LA ROCHELLE--LES TROIS CHANDELIERS--OYSTERS--BATHING
ESTABLISHMENT--GAIETY--MILITARY DISCIPLINE--CURIOUS ARCADES--STORY
OF AUFFRÉDY.
ON arriving at La Rochelle, early in a bright morning at the beginning
of September, we found the town so full that we had immediately to
institute a search for an hotel, as that at which we stopped had no
accommodation. We judged so before we alighted from the _coupé_, by the
air of indifference visible on the face of every waiter and
chambermaid, to whom our arrival seemed a matter of pity, rather than
congratulation. After seeking through the greatest part of the town, we
were conducted to a curious-looking street, from the roofs of almost
every house in which projected grinning _gargouilles_, whose grotesque
faces peeped inquisitively forth from the exalted position which they
had maintained for several centuries; and, glaring in inviting grandeur,
swung aloft a board on which was depicted three golden candlesticks. At
Les Trois Chandeliers, accordingly, we applied, and found admission; the
slovenly, but good-humoured landlady bestirring herself instantly to get
ready the only room she had vacant. She was assisted in her various
arrangements, or rather attended, by a sulky-looking girl with a hideous
square cap; who stood by while her mistress heaped mattress upon
mattress, and bustled about with zealous noise and clatter. She gave us
to understand that certain of her neighbours were apt to give themselves
airs, and accept or refuse visitors as their caprice dictated; but, for
her part, she had no pride, and never acted in so unkind a manner: she
always attended to everything herself; so that every one was satisfied
in her house, and the Trois Chandeliers maintained its reputation of a
century, during which time it had always been kept by one of the family.
Considering these facts, the state of the entrance and kitchen, through
which, as is usual in France, visitors must pass to arrive at the
_salon_, somewhat surprised us. The wide, yawning, black gulf, down
which we had dived from the street, reminded us strongly of the entrance
of the Arènes, at Poitiers, which gave passage to the beasts about to
combat: it was a low, vaulted passage, encumbered with waggons and
diligences and wheelbarrows, with no light but what it gained from the
street and a murky court beyond; it was paved with uneven stones,
between which were spaces filled with mud; dogs and ducks sported along
the gutter in the centre, following which, you arrived at some dirty
steps leading to the kitchen, or, if you preferred a longer stroll
amidst the shades, you might arrive at a low door which led through
another court to the dining-room, which was a handsome apartment adorned
with statues and crimson-and-white draperies, with a flower-garden
opening from it. This room we were not sorry to enter, lured by the
promise of some of the finest oysters in Europe. We had heard their
eulogium before from a very talkative artist of Poitiers, who described
them as of enormous, nay incredible, size, but delicate as _natives_: we
were, therefore, surprised to see perfect miniatures, not larger than a
shilling, very well-flavoured, but _unfed_. They form the _délices_ of
all this part of the world, at this season, and are eagerly sought for
from hence to the furthest navigable point of the Garonne.
We were particularly fortunate in the weather, which was bright, warm,
and inspiriting; and when we reached the walk which leads to the baths,
we were in raptures with the whole scene which presented itself. The
fine broad sea, smooth and green, lay shining in the sun, without a
ripple to disturb its serenity; and for about a quarter of a mile along
its margin extended one of the most beautiful promenades I ever beheld.
The first part of it is planted with small young trees, on each side of
a good road, which extends between verdant plains where _glacis_ are
thrown up. This leads to the great walk; a thick grove of magnificent
trees, shading a very wide alley of turf of _English_ richness. Here and
there are placed seats, and all is kept with the greatest neatness. The
establishment of the baths is ornamental, and pretty, and very
extensive. About half way up this promenade, next the sea, grounds laid
out with taste, and affording shade and pastime in their compartments,
surround the building. A Chinese pagoda, a Grecian temple, numerous
arbours and seats are there for strollers; and swings and see-saws for
the exercise of youthful bathers after their dips. Altogether, it is the
most charming place of the kind I ever saw: the warm baths are as good
as possible, and the arrangement of those in the sea are much better
than at Dieppe, Havre, or Granville. There is a row of little pavilions
on the edge of the sea, where bathers undress; and a paved way leads
them to an enclosed space where are numerous poles fixed, with ropes
reaching from one to the other at different depths. The bathers hold by
these ropes: and a large company can thus assemble in the water
together, and take as much of the sea as they please, unaccompanied by
guides; but, if they are timid, there are _men_ ready to attend and
protect them. The costume is a tunic and trowsers of cloth or stuff,
with a large handkerchief over the head. Hour after hour will the
adventurous bathers continue in the water; dancing, singing, and
talking, while the advancing waters dash, splash, and foam all round
them, exciting peals of laughter and screams of delight.
Separated by a high partition, and at a little distance, overlooked,
however, by the strollers in the gardens above, is the gentlemen's
compartment. These bathers usually run along a high platform,
considerably raised, and leap into the sea beneath them; diving down,
and re-appearing, much to the amusement of each other; while a guide
sits on a floating platform near, ready to lend assistance, or give
instruction in natation, if required.
The season, we understood, had been particularly brilliant this year,
and was scarcely yet over; though the ball-room and reading-rooms were
less crowded than a few weeks before, when we were told that all that
was gay and splendid in France _et l'Etranger_ was to be seen beneath
the striped canopies of the sea-baths of La Rochelle. Certainly a more
enjoyable place cannot be found anywhere; and I was not surprised that
anything so rare and really comfortable and agreeable should meet with
success. With any of the brilliant _toilettes_ which were described to
me I did not, however, meet; as all the bathers I saw were in cloaks and
slouch bonnets, and the company we met appeared by no means
distinguished; peasants forming a great proportion. However, the season
was nearly over, and one could not expect to see the _élégans_ so late;
but I have always observed that the accounts I have heard of the
brilliancy of French fashionable meetings are by no means borne out by
the reality. At Néris, at the Monts Dores, and other places, I have been
equally disappointed on seeing the manner of French living at
watering-places; but it always appears to me that, except in Paris,
there is no attempt at out-of-door style or gaiety anywhere. A solitary
equipage, filled with children, met us every day in our walks, and a
hired barouche, for the use of the baths, toiled backwards and forwards,
hour after hour; but, except these, we saw no carriages at all, and the
walkers were principally tradespeople in smart caps and shawls. One
morning, indeed, we were surprised by the sound of musical strains and
the appearance of an officer or two on horseback, followed by a
regiment, on their way to exercise; every man of one company was singing
at the top of his voice, joined by the officer who marched in front, and
who kept beating time, a very merry song and chorus, which we stopped to
listen to, _only a moment_, as the words were not quite so much to be
admired as the air. This seemed to us a strange, and not very decorous
scene, and was so little in accordance with our ideas of propriety or
good taste that we turned away in disgust. However, since it is the
custom for officers and men in France to sit together in _cafés_,
playing at dominos, drinking wine and beer, and putting no restraint
upon their conversation, or acknowledging any superiority, there was
nothing extraordinary in the familiarity I had witnessed. How this sort
of association can be relished by officers of gentle breeding I cannot
conceive; and many of them must be so, though a great part are men who,
having risen from the ranks, have not been accustomed to more refined
companionship. If it be true that
"Strict restraint, once broken, ever balks
Conquest and fame,"
and that it is dangerous for those under command to
"----Swerve
From law, however stern, which tends their strength to nerve,"
it is difficult to comprehend how the French army is regulated.
The next company which followed the vocal party, came hurrying along,
helter-skelter, as if no drilling had ever been thought necessary in
their military education; but, while we were remarking the "admired
disorder" of their march, we heard their commanding officer's voice loud
in reprobation; we could scarcely help comparing the whole scene to that
which a militia regiment might present in some country town in England:
"What are you all about?" cried the commander; "Eh, mon Dieu! One would
say it was a flock of sheep instead of a party of soldiers!" This
admonition brought them into some order, and they advanced a little less
irregularly, but still in as slovenly a manner as could well be
conceived. If the French were not known to be good soldiers, one would
think this laxity of discipline little likely to make them so; but they
are, like French servants, good enough in their way, though careless in
the extreme, and too tenacious to be spoken to.
La Rochelle is a more remarkable town, from the characteristic features
it exhibits, than any we had met with since we set out on our tour.
Although there is a great deal new in the streets and outskirts, yet
much that originally existed remains. For instance, almost the whole
centre of the town is built in the same manner: namely, in arcades.
These arcades project from the ground-floors, are more or less high and
broad, and more or less well paved; but they run along uninterruptedly,
forming a shelter from sun or rain, as it may happen, and extending
along the whole length of the streets on each side. They are generally
of stone, with heavy pillars and circular arches, quite without grace or
beauty, but peculiar, and giving an Oriental character to the place. In
some streets arcades, higher and wider, have been newly erected, which
are tolerably ornamental; but the more antique they are, the lower,
narrower, and closer. The Rochellois are very proud of their arcades,
boasting that they are, by their means, never kept prisoners or annoyed
by either rain or sun; they forget that these heavy conveniences
completely exclude the light in winter from the lower part of their
houses, and, confining the air, must make the town damp and unwholesome.
When we first walked along beneath these awnings we found it extremely
difficult to distinguish one street from another, and were continually
losing ourselves, as they branch off in all directions, with no change
of aspect to distinguish them:
"Each alley has a brother,
And half the _covered way_ reflects the other,"
but we got used to them by degrees. There is a sort of _Palais Royal_
effect in the pretty shops under the neatest piazzas; and from the
beautiful wooded square, the Place d'Armes, the range which forms one
side looks remarkably well. This Place is peculiarly fine and
agreeable; it was formed on the sites of the ancient château, demolished
in 1590, of the chapel of St. Anne and its cemetery, of the grand
Protestant temple, and the old Hôtel des Monnaies; it, therefore,
occupies a large space, and is planted on two sides with fine trees,
called the _Bois d' Amourettes_, and closed on the fourth by the
cathedral; part of the ramparts of the town, open towards the sea, are
behind, and thus a good air is introduced into the square. On moon-light
nights it is a charming promenade; for the effects of the sky here are
admirable: a range of handsome _cafés_ extends along one part, whose
lights, gleaming between the trees, have a lively appearance, and the
groups of lounging citizens seated under the shades give a life to the
scene which the rest of the town does not possess. La Rochelle is,
however, infinitely less dull than the generality of French towns; and
the quays and shipping, and the constantly-changing sea, prevent it from
wearing the sad aspect which distinguishes France in her country places.
Notwithstanding all that travellers are in the habit of saying about the
liveliness of France, I never can cease to think that it is a dull
country; for, except Paris in its season, there is no movement, no
activity, no bustle, in its towns, save, now and then, the confusion of
market-days. Why England is considered _triste_, either in town or
country, I cannot imagine: the brilliancy of its shops alone, compared
to the little dark, dingy cells always met with abroad, even in the most
fashionable quarters, might rescue our much-maligned country from the
reproach which does not belong to it.
The cathedral of La Rochelle is a modern building; still unfinished, and
possessing no interest: it is very vast, for it stands where once stood
the antique church--older than the town itself--of Notre Dame de
Cougnes. Here and there, outside, a projecting buttress and part of an
arch, built up, betrays its venerable origin; but, besides this, nothing
remains of the original foundation.
At the back of the cathedral we remarked, as we passed through the
street, a very large building, with a great many windows, above the
portal of which were inscribed the words, _Hôpital M. Auffrédy_. We were
puzzled to make out what this could mean, as the hospital was so large
and important that it scarcely would appear to be the institution of a
private person. Our inquiries gained us no information, and we continued
to pass and repass still wondering who this _Monsieur Auffrédy_ could be
whose name was so conspicuous. When, at length, I found how much
interest attached to this place I reproached myself that I should have
gone near it without reverence, or have carelessly named its institutor;
whose romantic story is as follows, as near as I have been able to
gather it:
STORY OF ALEXANDER AUFFRÉDY.
At the time when the beautiful and wealthy, the admired and
accomplished, heiress of Aquitaine, presided over her courts of Love,
now in one city of her extensive dominions, now in another, delighting
and astonishing the whole troubadour world with her liberality, her
taste, her learning, grace, and gaiety, lived, in the city of La
Rochelle, a rich merchant, named Alexander Auffrédy, young, handsome,
esteemed and envied. His generosity and wealth, added to his personal
attractions, made him an object of observation and remark, and it was
not long before his name reached the ears of Queen Elionore, who, always
desirous to surround herself with all that was gay, brilliant, and
distinguished, sent an invitation, or rather a command, to the young
merchant to appear at her Court at Poitiers.
Auffrédy went; and but a short time elapsed before he became the
favourite of that brilliant circle where beauty and genius reigned
triumphant; for it was discovered that his talent for music was of the
highest order; his voice, in singing, of rare perfection; his verses
full of grace and fire, his manners equal to those of the most finished
courtier; and his judgment in the weighty decisions of the courts of
Love, sound and good. Even the poets and musicians, who saw him
distinguished for the time above themselves, felt little envy towards
him, since they shared his profuse liberality, and were encouraged by
his generous admiration, loudly expressed. He was passionately attached
to literature, and had so correct a taste that whatever he admired was
the best in its kind, and his criticisms were so judicious that not a
doubt could remain on the minds of any who listened to his opinion; yet
he was never harsh, and, wherever it was possible, showed indulgence; it
was only to the presuming and superficial that he was severe; and
amongst that class he was by no means beloved; for, after his expressed
contempt and censure had laid open to view the faults of many
compositions, whose false glare had attracted praise, their authors sunk
at once into the obscurity which they deserved.
His chief friends were Bernard de Ventadour, whose lays, mysteriously
addressed to _Bel Viser_ and _Conort_, had gained him so much fame;
Rudel, the enthusiast, who devoted his life to an imaginary passion;
Adhemar and Rambaud d'Aurenge, whose songs were some of the sweetest of
their time; and Pierre Rogiers, who sighed his soul away for "Tort
n'avetz;" and, amongst them all, his poems were held in the greatest
esteem. The beautiful and coquettish mistress of the revels was not
insensible to his qualities, and was anxious to appropriate him to
herself; greedy of praise, and ever desirous of admiration, she used
every art to enthral him, and to render the passion real, which it was
the fashion at her Court to feign, towards herself; but, though
flattered and delighted at the preference shown him by her whom all were
trying to please, it was not towards the Queen that Auffrédy turned the
aspirations of his soul. There was at Court a young and beautiful girl,
the orphan of a knight who had fallen in the holy wars, and who was
under the guardianship of her uncle, the Baron de Montluçon; she was as
amiable in disposition as lovely in person. Auffrédy soon found that his
liberty was gone while he gazed upon her, but his modesty prevented his
attempting to declare his passion, though in his lays he took occasion
to express all the feelings he experienced, and he saw with delight, not
only that the charming Beatrix listened with pleased attention when he
sung, but was even moved to tears when he uttered the lamentations of an
unhappy lover.
Upon one occasion he sang a lay which Queen Elionore imagined was
inspired by herself; but which, in reality, he intended should convey to
Beatrix his timid passion; it was as follows--in the style of the
Eastern poets, then so much imitated and admired:--
LAY.
"I only beg a smile from thee
For all this world of tenderness;
I let no eye my weakness see,
To none my hopes or fears express;
I never speak thy praises now,
My tongue is mute, and cold my brow.
"Even like that fabled bird am I
Who loves the radiant orb of night,
Sings on in hopeless melody
And feeds upon her beams of light;
But never does the planet deign
To pity his unceasing pain."
As he sung he would observe the eyes of Beatrix fixed on him with a
tender expression; but their meaning was still obscure; for her thoughts
appeared pre-occupied, and it might be more the sentiment than the
author which attracted her.
Just at this time he was suddenly astounded by the information, that the
uncle of her he loved had announced his intention of marrying her to a
man of noble lineage and great wealth, and Auffrédy woke from his dream
of happiness at once. His strains were now all gloom and sadness, and
Elionore heard, with something like astonishment, the melancholy and
despairing lays, to which alone he tuned the harp that all delighted to
hear. Beatrix, too, whose wishes had not been consulted on a subject so
important to herself, appeared quite changed from the tune the tidings
first reached her; and her pale cheek and starting tears proved too
plainly her aversion to the proposed union. Still did she linger near
when Auffrédy sung; and when, in a passion of sorrow, he poured forth
the lay here given, Beatrix betrayed an emotion for which he feared to
account.
LAY.
"Like that fair tree whose tender boughs
Wave in the sunshine green and bright,
Nor bird nor insect e'er allows
To seek its shelter morn or night,
My heart was young, and fresh, and free,
And near it came nor care nor pain;
But now, like that same tender tree,
When once rude hands its fruit profane,
Ill-omen'd birds and shapes of ill
Troop to its branches, crowding still,--
And sorrows never known till now
Have cast their shadows on my brow:
A ruin is my heart become
Where brooding sadness finds a home;
See--those bright leaves fall, one by one,
And I--my latest hopes are gone!"
This was the last time he had ever an opportunity of pouring forth his
feelings in the presence of Beatrix; for she disappeared suddenly from
Court, and, to the amazement of all, it was announced by her uncle, that
her vocation for a religious life had been so decidedly manifested, that
he had yielded to her entreaties, and permitted her to enter a convent.
This news made a strange impression on the mind of Auffrédy,--could it
be possible, after all, that she loved him? yet, he argued, even if it
were so, it was evident that her pride of birth had overcome her
preference, and she had sacrificed the feelings of her heart rather
than descend to be the bride of a merchant, who, though wealthy beyond
all the nobles of the land, was yet no match for one born in her exalted
rank. From that time the troubadour sang no more; and as the Queen found
he had no longer incense to lay on her shrine, her preference for him
waned away, and he found that the permission he asked, to absent himself
from her Court was not withheld. "Poor Auffrédy," said Elionore,
somewhat contemptuously, as he departed; "he has seen a wolf and has
lost the use of speech; let him go, we have many a young poet who can
well replace him."
The admired favourite of a capricious beauty accordingly returned to La
Rochelle, changed in heart and depressed in spirits. "And this, then,"
he mused, "is the reward which the world offers to genius, taste, truth,
and feeling! and this is all the value set on qualities which excite
admiration, enthusiasm, rapture!--a brief season suffices to weary the
most zealous and devoted--a few months, and that which was deemed wit
and talent, and wisdom and grace, is looked upon as flat, tame, and
unworthy attention. As long as vanity is pleased, and novelty excites
new ideas, the poet is welcomed and followed; but, let sadness or sorrow
overtake him, of all his admirers not one friend remains! How childish
is the thirst for such trivial fame as that a poet gains! It is like the
pursuit of the gossamer, which the least breath sweeps away. I will
sing no more. I will forget the brilliant scenes that have bewildered me
too long; but to what do I now return? Alas! I have no longer a relish
for that which interested me before--to what end do I seek to gain
wealth? for whom should I hoard treasure? I shall in future take no
interest in my successes; all appears a blank to me, and my existence a
cold, monotonous state of being. These heaps of gold that fill my
coffers are worthless in my eyes; these crowding sails that return to
harbour, bringing me ceaseless wealth, are fraught only with care. Why
was I born rich, since I must live alone and unblest!"
Still he could not help, in spite of his professions of indifference,
being flattered by the manner in which his return to his native town was
celebrated. The bells of the churches sounded to welcome him, the young
girls of the villages round, came out, in their holiday costumes, to
greet him on his way, they strewed flowers in his path and sang verses
in his praise: the people of La Rochelle even went so far as to offer
prayers at the shrine of the Virgin, to thank Heaven for restoring to
them so honoured and beloved a citizen. Full of gratitude for all this
kindness and affection, Auffrédy bestowed liberal presents upon all: he
presented dowers to several of the young maidens who were foremost in
doing him honour: he gave large sums to the town, to be laid out in
charities and in erecting new buildings, and he sent donations to the
churches and convents. His mind was calmed, and his heart touched when
he saw in what esteem he was held. "It is something yet," said he, "to
gain the good-will of one's fellow-men, and to witness their attachment.
Wealth is certainly a blessing, since it enables one to show gratitude."
About this period great preparations were being made for an expedition
to the Holy Land, which was to be led by young Prince Henry, the heir of
Aquitaine, Normandy, and England; and all the lords and knights of the
three countries vied with each other in splendid equipments. They
borrowed money in all directions, and, amongst those who were capable of
lending, it was not likely that the rich merchant of La Rochelle would
be forgotten. On the contrary, from numerous quarters came applications
for assistance; even Queen Elionore condescended to request that he
would contribute to the splendour of those who should accompany her son,
and the generous and ever ready hand of Auffrédy was employed from
morning till night, in lending and giving to those whose means did not
keep pace with their desires. Still, therefore, did he repeat to himself
that wealth had its advantages, as he cheerfully dispensed his benefits
on all sides. At length he was fairly obliged to desist, for his
liberality had brought him to the end of his stores, and he could not
but smile, as he remarked to a friend that, if he did not expect in a
few weeks the return of all his vessels which were trading in the East,
and regularly brought back increased wealth at every voyage, he should
be a poor man. "I have nothing left now," said he, "but my plate and
jewels, and the furniture of my house; and, should my fleet delay, I
will sell all rather than a single knight should be kept from joining
the glorious expedition."
As if he had foreseen the event, it so happened: although there were no
storms to prevent it, the return of the expected vessels was indeed
delayed, and, fresh and pressing applications pouring in upon him,
Auffrédy found himself actually under the necessity of disposing of his
personal possessions, in order to advance the ready-money required.
He was now in a novel position, without money altogether, and he had
sold all he possessed of land and houses. "It matters not," said he to
the friend at whose house he was staying, at his earnest and
affectionate entreaty; "in a day or two I shall have more than I ever
yet could call my own; for my last advices, brought by a pilgrim from
the country of Manchou Khan, tell me, that all my ventures have been
successful, and that this time my faithful agent, Herbert de Burgh, has
excelled himself in ability."
"And even should it not be so," said his friend, "think you that the
grateful town of La Rochelle would not be proud to support for years,
nay, for ever, if need were, the benefactor to whom every citizen is
more or less indebted?"
"I doubt it not," returned the merchant, "and it would be even a
gratification to me to be reduced to poverty, which such generous
friends would relieve."
But a great and most unexpected change was about to take place in the
fortunes of Auffrédy: a change which neither he nor his friends had ever
contemplated, and which put quite a different face upon everything. The
fleet from the East did not arrive. Day after day, week after week,
month after month, the first, the second, year had passed, and the chain
at the harbour of La Rochelle was not loosened to give passage to his
vessels. Hope had slowly faded, expectation declined, and, at length,
expired,--and the powerful, wealthy, and beloved Auffrédy was a beggar.
Where was he at the expiration of the second year? What friend's mansion
did he still honour with his presence, and which of his admirers was
made happy by seeing him partake of his hospitality? Who, of all those
he had rescued from poverty, danger, and affliction, was so blest as to
show how strong the tide of gratitude swelled in their hearts? Auffrédy
was heard of no more! His native town had forgotten his name: to speak
of him was interdicted; he was a reproach to La Rochelle, a disgrace to
the city whom his misfortune left without a merchant able to assist
monarchs and fit out armies. Every individual felt injured, every one
resented his affront. Not a door but was closed against the bankrupt
spendthrift--the deceiver who spoke of wealth which was but a vision,
who encouraged hopes which had no foundation. Vessel after vessel
arrived from different quarters, but none had met with Herbert de Burgh
or his charge; it was doubtful if he had ever even sailed: it was
possible, nay probable, indeed it soon was received as a certainty, that
the fleet which was talked of had no existence but in the crazed
imagination of a profuse dreamer, who fancied argosies and made the
world believe he possessed them. It was enough that the drama was ended,
and no one cared now, after so long a time, to ask what was become of
the principal actor.
One bright summer morning, when the sun shone with dazzling lustre on
the dancing waves outside the harbour of La Rochelle, and, inside, the
water was as calm as glass, a little fishing-boat came gliding along,
her red sail gleaming in the light. She was guided by a single sailor--a
young man whose remarkably handsome face and figure was little set off
by his rough habiliments, which were of the meanest kind; indeed, his
boat and all belonging to it indicated little wealth, and seemed to
have seen, like himself, much service; but there was a cheerful sparkle
in his speaking eye which spoke of content and happiness; and, as he
leaped on shore and prepared to unload his little cargo of fish, his
animated manner and quick and ready movements showed that, if he were
poor, he gained enough by his industry to support himself, and cared for
nothing but the present moment, without concerning himself for the
future. He had arrived but a few minutes when a slight woman, wrapped in
a long black cloak, with the peaked hood tightly drawn over her head and
quite concealing her face, emerged from a neighbouring street, and,
bounding forward, stood by the side of the young man, who, with a joyful
exclamation, caught her in his arms, and embraced her tenderly. Together
they collected the fish, which filled his boat, into baskets, and placed
them on the edge of the path where frequenters of the markets must pass,
and before long their little stock was sold, and they were in possession
of a small sum of money, which the young fisherman put into his purse
with an air of satisfaction, as, fastening his boat to the shore, and
gathering up his baskets, he gave his arm to the girl, who apparently
was his wife, and they left the quay. Just as they were entering the
small narrow Rue de la Vache, they observed, standing under an archway,
a man, of ragged and miserable appearance, who, approaching, offered to
be the bearer of their baskets to their home; he spoke in a low, hollow
voice, and said, "Employ me: it will be a charity; I have not tasted
bread these two days." Although the young couple, linked arm in arm,
close together, and looking in each other's eyes, were talking in gay,
cheerful accents, and, apparently, exclusively occupied with each other,
yet there was something so sad, so desolate, in the tone of the poor
man's voice who addressed them, that they both stopped and turned
towards him. "Good friend," said the young man, "you seem in great
straits; the blessed Virgin knows I am little able to help you; but take
the baskets my wife is carrying, though you look but ill able to bear
them. We live hard by, and we have a morsel of bread to give you, if you
will." The man made no reply, but took the burthen from the young woman
and followed the merry pair, who resumed their talk and their cheerful
laugh as they went on. "I need not go out again for at least three
days," said the husband, "since this venture has been so lucky; you see
how well we can live, and how happy one can be, after all, on nothing."
"Yes," answered the wife; "but, at least, while the weather is so fine,
I see no reason why I should be left at home. I could be so useful in
the boat, and it would make me so happy. I know when it blows hard, it
is useless to ask you, but now"--"Well, you shall go, dearest, next
time, if this lasts," was the answer; "what a good sailor you will
make, as well as a housekeeper!" They both laughed, and at this moment
they reached the door of a very humble dwelling, with only just
furniture enough to prevent its being called empty; but they stepped
into it, and, the porter placing the baskets on the floor, they sat down
and invited him to do the same, while they shared with him a cake and
some water, which was already placed on a table.
The poor man, after eating a morsel, appeared suddenly faint, and,
uttering a deep sigh, fell on the ground motionless: they raised him up,
and, with the utmost kindness, endeavoured to restore him: his worn and
haggard countenance told of long and hard suffering; his white hair,
that hung in matted locks on his shoulders, seemed blanched by misery,
not age; for he appeared a young man, and his emaciated hands were white
and more delicate than is usual in his station. After some time he
recovered a little, and, thanking them for their help, attempted to rise
and leave the house; but both, moved with compassion, insisted on his
lying down on their only bed and taking some repose. "You are ill," said
the husband, "and have been too long without food--rest quiet--we will
get you some more suitable nourishment, and when you are better, we will
hear of your leaving us."
From that day the sick man remained a guest with these poor people,
till, his illness increasing, he begged they would procure him
admittance into some hospital, if possible, that he might cease to be a
burthen on their benevolence: finding their means running very short,
owing to the uncertain success of the fisherman's trade, they consented
to attempt getting him admitted to the hospital established by the monks
of St. Julien, who kindly received the unfortunate man: but, not content
with doing this, it was agreed between the young couple that, during the
husband's absence, the wife should be his nurse, and attend to him while
in the asylum which was afforded him. For several weeks he lay,
apparently, at the point of death; but after that time began to recover,
and, though weak and emaciated, appeared to have escaped danger. As soon
as he was sufficiently recovered to attempt it, he resumed the
occupation of porter on the quay, which his sickness had interrupted,
and, as he grew daily in strength and health, he was able to gain a
little, which he insisted on adding to the small stock of the charitable
persons who had saved his life by their kindness. Sometimes he
accompanied the husband on his expeditions, and was serviceable to him
in his perilous ventures, for his nautical knowledge seemed great, and
his skill and readiness made themselves apparent. Though full of
gratitude in all his actions, he never expressed in words the feelings
their conduct naturally inspired: he was silent and thoughtful, and
seemed labouring under some overwhelming grief which no consolations
could soften: he never spoke of any person in the town, nor seemed to
know anything belonging to it, by which they judged he was a stranger;
but, as he evidently did not desire to be communicative, they never
urged him with questions, nor required to be informed of his former
life. It sufficed to them that he was unfortunate, and that they had
ameliorated his condition, and all three lived together, happy and
content, without knowing any circumstances of each other's previous
condition.
Several months passed in this manner, winters and summers fled away, and
the returning seasons found them still poor, still labouring, and still
content. The porter improved, not only in strength, but in spirits; for
he felt that he was able to be of service to those who had befriended
him, and the gloom which chained his tongue and clouded his brow, wore,
in a great degree, away. They had no friends in the town, nor sought for
acquaintances; the young woman always concealed her face when she went
out, which she never did, but to meet her husband, or to buy necessaries
for their simple household. His boat had been replaced by one larger and
more commodious, and his gains were greater; by degrees their
circumstances improved, and, as they sat by their fireside, they were
accustomed to say that they were rich enough, and desired nothing more.
Although the fisherman and his now constant companion had been out in
all weathers, they had never yet encountered any dangerous storms, and
the wife was now quite tranquil, from the constant habit of seeing them
return safely, and complaining little. One day, in early spring, they
had set out with a clear sky and fair wind, and had had one of the most
fortunate voyages of any they had yet made on the Breton coast, when,
just as they were within sight of the Point de Ray, which raises its
bare and jagged head three hundred feet above the noisy waves which
brawl at its base, an ominous cloud suddenly overspread the heavens, and
the symptoms of a coming storm were but too apparent. With silent awe
the solitary mariners beheld, sailing heavily along the darkening sky,
two birds, of sable plumage, whose flight seemed directed towards the
fatal Baie des Trépassés, so often the grave of the adventurous seaman.
"Alas!" said the young husband, as he marked their flight, "those birds
bode no good: they are the souls of King Grallon and his daughter, who
appear always before a storm; if we escape the perils of the Isle de
Sein, we shall be indeed fortunate."
"Is this coast, then, indeed, so dangerous?" asked the porter.
"It is the abode of spirits," answered the young man; "and was the
cradle of Merdynn the Bard; the city where he lived, is engulphed below
those black rocks yonder, whose spires, like those of churches, are
only visible when destruction threatens those who are found on the
coast. We have, hitherto, been fortunate in all our undertakings; but
there must come an evil day, which generally arrives when one is least
prepared."
"It is too true," said his companion; "for me, I thought all my
misfortunes were past, and death alone could be the ill left to reach
me. I have, of late, felt it _would_ be an ill since I have lived again
in you and yours--before that time, I prayed for it in vain."
A furious gust of wind at this instant swept past them, their frail
vessel shook in every timber, and, mounting on a sweeping wave that came
howling along, was sent forward with frightful impetuosity to a great
distance; when, as if the angry billow disdained its weight, it was
precipitated into a gulf of foam which dashed above the sunken rocks
whose points received it. "Oh, Beatrix!" exclaimed the young fisherman;
"it is all over; we shall meet no more; our fate has overtaken us at
last! My friend," he added, grasping the arm of his companion; "if you
survive, promise to protect her. We have suffered much, and borne our
fortune as we could. I have brought this wretchedness upon her by my
love; but neither she nor I have ever repented the lot we chose. She
will tell you our story, and you will continue to comfort and support
her when I am no more."
"Be not cast down," answered his friend; as, buffeted by the storm, they
clung together to the creaking mast; "I know your story already, and
have known it from the first. You are the troubadour, Anselm, once the
ornament of the Court of Elionore, and Beatrix de Montluçon is your
devoted wife. She was said to have died in the convent of St. Blaise,
and you to have perished in the Holy Land."
The shrieking of the wind, and the roaring of the awakened thunder,
drowned the reply of the young man: a crash, a shock, and their boat was
split into several parts; they each clung to a piece of wreck, and used
every effort to overcome the fury of the elements. Anselm's hold,
however, was suddenly loosened by the falling of the mast upon his arm,
and his friend saw him no more for several instants; he re-appeared,
however, and a returning wave dashed him on a rock, which the porter
reaching by a spring, he caught him by the hand and dragged him to the
summit. There they stood clasping each other, and expecting every moment
to be washed off by the boiling surge. For some time they, nevertheless,
kept their stand, and, though not a vestige of their boat was to be
seen, they still lived and still hoped, for their hopes rose with the
danger, and, as they offered up their fervent prayers to the Mother of
mercy, they felt not altogether abandoned. All night were they in this
perilous position, hearing the waters around them howling, and climbing
to reach the spot where, almost by miracle, they were placed. Day broke,
and with morning came a brightened prospect; by degrees the sea sank,
the winds subsided, and all trace of the storm was gone. But their
situation seemed still little better than before; must they not perish
on this barren rock, without food or shelter, if not washed off by the
next tide, which might bring back the sleeping vengeance of the enraged
elements? While they hung exhausted on the perilous edge of the peak,
something in the distance caught their view. It grew more distinct; it
came nearer; and they were aware that a sail was passing: not one,
however, but many; like the glittering of the wings of a flight of
sea-birds, sail after sail hove in sight, and a gallant fleet came full
in view almost as soon as they had descried the first.
Loud and long were their cries; hope gave them fresh force, and their
voices were sent over the now quiet waves, echoing till they reached the
ears of those in the foremost vessel.
The mariners, directed by the continued sound of distress, were able to
steer towards them; and having at length discovered in the specks at a
distance, amidst the waves, the unfortunate friends, a boat was sent
through the sea to the rock, and at once received the rescued pair. They
were taken on board and tended carefully; and, the wind being fair, the
vessels continued their course, which they declared was to La Rochelle,
much to the delight of those they had delivered from death.
The port so much desired was almost reached; and the high towers of the
Château de Vauclair, of the cathedral, and the Grosse Tour de la Chaine,
shone boldly forth against the clear blue sky. The captain walked the
deck, and gazed long and anxiously forth; every now and then tears
started into his eyes, which he brushed away; at length his feelings
appeared to overcome him, and, burying his face in his hands, he sobbed
aloud. The two grateful friends whom he had saved were standing by; he
raised his head and addressed them; "You who are of La Rochelle," said
he, "can you not, perchance, tell me if one whom I left ten years ago in
that town still lives and is well? Fears and forebodings oppress me as I
approach the shore, for it is long since I have heard tidings of him,
and much does it import me to know that he exists, and that my enforced
absence has not caused him misfortune. Is the great merchant, Alexander
Auffrédy, still, as he once was, the ornament and benefactor of his
native town?"
"Alas!" replied the youngest of the shipwrecked men, "you ask after one
long since forgotten in La Rochelle. It is now ten years since he was a
ruined man, and, having nothing more to give to his ungrateful
fellow-citizens, was abandoned to his fate, and has been no more heard
of."
"Unhappy destiny!" cried the captain, turning pale and clasping his
hands; "but he was rich, and his stores were immense; not twice ten
years' absence of his fleets could have caused him to become bankrupt."
"But he gave all he had to the knights bound for the Holy Wars; his
agent, Herbert de Burgh, was either faithless, or the fleets entrusted
to him were lost; he never returned from his last voyage to the East,
and the unfortunate merchant, reduced to penury and driven to despair,
is said to have destroyed himself." As Anselm uttered these words the
captain became convulsed with agony; his face was livid, his eyes
rolled, his teeth were clenched. "Wretch that I am!" cried he; "who am
the cause of all! I wrote to my dear master and told him of my intention
to attempt a new discovery in a new world filled with riches unheard of
before; but I waited not his permission; I set out without his leave,
and, not content with what I had already gained for him, I resolved to
seek more wealth; to what end have I gained it--to what end have I
returned with riches enough to purchase Europe; all of which these
vessels bear, if he, the generous, trusting, kind, indulgent, and
deceived owner is no more? Where shall I hide my head?--where lose my
shame?--and how survive his loss!"
They entered the harbour of La Rochelle; and as the gallant train of
ships swept proudly along, the whole population of the town came forth
until they lined the shores in every direction. It was soon known, by
the ensigns they bore, that they were the long-lost vessels of Auffrédy;
and many a conscious cheek turned pale, and many an eye glared with
amazement as the gorgeous galleys covered the waters.
But the captain was lying prone on the deck; his face was haggard, his
look wild, and he tore his hair in distraction. "My master, my poor
master!" cried he; "I have murdered thee by my mercenary wickedness; oh,
holy Virgin! forgive me, for I am a sinner!" "Look up, Herbert de
Burgh," said a voice beside him; "the Mother of mercy is never appealed
to in vain; she can restore the dead to life; she can, though late,
re-illume joy in the heart; she can revive long-abandoned hope. Look up
and say if in this wretched, wasted, meagre form you can recognise one
whom you loved; one who loved and trusted you with reason; who never
doubted your integrity, and who mourned you lost more than all his
wealth, which you restore!"
Herbert de Burgh looked up and beheld, leaning over him, the form of
Alexander Auffrédy.
A few words sufficed of explanation: joy took the place of despair,
exultation of tears, and the minstrel, Anselm, heard, with feelings of
emotion difficult to describe, that the wretched man whom he had saved
from starvation was the rich merchant of La Rochelle.
Loud and joyous were the notes of triumph which sounded from every
vessel as the news became known; the clarions and trumpets rent the air;
wild exclamation of happiness and congratulation rose above the pealing
music which ushered in the fleet to its haven; and strange was the
revulsion of feeling on shore when the despised porter stepped from his
boat, attended by Herbert de Burgh, who proclaimed him as his master.
Those who had shunned and injured the now wealthy merchant were
astounded; and who were there, amongst the whole population, who had
befriended him, or who deserved aught but contempt and hatred at his
hands? There was _but one_, and she is clasped in her husband's arms,
and sees, in the man she had protected, her lover, whose songs she had
so often sung to her husband!
Auffrédy kept their secret, and to none but himself was it ever known
that the rich man who afterwards became governor of La Rochelle, and his
beautiful wife, supposed to be a native of some foreign land, were the
troubadour, Anselm, and Beatrix of Montluçon.
All the revenge Auffrédy took upon his townsmen was to reject their
offers of friendship, to refuse to take his place amongst them, and to
avoid appearing in their sight. The bulk of his great wealth was
dedicated to the foundation of a hospital for naval and military
patients, and the rest of his days he passed in attendance on the sick.
This is the story of Auffrédy, the great merchant, the Jacques Coeur of
the thirteenth century; and this is the history of the magnificent
Hospital of La Rochelle, which he founded, and which is to be seen at
the present hour, the most conspicuous object in the town.