary of it, and my dreams went back to St. Martin,
and the Christianity he planted there. Were they really honest, these
chattering peasants? I thought of all the bad money palmed off on us in
Burgundy--the Italian, Spanish, Belgian rubbish; any coin at all that
your carelessness or trustfulness will accept. I thought of the lumps
of lead unblushingly handed to me in the dark by a Paris cabman, on the
steps of St. Lazare. I thought ... I yawned ... I joined the fat farmer
and the slim nun in dreamland.
"Beaune Ville!" said the guard. And the drowsy company searched
vacantly--every man for his pack.
* * * * *
During a hunt for Burgundian lore and legend among the libraries of
Beaune, we found ourselves in conversation with a very entertaining
bookseller, who described to us his boyhood holidays in the valley of
Nantoux, and the legendary haunts of St. Martin.
"Many a summer afternoon," he said, "we spent climbing the valley
hills, and playing upon the rock in which is St. Martin's well; and
never once, not even in the hottest summers--and some were very
hot--did we find the well dry. Always there was water in it. I cannot
tell why. But it was so."
Next morning I mounted my bicycle, and went to see for myself, whether,
after a week of cloudless October skies, I should find water in St.
Martin's well.
Following the valley road as far as Pommard--every name hereabouts
is borrowed unblushingly from a wine-list--you turn northward, and,
always following the railway, come to the little, grey village of
Nantoux, where the valley narrows, until you see, on your right, almost
overhanging the road, a ridge of jagged, grey rock, crossing the
sparsely-wooded hill. Just before it, on the Nantoux side, at a rather
lower elevation, projects another shoulder of the rock. There is the
Puits de St. Martin.
If you call a passer-by, or one of the workmen in the roadside
quarries, he will show you the way, or take you up. It is not very
easy to find without help. You pass the overhanging cliff, and take
a narrow path, at the first bend of the road; not the wider one at
the top of the slight ascent. I enlisted the services of a brawny,
good-tempered, blue-trousered young quarryman, who landed me in a trice
upon the terrace of weather-worn rock, known locally as the Saut (leap)
de St. Martin. As I stood facing the gorge, my guide pointed to an
oval-shaped, red-edged basin, not a foot in diameter, filled, to within
a few inches of the surface, with clear water.
"That is St. Martin's Well, Monsieur; it is never empty. And see, here
beside it is the mark of his horse's hoofs clear-cut in the rock. Those
long marks there were made by the lash of his whip. There are more
hoof-prints nearer the edge. He jumped clean across, in one bound. Ma
foi! it needed jarrets!"
We looked down at the rough-hewn gashes in the limestone. Gold-green
mosses, ivy, and warm, red rock plants were creeping out from every
cranny of the terrace, where of old the people beset St. Martin.
Elderberry bushes trembled in the breeze.
"Now look down the valley, Monsieur! There is Nantoux, towards the midi
where the rains come from. No rain while the sky is clear there. Come
now, and see the view up the valley."
Climbing to the topmost northward ridge, we found ourselves standing
before a majestic amphitheatre of dusky, brown hills of the Côte
d'Or, whose threatening, almost terrible, aspect suggested rather the
wicked brew of a devil's cauldron, than the juice of the merry vines
over which black spider workmen were bending. Threatening clouds,
driven before a rising wind, darkened with flying shadows the narrow
roads that serpented up to the lofty, lonely villages of Mavilly and
Mandelot. A rumbling sound broke the silence. Below us we saw, writhing
and snorting up the hill, like a legendary, fire-breathing demon, a
black train, fouling with wreaths of purple smoke the lovely valley of
Nantoux.
We returned to the Puits de St. Martin. Sitting on the very edge of
the cliff, we looked across at the wooded hill where the Saint alit,
and down the road, over the scrub, the vines, and the red quarries,
still echoing the sound of the pick; over the winding row of silvery
willows and dark alders that mark the valley stream bubbling towards
the welcoming roofs of Beaune.
[Illustration: ·THE VALLEY OF NANTOUX·]
There, in the very spot where it happened, the young quarryman told me
the story of St. Martin's Well. But I shall tell it you in my words,
not his--for story-telling was not his forte.
In the second century of the Christian era, Saint Bénigne and his
companions, coming from Asia, brought the Gospel of Christ into
Burgundy. The good news spread rapidly through the towns, but gained
only a slow hearing in the villages and the hamlets. Idol worship,
driven from the cities, found refuge among the remote hills and valleys
of the land.
Mavilly, which, for centuries past, had possessed a college of Druids,
remained faithful to its gods, its priests, and its temple. Vauchignon,
too, whose hills, rocks, and woods, full of murmuring sounds and
mysterious terrors, was one of those natural sanctuaries dear to the
heart of the Gaul, still practised the heathen cult.[189]
It is a warm autumn day; the holy missionary, Saint Martin, whose
good horse has borne him over the rugged mountain which rises between
Mavilly and the plain, has passed, one by one, through the villages
of the Côte d'Or. At a crossing of the ways, in the midst of a great
wood, he meets a little, ragged, red-haired man, with fiery eyes and an
anxious countenance. The bishop offers him alms.
"Keep your silver piece," replies the stranger, "for I am more rich
than you."
Saint Martin, taking him for a herdsman of the country, asks him the
way to Mavilly.
"I know your object," replies the unknown man, laying hold upon the
horse's bridle, "and I will be your guide."
They go on in silence, and come, at length, to the slope of a
vine-covered hill where peasants are busy at the vintage. Martin, like
Boaz of old in the fields, salutes them:--"The Lord be with you!"
"Vintagers!" cries the guide, "Come hither in haste; I bring you the
great enemy of the gods. This man, on his way, destroys their statues
and breaks down their altars; he is come to destroy the temple that is
the glory and safety of your country. Rise and defend your gods!"
The angry peasants come running towards the speaker. They surround
the Saint and threaten him with the billhooks with which they are
cutting the grapes. Serenely the aged bishop looks round upon them; his
calmness disarms their anger. He is about to speak to them, but the red
man knows well that his cause is lost, if once the missionary obtains a
hearing.
"Let us shut his impious mouth!" he cries to the vintagers. "His
blasphemies will bring down upon us the wrath of heaven. Cry aloud,
'Death! death to the denouncer of the gods!' Away with him to the edge
of the cliff, and hurl him down into the torrent!"
Loud rise the angry shouts of the crowd, as the guide leads away the
horse. Already they have reached the brink of the abyss. All is over;
the saint must die. Hemmed about on all sides, Martin cries:
"Come to my aid, O my God! make haste to help me!"
He signs himself with the cross, strikes, with his whip, the rock and
the flanks of his horse. The animal, with one mighty bound, clears the
valley, and alights upon the opposite peak. Immediately, around the
spot which he has just left, the earth trembles with an awful rending
sound; a rock is torn from the flank of the hill, and plunges into
the torrent beneath, bearing with it the false prophet, whose fall is
marked by a flash of sulphurous lightning. The troubled waters boil and
bubble, as they close over his body.
At the sight of such wonders, the vintagers stand dumb with
astonishment. Imprinted upon the granite rock they see the stroke of
the rider's whip, and the hoof-print of his horse, from which, already,
a stream of limpid water is flowing.
The old man, calm and majestic as before, standing motionless upon
the opposite peak, casts upon the peasants a compassionate glance.
Terror-stricken, they acclaim him a divine being. Then, swarming down
the mountain path to the valley, they climb the opposite peak, and
again surround him. But, this time, they lie prostrate at his feet,
and, with prayers for pardon, are about to adore him.
"Rise," says the bishop; "I am but a mortal, a vintager of Christ; and
your souls are the grapes I have come to gather in His name."
He bids them sit down upon the hill side, and there, before the temple
of the false gods, on the brink of the abyss into which Satan fell
lightning-struck, he speaks to them of the emptiness of their past
worship, and reveals the power, the beauty, and the tenderness of the
God of the Gospel. The peasants, won at last from Paganism, descend
to the temple, overthrow the images, and bury them in many a deep
trench.[190] They would destroy the temple itself, but the pontiff
restrains them.
"Not so; let us offer it to the true God, as a trophy won from the
powers of darkness; let Jesus be adored upon the altar whence Jupiter
has fallen; and let the Virgin Immaculate stand in the place of Venus."
"Be it so," replies the crowd, with one voice; "Let Christ reign and
rule, here where He has overthrown the Devil."
[Illustration: End of chapter XVII; St. Martin Preaching]
FOOTNOTES:
[181] Rochepot has been inhabited by many other noble families of the
house of Burgundy, notably those of Montmorency, Silly, Angennes,
Legoux, Blancheton.
[182] Born 1428.
[183] Légendes Bourguignonnes; "Philippe Pot" p. 154. By l'Abbé B----.
[184] Sovereign Lady, of thy grace,
Save me from this fearsome place,
Where but cruelty is seen;
Come thou me and harm between,
Pity all who seek thy face,
Mother of God.
[185] Great her worth was, aye, and is
To her seekers all, I wis;
So of her he speaketh--so,
The poor suppliant Philippe Pot--
Shielding him from miseries,
GREAT HER WORTH.
[186] Those interested in Philippe Pot can find his tomb in the
mediæval gallery of the Louvre at Paris. It is one of the best
monuments of its kind in existence, certainly inspired by the
work of Claus Sluter, and possessing the dramatic qualities of
that school. It was completed in 1477-1483, and placed originally
in the Abbey of Citeaux. See picture on preceding page.
[187] Description de Bourgogne, tom. iii, p. 33.
[188] "Lettre sur les Richesses historiques de la Bourgogne."
Abel Jeandet.
[189] St. Martin, bishop of Tours, who visited Burgundy, probably
in the year 376 A.D., was mainly instrumental in putting an
end to Paganism among the Gauls.
[190] The debris referred to were discovered in the 18th century.
Among the images identified were those of Jupiter, Neptune,
Minerva, Pan, Vulcan, Venus, Apollo, Diana, and Esculapius.
Histoire de Beaune. M. Rossignol, p. 39.
[Illustration: Heading, chapter XVIII; Burgundian Ox-cart]