CHAPTER XVII.

AGEN--LA BELLE ESTHER--ST. CAPRAIS--THE LITTLE CHERUBS--ZOÉ AT THE

FOUNTAIN--THE HILL--LE GRAVIER--JASMIN, THE POET-BARBER--THE

METAPHOR--LAS PAPILLOTAS--FRANÇONNETTE--JASMIN'S LINES ON THE OLD

LANGUAGE--THE SHEPHERD AND THE GASCON POET--RETURN TO AGEN--JASMIN

AND THE KING OF FRANCE--JASMIN AND THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND.

IT was night when we reached Agen, and, amidst a tumult of _patois_,

which sounded like Spanish, and was strange to our unaccustomed ears, we

landed, and had our goods torn from us by peremptory porters, who, in

spite of remonstrance, piled every one's baggage together in carts, and,

ordering all the passengers to follow as they might, set off with it to

some unknown region. The stars were bright, and the night fine, as we

scrambled along over a very rugged road for more than a mile--for, the

new pier not being yet finished, the boat was obliged to land its cargo

at a distance from the town. Up and down, in and out, we pursued our

way, guided by the lanthorns of our tyrants, and at last found ourselves

in a boulevard, planted with large high trees, which we followed till a

shout announced to us that the Hôtel de France was reached.

By what seemed little less than a miracle, all our baggage was safely

brought after us, our troubles were quickly over, and we took possession

of spacious and lofty chambers, in a very imposing-looking hotel.

The next morning the weather was magnificent, and Agen came out in great

splendour, with its fine promenades, handsome bridge, its beautiful

hills and river, and its fine clear fresh air, so different from the

dull atmosphere of Bordeaux. The first figure we saw on going out, was

one of the Rochellaises seated at the inn door, installed with her

oyster-baskets, and receiving the congratulations of all her friends of

the hotel, who hastened to welcome her annual return to Agen. It seems,

she takes up her abode at the hotel during her stay, and her arrival is

considered quite an event, as we found at breakfast, where numerous

Frenchmen were conversing with great animation on the subject. _La Belle

Esther_ seemed to be a general favourite, as well as her merchandise,

and she was so remarkably pretty, modest and graceful, that I was not

surprised at the fact. Every one of her admirers gave her an order as he

arrived, and her pretty little hands were busily engaged in opening

oysters for some time, which having done, she brought them in herself,

on a dish, to each guest. I was sorry to see that she had abandoned her

costume, and was dressed merely like any other _grisette_; but this is

very much the case everywhere. She told me, on great fête days, however,

she occasionally appeared in it; but she seemed to think it more

convenient to wear the little flat frilled cap of the town, rather than

the square winged machine of her province. I had heard before that she

was so well behaved, and so graceful in her manners, that she was

occasionally invited to the public balls of Agen; but she only answered

by a deep blush, when I asked if it was so; and said, she _seldom went

to soirées_. She is about three or four-and-twenty; and if the rest of

her party who sang to us in the boat were as pretty, they must have been

as dangerous as Queen Catherine's band of beauties, when their black

hoods were thrown back. She was, however, not one of the singers

herself; but I recognised, in her voice, the reproving sister who urged

Eugénie to sing, and told me of her mother's talent. I afterwards met

with more of my acquaintances in the dark, who were scattered through

the towns of Gascony.

The town of Agen is very agreeably situated on the right bank of the

Garonne: the river is here, though by no means clear, less muddy than at

Bordeaux; and its windings add much to the beauty of the landscape.

Between the suspension-bridge and the town is a magnificent promenade,

formed of several rows of fine trees--one of the most majestic groves I

ever saw: it is called Le Gravier. There are two others, each extremely

fine: one of which is planted with acacias. The town has nothing to

recommend it, being dull, and ill-paved, with scarcely a building worthy

of notice; the strange old clock-tower of the Mairie, looks as if it had

once formed part of a ponderous building; but it has no beauty of

architecture. Some of the oldest streets and the market-place are built

with arcades, in the same fashion as La Rochelle, and they are very dark

and dilapidated.

The cathedral, dedicated to St. Caprais, is, however, a monument of

which the Agenois have reason to be proud: it has been cruelly ill-used,

and its exterior is greatly damaged; but it is undergoing repair, and

the restorations both within and without are the most judicious I had

observed anywhere. The beautiful, ornamented, circular arches are

re-appearing in all their purity; and the fine sculptured façade is

shining out from the ruin which has long encompassed it; a wide space is

opened all round the building; and, when the restorations are completed,

the effect will be very grand.

In the interior are some most beautiful specimens of early architecture;

galleries above galleries, of different periods, all exquisite, and one

row of a pattern such as I had never before met with, almost approaching

the Saracenic. The grace and lightness of the whole is quite unique, and

we sat for an hour enjoying the cool retreat of the aisle, endeavouring

to follow the elaborate tracery of the arches, and admiring the effect

of the sun-light streaming in at the open door, which gave entrance to a

procession of priests, and children of very tender age, who were about

to undergo the ordeal of examination. As we sat, by degrees, first one

little stray black-eyed creature, in a tight skull-cap and full

petticoat, then another, came and placed themselves before us, immovable

and curious, like so many tame gazelles; we pretended to be angry, and

drove them away; but, while we went on with our sketches of some of the

arches, the little things came back again with the same imperturbable

look of silent amazement and curiosity as before. There were four or

five, all very round and rosy-cheeked and pretty, and, though their

vicinity rather interrupted us, we were sorry when the zealous beadle

appeared, at the distant glimpse of whose portly form the troop rattled

off, making their wooden shoes ring along the pavement, and disappeared

in the sun-gleam of the old Roman door-way, like so many cherubs in the

costume of the Middle Ages.

The morning was magnificent when we mounted the high hill which

overlooks the town, and which is called _Le Mont Pompéian_, or De

l'Ermitage; the banks were covered with box and purple heath and wild

thyme, the air full of freshness and fragrance, and all was "balmy

summer." The ascent to the top is extremely steep, and must be very

toilsome to the peasants, some of whom were climbing up, bending under

different loads. A party, however, who kept pace with us, told us they

were merely out taking a walk, as it was such a fine day, to do the

children good; and they seemed to enjoy the prospect and the warm sun as

much as we did, and be quite in the same humour for idling their time

away. On the top of the hill is a telegraph, from whence there is a

beautiful view; and the vine-field, full of ripe purple grapes, looked

very inviting; jasmine grew wild in the hedges, and perfumed the air;

and, altogether, the hills of Agen gave a promise of southern beauty,

which, alas! I found, on advancing nearer to Spain, was by no means

realized. We remained for some hours, choosing different retreats from

whence to enjoy the views, which are varied and beautiful in the

extreme. After passing fields of high Indian corn, gay with its

tasselled blossoms, we came to a splendid opening, where we beheld the

broad Garonne, winding through a landscape of great richness and

variety, glittering in the sun, and spreading wide its majestic arms

over the country. Through a long lane of purple grapes and crimson

leaves, we pursued our way, until we came to a ruined fountain, of very

picturesque appearance, extremely deep, and the water sparkling at the

bottom like a diamond in the dark; the mouth covered with shrubs and

flowers of every hue, and straggling vines, with their now purple and

crimson leaves, making a bower around it. Two women and a boy were

resting near, and we entered into conversation with them; there was

something interesting in the worn features of the younger female; who

told us she was from Le Mans, a great way off, in a charming country,

which she said, with a sigh, that she had not seen since she was a girl,

before she made the imprudent match which had reduced her to work hard

in the fields of Agen to support a large family; for her husband had

deserted her, and she had no one to look to. "I dare say," she said, "Le

Mans is much altered now, since I saw it; there is no chance of my ever

going home again now:" these words were uttered in so sad a tone that we

were quite affected. She had been very pretty, and was even now

agreeable-looking, though, so very pensive; her name, she told us, was

Zoë, and she seemed glad to hear news of her native town, though the

recollection revived, evidently, very painful thoughts. As we sat

drawing, these poor people remained wandering about, picking up sticks

and resting in the shade; the ground was damp, and the old woman--who

had asked her companion, in patois, the subject of her talk with us, as

she did not understand French--looked very benevolently towards us, and

presently took off her apron, and came insisting that we should use it

as a seat, as she said it was dangerous for such as us to sit on the

bare ground; "we are used to it, and it does us no harm; but you are

wrong to risk it," was her remark; and, with all the kindness

imaginable, she made us accept her courtesy. We have often met with

similar demonstrations of kind feeling from the peasantry in France;

who, when not spoilt by the town and trade, are generally amiable, and

anxious to oblige on all occasions.

Nothing could be more lovely than the extensive view before us from this

spot; hills covered with vines and rich foliage, fields of Indian corn,

bright meadows and banks of glowing flowers, with the river winding

through all, wide and bright; the town, picturesque in the distance,

undulating hills, and a clear blue sky. At the end of a large field, we

came to a pretty bower, formed of vines, on the edge of the wooded

declivity; probably used as a retreat by the master and his family, in

the time of the vintage; it looked quite Italian, and we were not sorry

to shelter there from the hot sun.

Half-way down from the telegraph hill is a cavern called the Hermitage,

which once was the retreat of a holy anchorite; but, being now chosen as

a place for fêtes, has become a sort of cockney spot, and has lost its

character of solemnity; but it is the great object of attraction to the

inhabitants of Agen, who flock there in crowds on saints'-days and

Sundays.

We had made an appointment, on our return from wandering amongst the

heights, to pay a visit to a very remarkable personage, who is held,

both in Agen and throughout Gascony, to be the greatest poet of modern

times. We had heard much of him before we arrived, and a friend of mine

had given me some lines of his with the music, in England; one song I

published in a recent work;[18] but I was not then aware of the history

of the author, of whom the ballad "Mi cal mouri!" was one of the

earliest compositions, and that which first tended to make him popular.

My friend, who possesses very delicate taste and discrimination, was

much struck with the grace and beauty of this song; though the

reputation of its author has reached its height since the time when she

first met with his melody.

[Footnote 18: "Pilgrimage to Auvergne," chap, xiii, p. 210.]

At the entrance of the promenade, Du Gravier, is a row of small

houses--some _cafés_, others shops, the indication of which is a painted

cloth placed across the way, with the owner's name in bright gold

letters, in the manner of the arcades in the streets, and their

announcements. One of the most glaring of these was, we observed, a

bright blue flag, bordered with gold; on which, in large gold letters,

appeared the name of "Jasmin, Coiffeur." We entered, and were welcomed

by a smiling dark-eyed woman, who informed us that her husband was busy

at that moment _dressing a customer's hair_, but he was desirous to

receive us, and begged we would walk into his parlour at the back of the

shop. There was something that struck us as studied in this, and we

began to think the reputation of the poet might be altogether a

_got-up_ thing. I was obliged to repeat to myself the pretty song of "Mi

cal mouri," to prevent incredulous doubts from intruding; but as I

recollected the sweet voice that gave the words effect, I feared that it

was that charm which had misled me.

His wife, meantime, took the advantage of his absence, which had, of

course, been arranged _artistically_, to tell us of Jasmin's triumphs.

She exhibited to us a _laurel crown of gold_ of delicate workmanship,

sent from the city of Clemence Isaure, Toulouse, to the poet; who will

probably one day take his place in the _capitoul_. Next came a golden

cup, with an inscription in his honour, given by the citizens of Auch; a

gold watch, chain, and seals, sent by the King, Louis-Philippe; an

emerald ring worn and presented by the lamented Duke of Orleans; a pearl

pin, by the graceful duchess, who, on the poet's visit to Paris

accompanied by his son, received him in the words he puts into the mouth

of Henri Quatre.[19]--

"Brabes Gascous!

A moun amou per bous aou dibes creyre:

Benès! benès! ey plazé de bous beyre:

Aproucha bous!"

A fine service of linen, the offering of the town of Pau, after its

citizens had given fêtes in his honour, and loaded him with caresses and

praises; and nick-nacks and jewels of all descriptions offered to him

by lady-ambassadresses, and great lords; English "_misses_" and

"_miladis_;" and French, and foreigners of all nations who did or did

not understand Gascon.

[Footnote 19: On his statue at Nerac.]

All this, though startling, was not convincing; Jasmin, the barber,

might only be a fashion, a _furor_, a _caprice_, after all; and it was

evident that he knew how to get up a scene well. When we had become

nearly tired of looking over these tributes to his genius, the door

opened, and the poet himself appeared. His manner was free and

unembarrassed, well-bred, and lively; he received our compliments

naturally, and like one accustomed to homage; said he was ill, and

unfortunately too hoarse to read anything to us, or should have been

delighted to do so. He spoke in a broad Gascon accent, and very rapidly

and eloquently; ran over the story of his successes; told us that his

grandfather had been a beggar, and all his family very poor; that he was

now as rich as he wished to be, his son placed in a good position at

Nantes; then showed us his son's picture, and spoke of his disposition,

to which his brisk little wife added, that, though no fool, he had not

his father's genius, to which truth Jasmin assented as a matter of

course. I told him of having seen mention made of him in an English

review; which he said had been sent him by Lord Durham, who had paid him

a visit; and I then spoke of 'Mi cal mouri' as known to me. This was

enough to make him forget his hoarseness and every other evil: it would

never do for me to imagine that that little song was his best

composition; it was merely his first; he must try to read me a little of

l'Abuglo--a few verses of "Françouneto;"--"You will be charmed," said

he; "but if I were well, and you would give me the pleasure of your

company for some time; if you were not merely running through Agen, I

would kill you with weeping--I would make you die with distress for my

poor Margarido--my pretty Françouneto!"

He caught up two copies of his book, from a pile lying on the table, and

making us sit close to him, he pointed out the French translation on one

side, which he told us to follow while he read in Gascon. He began in a

rich soft voice, and as he advanced, the surprise of Hamlet on hearing

the player-king recite the disasters of Hecuba, was but a type of ours,

to find ourselves carried away by the spell of his enthusiasm. His eyes

swam in tears; he became pale and red; he trembled; he recovered

himself; his face was now joyous, now exulting, gay, jocose; in fact, he

was twenty actors in one; he rang the changes from Rachel to Bouffé; and

he finished by delighting us, besides beguiling us of our tears, and

overwhelming us with astonishment.

He would have been a treasure on the stage; for he is still, though his

first youth is past, remarkably good-looking and striking; with black,

sparkling eyes of intense expression; a fine ruddy complexion; a

countenance of wondrous mobility; a good figure; and action full of fire

and grace; he has handsome hands, which he uses with infinite effect;

and, on the whole, he is the best actor of the kind I ever saw. I could

now quite understand what a troubadour or _jongleur_ might be, and I

look upon Jasmin as a revived specimen of that extinct race. Such as he

is might have been Gaucelm Faidit, of Avignon, the friend of Coeur de

Lion, who lamented the death of the hero in such moving strains; such

might have been Bernard de Ventadour, who sang the praises of Queen

Elionore's beauty; such Geoffrey Rudel, of Blaye, on his own Garonne;

such the wild Vidal: certain it is, that none of these troubadours of

old could more move, by their singing or reciting, than Jasmin, in whom

all their long-smothered fire and traditional magic seems re-illumined.

We found we had stayed hours instead of minutes with the poet; but he

would not hear of any apology--only regretted that his voice was so out

of tune, in consequence of a violent cold, under which he was really

labouring, and hoped to see us again. He told us our countrywomen of Pau

had laden him with kindness and attention, and spoke with such

enthusiasm of the beauty of certain "misses," that I feared his little

wife would feel somewhat piqued; but, on the contrary, she stood by,

smiling and happy, and enjoying the stories of his triumphs. I remarked

that he had restored the poetry of the troubadours; asked him if he knew

their songs; and said he was worthy to stand at their head. "I am,

indeed, a troubadour," said he, with energy; "but I am far beyond them

all; they were but beginners; they never composed a poem like my

Françounete! there are no poets in France now--there cannot be; the

language does not admit of it; where is the fire, the spirit, the

expression, the tenderness, the force of the Gascon? French is but the

ladder to reach to the _first floor_ of Gascon--how can you get up to a

height except by a ladder!"

This last metaphor reminded me of the Irishman's contempt for an English

staircase in comparison to his father's ladder; and my devotion to the

troubadours and _early_ French poets received a severe shock by the

slight thrown on them by the bard of Agen.

We left him, therefore, half angry at his presumption; and once out of

his sight I began again to doubt his merit, not feeling ready to accord

the meed of applause to conceit at any time; I forgot that Jasmin is a

type of his kind in all ways, and "is every inch" a _Gascon_.

His poems, of which I am tempted to give some specimens, must speak for

him, although they necessarily lose greatly by transmission into a

language so different to the Gascon as English. The last volume he

published we brought away with us. It is called _Los Papillotos[20] de

Jasmin, coïffeur_, and contains a great many poems, all remarkable in

their way, even including those complimentary verses addressed to

certain "_Moussus," (Messieurs_.)

[Footnote 20: The curl-papers.]

The history of this singular person is told by himself in a series of

poems called "His recollections," which present a sad and curious

picture of his life in its different stages. It appears that Jacques

Jasmin, or as he writes it in Gascon, _Jaquou Jansemin_, was born in

1797 or 1798.

"The last century, old and worn out," (says his eulogist, M.

Sainte-Beuve,) "had only two or three more years to pass on earth, when,

at the corner of an antique street, in a ruined building peopled by a

colony of rats, on the Thursday of Carnival week, at the hour when

pancakes are being tossed, of a hump-backed father and a lame mother was

born a child, a droll little object; and this child was the poet,

Jasmin. When a prince is born into the world, the event is celebrated by

the report of cannon; but he, the son of a poor tailor, had not even a

pop-gun to announce his birth. Nevertheless, he did not appear without

_éclat_, for at the moment he made his appearance, a _charivari_ was

given to a neighbour, and the music of marrowbones and cleavers

accompanied a song of thirty-stanzas, composed for the occasion by his

father. This father of his, who could not read, was a poet in his way,

and made most of the burlesque couplets for salutations of this

description, so frequent in the country. Behold, then, a poetical

parentage, as well established as that of the two Marots."

The infant born under so auspicious an aspect, grew and throve in spite

of the poverty to which he was heir. He was allowed, when a few years

had passed over his head, to accompany his father in those concerts of

rough music to which he contributed his poetical powers; but the chief

delight of the future troubadour was to go, with his young associates,

into the willow islands of the Garonne to gather wood.

"Twenty or thirty together, we used to set out, with naked feet and

bareheaded, singing together the favourite song of the south, 'The lamb,

that you gave me.' Oh! the recollection of this pleasure even now

enchants me."

Their faggots collected, these little heroes returned to make bonfires

of them; on which occasion many gambols ensued. But, in the midst of the

joyous _escapades_ which he describes, he had his moments of sadness,

which the word "_school_" never failed to increase, for the passion of

his soul was to gain instruction, and the poverty of his family

precluded all hope. He would listen to his mother, as she spoke in

whispers to his grandfather, of her wish to send him to school; and he

wept with disappointment, to find such a consummation impossible. The

evidences of this destitution were constantly before him; his perception

of the privations of those dear to him became every day keener; and

when, after the fair, during which he had filled his little purse by

executing trifling commissions, he carried the amount to his mother, his

heart sank as she took it from him with a melancholy smile,

saying--"Poor child, your assistance comes just in time." Bitter

thoughts of poverty would thus occasionally intrude; but the gaiety of

youth banished them again, until one sad day the veil was wholly

withdrawn, and he could no longer conceal the truth from himself. He had

just reached his tenth year, and was one day playing in the square, when

he saw a chair, borne along by several persons, in which was seated an

old man: he looked up and recognised his grandfather, surrounded by his

family. He sprang towards him, and throwing himself into his arms,

exclaimed--"Where are they taking you, dear grandfather? why do you

weep? why do you leave us who love you so dearly?" "My son," replied the

old man, "I am going to the hospital; it is there that all the Jasmins

die." A few days after, the venerable man was no more, and from that

hour Jasmin never forgot that they were indeed poor.

This melancholy incident closes the first canto of the poet's

"Recollections." The second opens with a description of his wretched

dwelling, and the scanty support gained by labour _and begging_, shared

by nine persons: his grandfather's wallet, from which he had so often

received a piece of bread, unknowing how it had been obtained, now hung

a sad memorial of his hard life, and told the story of his trials, when

he went round to his former friends, from farm to farm, in the hope of

filling it for a starving family. At last, one day, the ambitious mother

entered out of breath, announcing the joyous tidings that her son was

admitted _gratis_ into a free school. He became a scholar in a few

months, a chorister in a few more, his fine voice doubtless recommending

him; he gained a prize, and was in a fair way of advancement, when some

childish frolic, punished too severely, caused him to be expelled. On

reaching his home, he found all in consternation, for his bad conduct

had been visited on his family, and the portion of food sent to them

weekly he found was discontinued. His mother tried to console him, and

to conceal their real state; but while he saw his little brothers and

sisters provided with food, which, his mother smilingly dispensed, he

discovered to his horror that she no longer wore her ring: it had been

sold to buy bread.

The second canto here finishes. The third introduces us to the hero in

his capacity of apprentice to the same craft of which he still

continues a member, and here his comparative prosperity begins. He falls

in love, writes verses, sings them, becomes popular, is able to open a

little shop on his own account, and burns the old arm-chair in which his

ancestors were carried to the hospital. His wife, who was at first an

enemy to pen and ink, finding the good effect of his songs, was soon the

first to urge him to write; his fellow-citizens became proud of him, his

trade increased, and at length he was able to purchase the house on the

promenade, where he now lives in comfort; with sufficient for his

moderate wishes, always following his trade of hair-cutting, and

publishing his poems at the same time. The first of his poems that

appeared was called "The Charivari." It is burlesque, and has

considerable merit: it is preceded by a very fine ode, full of serious

beauty and grace of expression; this was as early as 1825. Several

others of great beauty followed, and some of his songs became popular

beyond the region where they were first sung. But his finest composition

was a ballad, called "The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuillé," which at once

crowned him with fame and loaded him with honours.

The last volume he has published is that which I now introduce to the

reader: it contains, besides several already known, many new poems, and

a ballad, called "Françouneto," which is acknowledged as a successful

rival to "The Blind Girl." The rustic character of his descriptions, and

the rustic dialect in which they are conveyed, give a tone of novelty

and reality to his works quite peculiar to themselves. The force and

powerful effect of the Gascon language is lost in reading the French

version, appended to the original; but a very little attention will make

that original understood, and the reward well repays the study.

The "Abuglo" (the Blind Girl) thus opens--

"Del pè d'aquelo haouto mountagno

Oùn se pinquo Castel-Cuillé;

Altenque lou poumé, lou pruné, l'amellé,

Blanquejâbon dens la campagno,

Baci lou chan qu'on entendêt,

Un dimècres mati, beillo de Sent-Jouzèt."

"At the foot of the high mountain, where Castle-Cuillé stands in

mid-air, at the season when the apple-tree, the plum, and the almond,

are whitening all the country round, this is the song that was sung one

Wednesday morning, the eve of St. Joseph."

Then comes the chorus, which is no invention of the poet, but a refrain

of the country, always sung at rustic weddings, in accordance with a

custom of strewing the bridal path with flowers:

"The paths with buds and blossoms strew!

A lovely bride approaches nigh:

For all should bloom and spring anew,

A lovely bride is passing by."

A description then follows of a rural wedding, introducing habits and

superstitions, which remind one of Burns and Hallow-e'en. This picture

of youth, gaiety, and beauty, is full of truth and nature; and the

contrast is affecting, of the desolate situation of the young blind

girl, who should have been the bride, but whom Baptiste, her lover, had

deserted for one richer, since a severe malady had deprived her of her

sight. Poor Marguerite (_Margarido_) still thinks him faithful, and

expects his return to fulfil his vow, when the sound of the wedding

music, and the explanation of her little brother, reveal to her all her

misfortune. The song of hope and fear, as she sits expecting him, is

extremely beautiful; and some of the expressions, in the original

singular yet musical Gascon, must lose greatly by translation, either in

French or English. Her lamentations on her blindness remind one of

Milton's heart-rending words on the same subject:--

"Jour per aoutres, toutjour! et per jou, malhurouzo,

Toutjour ney, toutjour ney!"

"MARGARIDO'S REFLECTIONS."

"After long months of sad regret

Returned!--return'd? and comes not yet?

Although to my benighted eyes

He knows no other star may rise:

He knows my lonely moments past,

Expecting, hoping to the last.

He knows my heart is faithful still,

I wait my vows but to fulfil.

Alas! without him what have I?

Grief bows my fame and dims my eye;

For others, day and joy and light,

For me, all darkness--always night!

"What gloom spreads round where he is not:

How cold, how lonely, he away!

But in his presence all forgot,

I never think of sun or day.

What has the day? a sky of blue--

His eyes are of a softer hue,

That light a heaven of hope and love.

Pure as the skies that glow above.

But skies, earth, blindness, tears, and pain,

Are all forgot, unfelt, unknown,

When he is by my side again,

And holds my hand within his own!"

When the unfortunate girl finds that her lover is untrue, despair takes

possession of her mind; she causes herself to be conducted to the

church, where the ceremony of the marriage is taking place; and at the

moment when Baptiste pronounces the words which seal his fate with that

of her rival, Angela, she rushes forward, and draws a knife to stab

herself; but at the instant she falls dead at his feet, before her hand

has accomplished the fatal blow. The poet here congratulates his heroine

on having died _without crime_, her _intention_ going for nothing, and

the angels bearing her soul to heaven as immaculate.

There is little in the plot of this story--its beauty lies in the grace,

and ease, and simplicity of the language, and the pathos of the

situations. The same may be said of the ballad of "Françouneto," the

latest work of the author, which is just now making a great sensation in

France. The close of both these stories is somewhat weak and hurried,

and both fail in effect, except when Jasmin reads them himself,--then

there appears nothing to be desired.

Françonnette is a village beauty and coquette, promised to Marcel, a

young soldier, but attached to Pascal, a peasant, whose poverty and

pride prevent his declaring the passion he feels for the volatile but

tender maiden, who

"Long had fired each youth with love,

Each maiden with despair;"

but, unlike the Emma of the English ballad, Françonnette is too

conscious of being fair, and torments her admirers to death. She

becomes, at length, the object of suspicion and hatred to her fellows,

in consequence of a rumour circulated by her disappointed lover, Marcel,

that her Huguenot father had sold her to the evil one, and that

misfortune awaited whoever should love or marry her. Some fearful scenes

ensue, in which the poet exhibits great power. The quarrel of the rivals

is managed with effect; and the rising of the peasantry against the

supposed bewitched beauty; the discovery of Pascal's love, and the

consequent revolution the knowledge effects in the mind of the deserted

girl; his tender devotion, her danger, and Marcel's subsequent remorse,

are admirably told; and, on the whole, the story of Françonnette must be

acknowledged as a great advance upon the "Aveugle;" and its superiority

promises greater things yet from the poet of Agen.

"FRANÇONNETTE'S MUSINGS.

"On the parched earth when falls the earliest dew,

As shine the sun's first rays, the winter flown,

So love's first spark awakes to life anew,

And fills the startled mind with joy unknown.

The maiden yielded every thought to this--

The trembling certainty of real bliss:

The lightning of a joy before unproved,

Flash'd in her heart, and taught her that she loved.

"She fled from envy, and from curious eyes,

And dream'd, as all have done, those waking dreams,

Bidding in thought bright fairy fabrics rise

To shrine the loved one in their golden gleams.

Alas! the Sage is right, 'tis the distrest

Who dream the fondest, and who love the best!"

But, perhaps, a better idea can be conveyed, by giving a version in

prose of the whole story.

The story of Françonnette.

It was at the time when Blaise de Montluc, the sanguinary chief, struck

the Protestants with a heavy hand, and his sword hewed them in pieces,

while, in the name of a God of mercy, he inundated the earth with tears

and blood.

At length he paused from fatigue: it was ended; no more did the hills

resound with the noise of carbine or cannon: the savage leader, to prop

the cross, which neither then nor now tottered, had slain, strangled,

filled the wells with slaughtered thousands. The earth gave back its

dead at Fumel and at Penne: fathers, mothers, children, were nearly

exterminated, and the executioners had time to breathe.

The exhausted tiger--the merciless ruffian--dismounted from his charger,

re-entered his fortress, with its triple bridge, and its triple moat,

and, kneeling at the altar, uttered his devout prayers, received the

communion, while his hands were yet reeking with the blood of innocence

with which he had glutted his cruelty.

Meantime, in the hamlets, young men and maidens, at first terrified at

the bare name of Huguenot, devoted their hours to love and amusement as

formerly. And in a village, at the foot of a strong castle, one Sunday,

a band of lovers were dancing on the votive feast of Roquefort, and, to

the sound of the fife, celebrated St. Jacques and the month of

August--that lovely month, which, by the freshness of its dew, and the

fire of its sun, ripens our figs and grapes.

There had never been seen a finer fête. Under the large parasol of

foliage, where the crowd were every year seen in groups--all was full to

overflowing. From the heights of the rocks to the depths of the valleys,

from Montagnac and Sainte Colombe, new troops of visitors arrived; still

they come--still they come--and the sun is high in heaven, like a torch.

There is no lack of room where they are met, for the meadows here serve

for chambers, and the banks of turf for seats.

What enjoyment!--the heat makes the air sparkle: nothing is more

pleasing than to see those fife-players blowing, and the dancers

whirling along. Cakes and sweetmeats are taken from baskets; fresh

lemonade! how eagerly the thirsty drink it down! Crowds hurry to see

Polichinelle--crowds hurry to the merchant whose cymbals announce his

treasures--crowds everywhere! But who is she advancing this way? Joy,

joy! It is the young Queen of the Meadows. It is she--it is

Françonnette. Let me tell you a little concerning her.

In towns as well as in hamlets, you know there is always the pearl of

love, precious above all the rest; well, every voice united proclaim

her, in the canton, the Beauty of Beauties.

But I would not have you imagine that she is pensive--that she

sighs--that she is pale as a lily--that she has languishing, half-closed

eyes, blue and soft--that she is slight, and bends with languor, like

the willow that inclines beside a clear stream. You would be greatly

deceived: Françonnette has eyes brilliant as two sparkling stars; one

might think to gather bunches of roses on her rounded cheeks; her

chestnut hair waves in rich curls; her mouth is like a cherry; her teeth

would make snow look dim; her little feet are delicately moulded; her

ankle is light and fine. In effect, Françonnette was the true star of

beauty in a female form, grafted here below.

All these charms, too evident to all, caused ceaseless envy amongst the

young girls, and many sighs amongst the swains. Poor young enthusiasts,

there was not one who would not have died for her: they looked at

her--they adored her as the priest adores the cross. The fair one saw it

with delight; and her countenance was radiant with pride and pleasure.

Nevertheless, she has a secret dawn of vexation; the finest flower is

wanting in her circlet of triumph. Pascal--the handsomest of all the

youths--he who sings the best--appears to avoid and to see her without

love. Françonnette is indignant at his neglect; she believes that he is

hateful to her, when she reflects on his conduct; she prepares a

terrible vengeance, and waits but the moment when, by a look, she shall

make him her slave for ever.

Is it not always so! From all time a maiden so courted is sure to become

vain and proud; and, young as she is, it is easy to see she is like the

rest. Proud she was, to a certain degree, and a coquette she was

becoming--a rural one, however, not artful; she loved none, yet many

hoped she did.

Her grandmother would often say to her--"My child, remember the country

is not the town--the meadow is not a ball-room; you know well that we

have promised you to the soldier, Marcel, who loves you, and expects you

to be his wife. You must conquer this fickleness of mind. A girl who

tries to attract all, ends by gaining none."

A kiss and a laugh and a caress were the answer; and, while she bounded

away, she would sing, in the words of the song--

"I have time enough, dear mother,

Time enough to love him yet;

If I wait and choose no other,

All Love's art I should forget:

And if all is left for one,

'Twere as well be loved by none."

All this finished by creating much jealousy, suffering, and unhappiness;

nevertheless, these shepherds were not of those that make lays full of

grace and tenderness, and who, dying of grief, engrave their names on

poplars and willows. Alas! these shepherds could not write! besides

which, though Love had turned their heads, they preferred to suffer and

live on: but, oh! what confusion in the workshops!--oh, what ill-dressed

vines--what branches uncut!--what furrows all irregular!

Now that you know this heedless little beauty, do not lose sight of

her;--there she is! see, how she glides along! now she dances with

Etienne the _rigaudon d'honneur_: every one follows her with straining

eyes and smiles: every one gives her glances of admiration. She loses

not one of their regards; and she dances with added grace. Holy cross!

holy cross! how she turns and winds, with her lizard-shaped head, and

her little Spanish foot, and her wasp-like waist!--when she slides, and

whirls, and leaps, and the breeze waves her blue handkerchief, what

would they not all give to impress two kisses on her pretty cheek!

One will be so happy! for it is the custom to kiss your partner if you

can tire her out; but a young girl is never tired till she chooses to be

so; and, already, Guillaume, Louis, Jean, Pierre, Paul--she has wearied

them all: there they stand, out of breath, and can boast of having

gained no kiss of Françonnette.

Another takes her hand: it is Marcel, her betrothed: a soldier, in

favour with the redoubted Montluc; he is tall and powerful; he wears a

sabre, a uniform, and has a cockade in his cap; he is as upright as a

dart; well made; bold, with a generous heart, but fiery and proud.

Presuming and intrusive--caring little to be invited, but ready to claim

whatever he pleases; a boaster, sportive but dangerous, _like a

caterpillar_. Marcel doating on Françonnette, flirts with all,

endeavours to rouse her jealousy, and has tales to tell of his

successes.

Disgusted at his presumption, his betrothed dislikes, at length, to see

him; he perceives her repugnance, and, to revenge himself, proclaims

that he knows himself beloved; proud of having said it, he increases his

boasting; and, the other day, at a meeting, as he broke his glass, he

took an oath that no one but himself should have the privilege of

kissing Françonnette.

It was curious to behold, as they danced together, how the crowd pressed

forward, anxious to see if the handsome soldier would gain the reward

which he boasted that none but he should obtain.

At first he smiled, as he led her forward, and his eyes entreated hers;

but she remained mute and cold, and her activity appeared but to

increase. Marcel, piqued and annoyed, resolved to conquer her; and the

vain lover who would rather gain one kiss before all the world than

twenty granted in secret, exerts all his powers, leaps, hurries, whirls,

and, to fatigue her, would willingly give his sabre, his cap, his

worsted embroidery,--aye, if it had been all of gold instead!

But when the game is displeasing, the maiden is strong to resist. Far

from giving in, Françonnette confuses, tires him, till his breath is

gone; passion exhausts him as much as her swiftness; his face becomes

crimson--he is ready to fall--he gives in.

On goes the dance--Pascal stands in his place; he has scarcely made two

steps, and changed sides, when his pretty partner smiles, reels, pauses;

she is tired out, and she turns her blushing cheek to him--oh! she did

not wait long for his kiss.

Instantly a shout is heard--clapping of hands in all directions: all

plaudits for Pascal, who stands confused and abashed.

What a scene for the young soldier, who loved in good truth!--he

shuddered as he saw the kiss given; he rose, and drew himself up to his

full height. "Thou hast replaced me too quickly, peasant!" cried he, in

a thundering voice; and, to enforce his insulting words, he struck the

young man a violent blow.

Heavens! how ready is pain to usurp the place of the sweetest pleasure!

A kiss and a blow! glory and shame! light and darkness! fire and ice!

life and death! heaven and hell!

All this shook the mind of Pascal; but when a man is insulted, he can

revenge himself, though he is neither gentleman nor soldier. No. Look

upon him! the tempest is not more fearful. His eyes dart

lightning--thunder is in his voice--he raises his arm, and it descends

upon Marcel like a bolt. In vain the soldier seeks to draw his

sword--stands on his guard; Pascal, whose size seems to increase with

fury, seizes him by his waist, strains him in his grasp, and, with a

fierce gripe, forces him to the ground, where he dashes him, crushed and

senseless.

"Hold!--the peasant grants your life!" cried Pascal, as he stood over

him.

"Kill him!--you are wounded--you are all blood," exclaimed a hundred

voices. Pascal's blood flowed, he knew not how.

"It is enough," he returned; "I pardon him now. The wicked man when

defeated excites only pity."

"No, no--kill him, tear him to pieces," howled the enraged people.

"Back, peasants, back!" cried a knight, spurring forward, to whom every

one gave way. It was Montluc, attracted to the spot by the tumult, as he

was passing with the Baron of Roquefort.

But the fête was over--no more amusement: the young girls, terrified,

fled like hares, two by two, from the spot; the young men surrounding

Pascal--the handsome, brave Pascal--accompanied him on his way, as

though it was his wedding-day. Marcel, furious and discomfited,

struggled to renew the contest; but his lord's voice restrained him; a

word of command silenced him: he ground his teeth with rage, and cried--

"They love each other,--they will do everything to thwart me. This will

be but sport to her. 'Tis well; but by St. Marcel, my patron, they

shall pay dear for this jesting, and Françonnette shall be mine, and

none other's!"

PART II.

One, two, three months passed away--all fêtes, dances, games, and

harvest-homes; but all these gaieties must end with the falling leaves.

All things, in winter, assume a mournful aspect,--all beneath the vault

of heaven becomes aged.

After nightfall no one now ventured out: all grouped themselves around

the bright hearth; for it was known that loup-garoux, and sorcerers

whose acts make the hair stand on end, and spread terror in house and

hut, now kept their sabbath beneath the naked elms, and round about the

straw-rick.

At length, Christmas-morning shone, and Jean the crier hastened through

the town with his tambour, calling out, "Be ready, young maidens, at the

Buscou: a grand Winding meeting takes place on Friday, New Year's Eve."

Oh! how the young girls and youths proclaimed in every quarter the news

of the old crier! his news was of that kind which, rapid as a bird,

lends wings to speech. Scarcely, therefore, was the air warmed by the

sun's rays, than his intelligence was spread from hearth to hearth, from

table to table, from cottage to cottage.

Friday came; and, in the dusk of the evening, seated beside a cold

forge, a mother was complaining: and thus she spoke to her son:--

"Have you, then, forgotten the day when, before our shop, I saw you

arrive, with the sound of music, faint, wounded, and bleeding? I have

suffered much since, for the wound was envenomed; we feared you must

lose your arm. Let me entreat, go not out to-night--for I dreamt of

flowers--what do they always announce, Pascal?--but sorrows and tears."

"Dear mother, you are too timid; all seems gloomy in your eyes; you know

Marcel comes no more amongst us; there is now no reason for your fears."

"Take heed of yourself, nevertheless. The sorcerer of the Black Wood has

been wandering in this neighbourhood,--you recollect the great mischief

he did last year. Well, it is said that a soldier was seen to leave his

cave yesterday, at day-break. Should it be Marcel! Beware, my child.

Every mother gives relics to her child--take you mine, and oh, my son,

go not forth."

"I only ask one little hour, to see my friend, Thomas."

"Your friend!--ah, tell the truth, and say to see Françonnette; for you,

too, love her, like all the rest. You think I see it not--away!--I have

long read it in your eyes. You fear to distress me, you sing, you seem

gay; but you weep in secret, you suffer, you are wretched, and I am

unhappy for your sake. I pine away. Hold, Pascal! something tells me a

great misfortune awaits you. She has such power over those who love her,

one would say she was a witch; but with her magic what does she seek?

Can it be fortune?--it has been offered her twenty times, and she

refuses all; however, they say she now pretends to be attached to rich

Laurent de Brax, and they are soon to be betrothed. Oh, what confusion

she will make this evening, vain creature! Think no more of her, Pascal;

leave her, it is for your good;--hear me! she would hold a poor

blacksmith in contempt, whose father is old, infirm, and poor,--for we

are poor, indeed; alas! you know it well. We have parted with all; we

have only a scythe left. It has been a dark time with us since you fell

sick; now that you are well, go, dearest, and work. What do I say? we

can suffer still; rest yourself, if you please, but, for the love of

God, go not forth this evening."

And the poor mother in despair wept, as she implored her son, who,

leaning against the forge, stifled a sigh which rose from his oppressed

heart, and said, "You are right, mother: I had forgotten all,--we are

poor, indeed. I will go and work."

Two minutes after, the anvil was ringing; but whoever had seen how often

the young blacksmith struck the iron falsely, would have easily seen

that he thought of something besides the hammer he held in his hand.

Meantime few had failed at the Buscou, and every one came from all parts

to divide their skein at the Fête of Lovers.

In a large chamber, where already a hundred windles were turning, loaded

with flax, girls and youths, with nimble fingers, were winding thread as

fine as hair.

It was soon all finished; and white wine and _rimottes_ were placed,

boiling, in glasses and basins, from which rose a burning smoke which

set the love-powder in a flame. If the prettiest there had been the most

rapid, I should have pointed out Françonnette; but the Queen of the

Games is the last at work, and this is the time when her reign begins.

Only listen; how she amuses every one,--how she governs and regulates

all; one would say she had spirit enough for three. She dances, she

speaks, she sings; she is all-in-all. When she sings, you would say she

had the soul of the dove; when she talks, the wit of an angel: when she

dances, you would imagine she had, the wings of the swallow: and this

evening she sang, and danced, and talked--oh! it was enough to turn the

wisest head!

Her triumph is complete; all eyes are upon her. The poor young men can

resist no more; and her bright eyes, which enchant them, shine and

sparkle as they see how the spell works. Then Thomas rose, and, looking

at the lovely coquette with tender glances, sang, in a flute-toned

voice, this new song:

"Oh tell us, charming maid,

With heart of ice unmoved,

When shall we hear the sound

Of bells that ring around,

To say that you have loved?

Always so free and gay,

Those wings of dazzling ray,

Are spread to ev'ry air,--

And all your favour share;

Attracted by their light,

All follow in your flight.

But, ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss,

Such triumphs do but purchase pain;

What is it to be loved like this,

To her who cannot love again?

"You've seen how full of joy

We've marked the sun arise;

Even so each Sunday morn,

When you, before our eyes,

Bring us such sweet surprise,

With us new life is born:

We love your angel face,

Your step so debonaire,

Your mien of maiden grace,

Your voice, your lip, your hair:

Your eyes of gentle fire,

All these we all admire!

But, ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss,

Such triumphs do but purchase pain;

What is it to be loved like this,

To her who cannot love again.

"Alas! our groves are dull,

When widowed of thy sight,

And neither hedge nor field

Their perfume seem to yield;

The blue sky is not bright:

When you return once more,

All that was sad is gone,

All nature you restore;

We breathe in you alone.

We could your rosy lingers cover

With kisses of delight all over!

But ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss,

Such triumphs do but purchase pain;

What is it to be loved like this,

To her who cannot love again!

"The dove you lost of late,

Might warn you, by her flight;

She sought in woods her mate,

And has forgot you quite;

She has become more fair,

Since love has been her care.

'Tis love makes all things gay,

Oh follow where he leads--

When beauteous looks decay,

What dreary life succeeds!

And ah! believe me, perfect bliss,

A joy, where peace and triumph reign,

Is when a maiden loved like this,

Has learnt 'tis sweet to love again."

The song is ended; and the crowd, delighted at its meaning, are full of

applause, and clap their hands in praise.

"Heavens! what a song!--how appropriate! who composed so sweet a lay?"

"It was Pascal," replied Thomas.

"Bravo, Pascal,--long live Pascal!" was the general cry.

Françonnette is silent; but she feels and enjoys it all,--she is proud,

and exults: she has the love of all--of all now. It is told her, a song

has been made for her; and she hears it sung before every one--yes,

every one knows she is the person meant. She thinks on Pascal, too, and

becomes grave.

"He has no equal," she mused. "How brave he is! every one holds him in

esteem; all are on his side. How well he can paint love! doubtless they

all love him. And what a song! what tender meaning!" Not a word has

escaped her. "But, if he loves, why does he thus conceal himself?" She

turned to his friend, and exclaimed:

"It seems long since we saw him. I would fain tell him how beautiful we

think his song. Where is he?"

"Oh! he is obliged to stay at home," said Laurent, jealous and piqued.

"Pascal has no more time, methinks, for song making. Poor man! his ruin

is not far off; his father is infirm, and cannot leave his bed; he is in

debt everywhere; the baker refuses to trust him."

Françonnette became very pale. "He--so amiable--so good! alas! he is

much to be pitied. Is he, then, indeed so wretched?"

"Too true," said Laurent, affecting a compassionate air. "It is said he

lives on alms."

"You have lied," cried Thomas: "may your tongue be blistered! Pascal is

unfortunate; and all has not gone well with him since he met that hurt

in the arm, for Françonnette; but he is well again; and, if no envious

person injures him, he will recover himself soon; for he has industry

and courage." Whoever had looked narrowly would have seen a tear in the

eye of Françonnette.

The games begin: they sit in a circle; they play at _cache-couteau_.

Françonnette is challenged by Laurent: he claims the kiss which she has

forfeited. She flies like a bird from the fowler; he pursues; but, when

he has nearly reached her, he falls, and has broken his arm.

A sudden gloom succeeds to gaiety; terror takes possession of all. When

suddenly a door opens, and an aged man, whose beard hangs to his girdle,

appears. He comes like a spectre: they start away in alarm; the Sorcerer

of the Black Wood stands before them.

"Unthinking beings!" he exclaims, "I have descended from my rock to warn

you. You all fix your thoughts upon this girl, Françonnette, who is

accursed; for her father, while she was yet in her cradle, became a

Huguenot, and sold her to the devil. Her mother died of grief; and the

demon, who watches over that which is his, follows her everywhere in

secret. He has punished Pascal and Laurent, who have sought her. Be

warned; ill-fortune attends whoever would espouse her. The demon has

alone a claim to her possession; and her husband would fall a victim."

The sorcerer ended: sparks of fire surrounded him, and showed his

wrinkled face more clearly: he turned four times round in a circle, and

disappeared.

Every hearer seemed changed to stone. Françonnette alone showed signs of

life: she did not give way at once to the misfortunes which threatened

her: she hoped the scene would pass as a jest: she laughed

cheerfully--advanced towards her friends; but all drew back with a

shudder; all cried out, "Begone!" Then she felt she was abandoned; a

cold tremor came over her, and she fell senseless to the ground.

Thus ended a fête which had begun so gaily. The next day--the first of

the year--the rumours of this event spread from house to house and from

meadow to meadow.

Oh! the terror of the evil one, which at the present day scarcely

exists, at that time was fearful, particularly in the country.

A thousand things were remembered, before never dreamt of: some had

heard in her cottage the noise of chains: her father had disappeared

mysteriously: her mother was said to have died mad: nothing ever failed

with her; her harvest always ripened first; and when hail destroyed

other fields, her's were full of grapes and corn.

None hesitated to believe what was said; daughters, mothers,

grandmothers exaggerated the first reports; children trembled at her

name; and, at length, when the poor girl, with depressed brow, came

forth to seek necessaries for her aged relative, no one spoke to her:

all shrunk from her; or, pointing with their fingers, cried out--"Fly!

behold one sold to the demon!"

PART III.

Beside the town of Estanquet, on the banks of a sparkling stream, whose

waters run bubbling all the year long over the pebbles, a beautiful girl

was gathering flowers, last year, amongst the turf: she sang so sweetly

and so joyously, that the birds were jealous of her voice and of her

song.

Why does she sing no more? Hedges and meads are green again; the

nightingales come even into her garden to invite her to join their lays.

Where is she? Perhaps she is departed. But no; her straw hat lies on the

accustomed bench, but is no longer adorned with a bright ribbon: her

little garden is neglected: her hoe and rake lie on the ground amongst

the jonquils: the rose branches stray wildly; there are thistles at

their feet, and the little paths, which used to be so neat, are filled

with nettles.

Something must have happened. Where is the lively maiden? Do you not

see her cottage shining white through the thick hazel branches? Let us

approach: the door is open; softly--let us enter. Ah! there, in her

arm-chair, sits the grandmother, asleep; and I see behind the window the

fair girl of Estanquet; but she is in grief--what can ail her? Tears are

falling on her little hand: some dark cloud has passed over her heart.

Oh yes! dark indeed! for yonder sits Françonnette: there she sits, bowed

down with the blow which has overwhelmed her: she weeps in her chamber,

and her heart knows no relief. Young girls often weep, and forget their

sorrow quickly; but she----her grief is too deep, and it is one which

tears cannot soften. The daughter of a Huguenot! one banished from the

Church--sold to the demon! ah! it is too horrible!

The grandmother tells her in vain--"My child, it is false!" She does not

listen: there is none but her father can resolve her doubts, and prove

to her that it is not true; but no one knows his place of abode; she is

alone--she is terrified--oh! so terrified, that she believes it.

"What a change!" she cries. "I who, but now, was so happy--I, who was

Queen of the Meadows and could command all--I, for whom every youth

would have gone barefooted amongst a nest of serpents--to be contemned,

avoided, the terror of the country! And Pascal--he also flies me, as if

I were a pest: yet I pitied him in his wretchedness; perhaps he has no

pity to bestow on me."

It was not so; and she has yet some comfort in her misery: she learns

that Pascal is her defender: this is a balm to her wounded spirit; and,

as her only relief, she thinks of him often. Suddenly she hears a cry;

she flies to her grandmother, who has just waked from sleep: "The fire

is not here; the walls do not burn! Oh God, what a mercy!"

"What were you dreaming, dear grandmother--answer me--what is it?"

"Unfortunate girl! I dreamt it was night; brutal men came to our house,

and set it on fire. You cried; you exerted yourself to save me, but you

could not, and we both were burnt. Oh, I have suffered much! come to my

arms! let me embrace my child!"

And the aged woman strained her in her withered arms, and pressed her

tenderly to her heart, her white hair mingling with the golden ringlets

of Françonnette. "Dearest," said she, "your mother, the day of her

marriage, came from the castle a bride; her dower came from thence; and

thus we are not rich from the demon; every one must know that. It is

true that while you were an infant, my angel, and yet in the cradle, we

heard every night a strange noise, and we found you always out of the

cradle; and on the edge of your little bed three drops of blood

appeared; but we said a prayer, and they disappeared; does not this

prove that you are not sold to the evil one? Some envious person has

invented this. Be of good cheer, and do not weep like a child; you are

more lovely than ever: show yourself again: let your beauty once more

appear. Those who hide from envy give the wicked more space. Besides,

Marcel still loves you; he has sent secretly to say he is your's when

you will--you love him not! Marcel will be your protector; I am too old

to guard you. Hearken! to-morrow is Easter-day; go to mass, and pray

more fervently than of late; take some of the blessed bread, and sign

yourself with the cross. I am certain that God will restore your lost

happiness, and will prove, by your countenance, that He has not erased

you from the number of those He calls his own."

The hope she had conjured up irradiated the face of the poor woman; her

child hung round her neck, and promised to do her bidding; and peace was

restored for a while to the little white cottage.

The next day, when the Hallelujah was ringing from the bells of St. Pé,

great was the astonishment of all to behold Françonnette kneeling with

her chaplet in the church,--her eyes cast down in prayer.

Poor girl! well might she pray to be spared; there was not a young

woman who spared her as she passed: the less so, that Marcel and Pascal

appeared to feel pity for her. They were very cruel to her; not one

would remain near; so that she found herself, at last, kneeling alone in

the midst of a wide circle, like one condemned who has a mark of shame

on his forehead. Her mortification is not yet complete, for the uncle of

Marcel--the churchwarden, who wears a vest of violet with large

skirts--the tall man who offers the blessed bread at Easter--passes on

when she puts out her hand to take her portion, and refuses to allow her

to share the heavenly meal.

This was terrible! She believes that God has really abandoned her, and

would drive her from His temple; she trembles, and sinks back nearly

fainting; but some one advances--it is he who asks to-day for the

offerings; it is Pascal, who had never quitted her with his looks, who

had seen the meaning glance which passed between the uncle and

nephew--he advances softly, and taking from the shining plate that part

of the bread which is crowned with a garland of choice flowers, presents

it to Françonnette.

What a moment of delicious joy to her! Her blood runs free again; she

feels no longer frozen to stone; her soul had trembled; but it seems as

if the bread of the living God, as she touched it, had restored her

life. But why is her cheek so covered with blushes? It is because the

Angel of Love had, with his breath, drawn forth the flame that slept in

her heart; it is that a feeling, new, strange, subtle, like fire, sweet

as honey, rises in her soul, and makes her bosom beat. Oh! it is that

she lives with another life. Now, she knows herself; she feels what she

really is: now she understands the magic of love. The world--the

priest--all disappears; in the temple of the Lord there is but a human

creature she beholds--the man she loves--the man to whom she had

faltered her thanks.

Now, let us quit all the envy and jealousy that might be seen exhibited

on the way-side from St. Pé, and the triple scandal of cruel tongues;

let us follow Françonnette, who carries home to her grandmother the

blessed bread crowned with its garland, and who, having given it into

her hands, retires to her chamber _alone with her love_!

First drop of dew in the time of drought, first ray of sun-light in

winter, thou art not more welcome to the bosom of the parched earth in

sadness, than this first flame of affection to the awakened heart of the

tender girl! Happy--overwhelmed--she forgets herself, and, by degrees,

gives up all her being to the new, rapturous delight of loving!

Then, far from the noise of evil tongues, she did what we all do; she

dreamt with unclosed eyes, and without stone or implements she built

herself a little castle, where, with Pascal, all was shining, all was

brilliant, all was radiant with happiness. Oh! the sage is right--the

soul in affliction loves the strongest!

She gave herself up entirely to her love; she feels she loves for ever,

and all in nature seems to smile for her. But the honey of love too soon

becomes bitter. Suddenly, she recollects herself--she shudders--she

becomes as if frozen. At the stroke of a fearful thought, all her little

castle is demolished. Alas! wretched girl, she dreamt of love, and love

is forbidden to her. Did not the sorcerer say she was sold to the evil

one, and that man bold enough to seek her would find only death in the

nuptial chamber? She! must she behold Pascal dead before her?

Mercy, oh God! oh God, pity!

And, bathed in tears, the poor child fell on her knees before an image

of the Virgin.

"Holy Virgin," said she, "without thy aid I am lost; for I love deeply.

I have no parents, and they say I am sold to the demon. Oh, take pity on

me! save me, if it be true: and if it is but the saying of the wicked,

let my soul know the truth; and when I offer thee my taper at the altar

of Notre Dame, prove to me that my prayer is accepted."

A short prayer, when it is sincere, soon mounts to heaven. She felt

certain that she was heard; but she thought constantly of her project,

though at times she shuddered, and fear rendered her mute; still hope

would come like a lightning flash in the night, and satisfy her heart.

PART IV.

At length the day arrived so feared and so desired. At day-break long

lines of young girls, all in white, extended in all directions, and

advanced to the sound of the bells; and Notre Dame, in the midst of a

cloud of perfume, proudly looked down on three hamlets in one.

What censers! what crosses! what nosegays! what tapers! what banners!

what pictures! Then come all Puymirol, Artigues, Astafort, Lusignan,

Cardonnet, Saint Cirq, Brax, Roquefort; but those of Roquefort, this

year, are the first--the most numerous: and to see them in particular

the curious hastened forward, for everywhere, in all places, the story

of the young girl sold to the demon spread, and it is known that to-day

she comes to pray to the Virgin to protect her.

Her misfortune has inspired pity amongst them; every one looks at her

and laments; they trust that a miracle will be operated in her favour,

and that the Virgin will save her. She sees the feeling that she has

inspired, and rejoices; her hope becomes stronger; "the voice of the

people is the voice of God."

Oh, how her heart beats as she enters the church! everywhere within the

walls are pictures of the Virgin's mercy and indulgence; mothers in

grief, young people in affliction, girls without parents, women without

children--all are kneeling with tapers before the image of the Mother of

heaven, which an aged priest in his robes allows to touch their lips,

and afterwards blesses them.

No sign of ill has occurred, and they believe; all, as they rise, depart

with a happy hope, and Françonnette feels the same, particularly when

she sees Pascal praying devoutly; then she has courage to look the

priest in the face. It appears as if love, music, the lights, the

incense--all was united to assure her of pardon.

"Pardon! pardon!" murmured she, "oh, if that were mine! and Pascal"--

She lighted her taper in order, and, the light and her bouquet in her

hand, she took her place. Every one, from compassion, made way that she

might kneel the foremost. The silence is breathless; there is neither

movement nor gesture; all eyes are turned on her and on the priest; he

takes the sacred image, and holds it forth to her; but scarcely has it

touched the lips of the orphan when a loud peal of thunder shakes the

church, and rolls away in the distance; her taper is extinguished, and

three of those on the altar!

Her taper is extinct--her prayer rejected--she is accursed!

Oh, God! it is, then, indeed true! she has been dedicated to the evil

one, and is abandoned of Heaven!

A murmur of terror spread through the crowd; and when the unfortunate

girl rose, pale and wild and breathless with horror, all drew back,

shuddering, and let her pass. The thunder-clap had begun the storm;

fearfully it burst afterwards over Roquefort; the belfry of St. Pierre

was destroyed, and the hail driving over the country, swept all away but

those who wept to see the ravage.

And the pilgrims returned, all ready to relate the disaster they had

seen; they returned all--except one--and sang _Ora pro nobis_.

Then, to cross the perilous waters, Agen did not possess as now--to make

other towns jealous--three great bridges, as though it were a royal

town. Two simple barks, urged by two oars, carried persons from one side

to the other; but scarcely have they reached the opposite shore, and

formed themselves in lines, than the news of the terrible event reaches

them. At first, they scarcely credit its extent; but when they advance,

and behold the vines and the fields desolated, then they tremble and are

seized with despair, and cries of "Misery!" and "Misfortune!" rend the

air.

Suddenly a voice exclaims, "Françonnette is saved while we are ruined!"

the word acts like a spark to gunpowder.

"The wretch!--drive her out!--she brings us evil--it is true--she is the

cause of all--she may do us more harm!"

And the crowd clamoured louder and grew more furious. One cried, "Let us

drive her from us! cursed as she is, let her burn in flames like the

_Huguenot_, her father!"

The coldest became infuriated: "Let her be driven forth!" cried all.

To see them thus enraged, with flaming eyes, clenched hands and teeth,

it seemed as if Hell inspired them, and that its influence came with the

breeze of night, and breathed into their veins the venom of fury.

Where was Françonnette? alas! in her cottage, half-dead--cold as marble!

holding firmly in her tightened and convulsive grasp the faded wreath

given her by Pascal.

"Poor garland!" said she; "when I received you from him your perfume

told of happiness, and I inhaled it; relic of love! I bore you in my

bosom, where you soon faded like my vain dreams. Dear Pascal, farewell!

my torn heart weeps to resign thee, but I must say adieu for ever! I was

born in an evil hour; and, to save thee from my influence, I must

conceal my love. Yet I feel this day thou art dearer than ever; I love

with an affection never to be extinguished--with a devotion which is

bliss or death on earth; but death is nothing to me if it could save

thee!"

"Why do you moan thus, Françonnette?" cried out her grandmother; "you

told me, with a cheerful air, that the Virgin had received your offering

and you were content; yet I hear you sob like a soul in pain; you

deceive me, something has happened to you to-day."

"Oh, no; be content, grandmother; I am happy--very happy."

"'Tis well, my love; for your sorrow wrings my heart; to-day again I

passed some fearful hours; this dream of fire recurs so often in spite

of myself; and the storms alarm me; hark! I tremble at every sound."

What cries are those so near and so loud? "Fire them! burn them! let

them burn together!" A flash bursts through the old shutters;

Françonnette rushes to the casement. Great Heaven! she sees the rick on

fire, and a furious mob howling outside.

"We must drive them out--the old hag and the young one; both have

bewitched us!--Hence! child of perdition! hence, or burn in thy den!"

Françonnette on her knees, with streaming eyes, exclaims, "Oh, pity for

my poor old grandmother--do not kill her!"

But the deluded populace, more confirmed than ever, by her haggard

looks, that she is possessed, howl louder still--"Away with her!" and

on they rush, brandishing flaming brands.

"Hold--hold!" cried a voice, and Pascal sprang amongst them. "Cowards!

would you murder two defenceless women! would you burn their dwelling,

as if they had not suffered enough--tigers, that you are--already the

walls are hot!"

"Let the Huguenots quit the country: they are possessed by the demon. If

they stay amongst us God will send down punishment. Let them go

instantly, or we burn them!--Who presses forward there?"

"Ha!" cried Pascal, "Marcel here! he is her enemy!"

"Liar!" cried Marcel; "I love her better than thou, boaster as thou art!

What wilt thou do for her--thou whose heart is so soft?"

"I come to assist her--to defend her."

"And I to be her husband, in spite of all, if she will be my wife."

"I come for the same purpose," cried Pascal, without shrinking from his

rival's regard; then turning to Françonnette, he said, with firmness,

"Françonnette, you are safe no longer; these wretches will pursue you

from village to village; but here are two who love you--two who would

brave death, destruction, for your sake--can you choose between us?"

"Oh, no, no! speak not of marriage. Pascal! my love is death--go!

forget me! be happy without me! I dare not be yours!"

"Happy without you! it is in vain: I love you too well; and if it be

true that you are the prey of the evil one, 'twere better die with you

than live away from you!"

Doubtless, the beloved voice has power above all things over the

softened heart: at the last step of misery we can dare all with

desperate courage. Before the assembled crowd she exclaimed: "Oh, yes,

Pascal, I do love you--I would have died alone; but, since you will have

it so, I resist no longer. If it is our fate--we will die together."

Pascal is in heaven--the crowd amazed--the soldier mute. Pascal

approaches him. "I am," he said, "more fortunate than you; but you are

brave, and will forgive me. To conduct me to my grave,[21] I require a

friend--I have none--will you act the part of one?"

[Footnote 21: Pascal conceives that, in wedding Françonnette, he is

devoted to death.]

Marcel is silent--he muses--a great struggle is in his heart--his eye

flashes--his brow is bent strongly--he gazes on Françonnette, and the

paleness of death creeps over him--he shakes off his faintness, and

tries to smile. "Since it is her will," he cries, "I will be that

friend."

Two weeks had passed,--and a wedding train descended the green hill. In

the front of the procession walked the handsome pair. A triple range of

people, from all quarters, extended for more than a league: they were

curious to know the fate of Pascal. Marcel is at the head of all; he

directs all; there is a secret pleasure in his eye, which none can

understand. One would say that to-day he triumphs; he insists on

arranging the marriage, and it is he who gives to his rival the feast

and the ball--his money flows liberally, his purse is open--all is

profusion; but there is no rejoicing--no singing--no smiling.

The bridegroom is on the brink of the grave--his rival guides him

thither, though he looks so gay--the day declines--all hearts sink with

fear and pity--they would fain save Pascal, but it is too late: there

they all stand motionless--but more as if at a burial than a wedding.

Fascinated by love, the pair have sacrificed all; though the gulf yawns

for them, they have no ears, no eyes, but for each other; as they pass

along, hand-in-hand, the happiness of loving has absorbed all other

feeling.

It is night.

A female suddenly appears: she clings round the neck of Pascal.--"My

son, leave her, leave your bride--I have seen the wise woman--the sieve

has turned--your death is certain--sulphur fills the bridal

chamber--Pascal, enter not in--you are lost if you remain; and I, who

loved you thus, what will become of me when you are gone?"

Pascal's tears flowed, but he held still firmer his bride's hand within

his own. The mother fell at his feet.

"Ungrateful son! I will never leave you! if you persist, you shall pass

over my body before you enter the fatal house. A wife, then, is

all-in-all--a mother nothing! Oh! miserable that I am!" Tears flowed

from every eye.--"Marcel," said the bridegroom, "love masters me; should

evil befal me, take charge of my mother."

"This is too much!" cried the soldier; "I cannot bear your mother's

grief. Oh, Pascal! be blest--be content--be fearless--Françonnette is

free! she is not sold to the evil one. It is a falsehood--a mere tale

made for a purpose. But had not your mother overcome me by her tears,

perhaps we should both have perished. You know--you can feel--how much I

love her; like you, I would give my life for her. I thought she loved

me, for she had my very soul--all! Yet she rejected me, though she knows

we were betrothed. I saw there was no way--I devised a plan--I hired the

sorcerer to raise a terror amongst all; he forged a fearful tale, chance

did the rest. I thought her then securely my own; but when we both

demanded her--when for you she braved everything--when she at once

confessed how dear you were, it was beyond my power to bear. I resolved

that we should both die; I would have conducted you to the bridal

chamber--a train is laid there: all three were to have been victims; I

would have bid you cease to fear the demon, but behold in me your

foe!--but it is past, the crime I had meditated is arrested. Your mother

has disarmed me; she reminds me of my own. Live, Pascal, for your

mother! you have no more to fear for me. I have now no one; I will

return to the wars; it were better for me that, instead of perishing

with a great crime on my conscience, a bullet should end my life."

He spoke no more, and rushed from their presence: the air resounded with

shouts, and the happy lovers fell into each other's arms: the stars at

that moment shone out. Oh! I must cast down my pencil--I had colours for

sorrow--I have none for such happiness as theirs!

Lines by Jasmin

ADDRESSED TO M. DUMON, DEPUTY, WHO HAD CONDEMNED OUR OLD LANGUAGE.

THERE'S not a deeper grief to man

Than when his mother, faint with years,

Decrepit, old, and weak, and wan,

Beyond the leech's art appears;

When by her couch her son may stay,

And press her hand and watch her eyes,

And feel, though she revive to-day,

Perchance his hope to-morrow dies.

It is not thus, believe me, sir,

With this enchantress--she we call

Our second mother: Frenchmen err,

Who, cent'ries since, proclaim'd her fall!

Our mother-tongue--all melody--

While music lives, can never die.

Yes!--she still lives, her words still ring;

Her children yet her carols sing:

And thousand years may roll away,

Before her magic notes decay.

The people love their ancient songs, and will,

While yet a people, love and keep them still:

These lays are as their mother; they recal,

Fond thoughts of mother, sister, friends, and all

The many _little things_ that please the heart--

The dreams, the hopes, from which we cannot part:

These songs are as sweet waters, where we find,

Health in the sparkling wave that nerves the mind.

In ev'ry home, at ev'ry cottage door,

By ev'ry fireside, when our toil is o'er,

These songs are round us, near our cradles sigh,

And to the grave attend us when we die.

Oh! think, cold critics! 'twill be late and long,

Ere time shall sweep away this flood of song!

There are who bid this music sound no more,

And you can hear them, nor defend--deplore!

You, who were born where its first daisies grew,

Have fed upon its honey, sipp'd its dew,

Slept in its arms and wakened to its kiss,

Danced to its sounds, and warbled to its tone--

You can forsake it in an hour like this!

--Yes, weary of its age, renounce--disown--

And blame one minstrel who is true--alone!

For me, truth to my eyes made all things plain;

At Paris, the great fount, I did not find

The waters pure, and to my stream again

I come, with saddened and with sobered mind;

And since, no more enchanted, now I rate

The little country far above the great.

For you--who seem her sorrows to deplore,

You, seated high in power, the first among,

Beware! nor make her cause of grief the more;

Believe her mis'ry, nor condemn her tongue.

Methinks you injure where you seek to heal,

If you deprive her of that only weal.

We love, alas! to sing in our distress;

It seems the bitterness of woe is less;

But if we may not in our language mourn,

What will the polish'd give us in return?

Fine sentences, but all for us unmeet--

Words full of grace, even such as courtiers greet:

A deck'd-out Miss, too delicate and nice

To walk in fields, too tender and precise

To sing the chorus of the poor, or come

When Labour lays him down fatigued at home.

To cover rags with gilded robes were vain--

The rents of poverty would show too plain.

How would this dainty dame, with haughty brow,

Shrink at a load, and shudder at a plough!

Sulky, and piqued, and silent would she stand

As the tired peasant urged his team along:

No word of kind encouragement at hand,

For flocks no welcome, and for herds no song!

Yet we will learn, and you shall teach--

Our people shall have double speech:

One to be homely, one polite,

As you have robes for diff'rent wear,

But this is all:--'tis just and right,

And more our children will not bear.

Lest we a troop of buzzards own,

Where nightingales once sang alone.

There may be some, who, vain and proud,

May ape the manners of the crowd,

Lisp French, and lame it at each word,

And jest and gibe to all afford:--

But we, as in long ages past,

Will still be poets to the last!

Hark! and list the bridal song,

As they lead the bride along:

"Hear, gentle bride! your mother's sighs,[22]

And you would hence away!--

Weep, weep, for tears become those eyes."

----"I cannot weep--to-day."

Hark! the farmer in the mead

Bids the shepherd swain take heed:

"Come, your lambs together fold,

Haste, my sons! your toil is o'er:

For the morning bow has told

That the ox should work no more."

Hark! the cooper in the shade

Sings to the sound his hammer made:

"Strike, comrades, strike! prepare the cask,

'Tis lusty May that fills the flask:

Strike, comrades! summer suns that shine

Fill the cellars full of wine."

Verse is, with us, a charm divine,

Our people, loving verse, will still,

Unknowing of their art, entwine

Garlands of poesy at will.

Their simple language suits them best:

Then let them keep it and be blest.

But let wise critics build a wall

Between the nurse's cherish'd voice,

And the fond ear her words enthral,

And say their idol is her choice:

Yes!--let our fingers feel the rule,

The angry chiding of the school;

True to our nurse, in good or ill,

We are not French, but Gascon still.

'Tis said that age new feeling brings,

Our youth returns as we grow old;

And that we love again the things,

Which in our memory had grown cold.

If this be true, the time will come

When to our ancient tongue, once more,

You will return, as to a home,

And thank us that we kept the store.

Remember thou the tale they tell,

Of Lacuée and Lacepède,[23]

When age crept on, who loved to dwell,

On words that once their music made:

And, in the midst of grandeur, hung,

Delighted, on their parent tongue.

This, will you do: and it may be,

When, weary of the world's deceit,

Some summer-day we yet may see

Your coming in our meadows sweet;

Where, midst the flowers, the finch's lay

Shall welcome you with music gay.

While you shall bid our antique tongue

Some word devise, or air supply,

Like those that charm'd your youth so long

And lent a spell to memory!

Bethink you how we stray'd alone,

Beneath those elms in Agen grown,

That each an arch above us throws,

Like giants, hand-in-hand, in rows.

A storm once struck a fav'rite tree,

It trembled, shook, and bent its boughs,--

The vista is no longer free:

Our governor no pause allows.

"Bring hither hatchet, axe, and spade,

The tree must straight be prostrate laid!"

But vainly strength and art were tried,

The stately tree all force defied.

Well might the elm resist and foil their might,

For though his branches were decay'd to sight,

As many as his leaves the roots spread round,

And in the firm set earth they slept profound!

Since then, more full, more green, more gay,

His crests amidst the breezes play:

And birds of ev'ry note and hue

Come trooping to his shade in Spring,

Each Summer they their lays renew,

And while the year endures they sing.

And thus it is, believe me, sir,

With this enchantress--she we call

Our second mother; Frenchmen err,

Who, cent'ries since, proclaim'd her fall.

No: she still lives, her words still ring;

Her children yet her carols sing,

And thousand years may roll away

Before her magic notes decay.

[Footnote 22: Jasmin here quotes several _patois_ songs, well known in

the country.]

[Footnote 23: Both Gascons.]

THE SHEPHERD AND THE GASCON POET.

To the Bordelais, on the grand Fête given me at the Casino.

IN a far land, I know not where,

Ere viol's sigh, or organ's swell,

Had made the sons of song aware

That music is a potent spell,

A shepherd to a city came,

Play'd on his pipe, and rose to fame.

He sang of fields, and at each close

Applause from ready hands arose.

The simple swain was hail'd and crown'd

In mansions where the great reside,

And cheering smiles and praise he found,

And in his heart rose honest pride:

All seem'd with joy and rapture gleaming,--

He trembled that he was but dreaming.

But, modest still, his soul was moved;

Yet of his hamlet was his thought,--

Of friends at home, and her he loved,--

When back his laurel-branch be brought:

And, pleasure beaming in his eyes,

Enjoy'd their welcome and surprise.

'Twas thus with me, when Bordeaux deign'd

To listen to my rustic song;

Whose music praise and honour gain'd

More than to rural strains belong.

Delighted, charm'd, I scarcely knew

Whence sprung this life so fresh and new.

And to my heart I whisper'd low,

When to my fields return'd again,

"Is not the Gascon Poet now

As happy as the shepherd swain?"

The minstrel never can forget

The spot where first success he met;

But he, the shepherd who, of yore,

Had charm'd so many a list'ning ear,

Came back, and was beloved no more;--

He found all changed and cold and drear!

A skilful hand had touch'd _the flute_;--

His _pipe_ and he were scorn'd--were mute.

But I, once more I dared appear,

And found old friends as true and dear--

The mem'ry of my ancient lays

Lived in their hearts--awoke their praise.

Oh! they did more;--I was their guest;

Again was welcomed and caress'd:

And, twined with their melodious tongue,

Again my rustic carol rung;

And my old language proudly found

Her words had list'ners, pressing round.

Thus, though condemn'd the shepherd's skill,

The Gascon Poet triumph'd still.

I returned by Agen, after an absence in the Pyrenees of some months, and

renewed my acquaintance with Jasmin and his dark-eyed wife. I did not

expect that I should be recognised; but the moment I entered the little

shop I was hailed as an old friend. "Ah!" cried Jasmin, "enfin la voila

encore!" I could not but be flattered by this recollection, but soon

found it was less on my own account that I was thus welcomed, than

because a circumstance had occurred to the poet which he thought I could

perhaps explain. He produced several French newspapers, in which he

pointed out to me an article headed "Jasmin à Londres;" being a

translation of certain notices of himself, which had appeared in a

leading English literary journal.[24] He had, he said, been informed of

the honour done him by numerous friends, and assured me his fame had

been much spread by this means; and he was so delighted on the occasion,

that he had resolved to learn English, in order that he might judge of

the translations from his works, which, he had been told, were well

done. I enjoyed his surprise, while I informed him that I knew who was

the reviewer and translator; and explained the reason for the verses

giving pleasure in an English dress, to be the superior simplicity of

the English language over modern French, for which he has a great

contempt, as unfitted for lyrical composition. He inquired of me

respecting Burns, to whom he had been likened; and begged me to tell him

something of Moore. The delight of himself and his wife was amusing, at

having discovered a secret which had puzzled them so long.

[Footnote 24: The Athenæum.]

He had a thousand things to tell me; in particular, that he had only the

day before received a letter from the Duchess of Orleans, informing him

that she had ordered a medal of her late husband to be struck, the first

of which would be sent to him: she also announced to him the agreeable

news of the king having granted him a pension of a thousand francs. He

smiled and wept by turns, as he told all this; and declared, much as he

was elated at the possession of a sum which made him a rich man for

life, the kindness of the duchess gratified him even more.

He then made us sit down while he read us two new poems; both charming,

and full of grace and _naïveté_; and one very affecting, being an

address to the king, alluding to the death of his son. As he read, his

wife stood by, and fearing we did not quite comprehend his language, she

made a remark to that effect: to which he answered impatiently,

"Nonsense--don't you see they are in tears." This was unanswerable; and

we were allowed to hear the poem to the end; and I certainly never

listened to anything more feelingly and energetically delivered.

We had much conversation, for he was anxious to detain us, and, in the

course of it, he told me that he had been by some accused of vanity.

"Oh!" he rejoined, "what would you have! I am a child of nature, and

cannot conceal my feelings; the only difference between me and a man of

refinement is, that he knows how to conceal his vanity and exultation at

success, which I let everybody see."

His wife drew me aside, and asked my opinion as to how much money it

would cost to pay Jasmin's expenses, if he undertook a journey to

England: "However," she added, "I dare say he need be at no charge, for,

of _course_, your queen has read _that article_ in his favour, and knows

his merit; she will probably send for him, pay all the expenses of his

journey, and give him great fêtes in London." I recommended the

barber-poet to wait _till he was sent for_; and left the happy pair,

promising to let them know the effect that the translation of Jasmin's

poetry produced on the royal mind:--their earnest simplicity was really

entertaining.

END OF VOL. I.

* * * * *

VOL. II.

CONTENTS TO THE SECOND VOLUME.

CHAPTER I.

Renown of Pau--Lectoure--The Labourer-Duke--Auch--Tarbes--The Princess

and the Count--Costume--Arrival at Pau--The Promenades--The

Town--Improvements--First Impressions--Walks--Buildings--Hotels--The

Magnificent Baker--The Swain--Tou-Cai!

CHAPTER II.

The Climate of Pau--Storms--Fine Weather--Palassou--Reasons for going to

Pau--The Winter

CHAPTER III.

The Castle of Henri Quatre--- The Furniture--The Shell--The Statue--The

Birth--Castel Beziat--The Fairy Gift--A Change--Henri

Quatre

CHAPTER IV.

Troubadour

CHAPTER V.

Road from Pan to Tarbes--Table Land--The Pics--The Haras of

Tarbes--Autumn in the Pyrenees--Mont l'Héris--Gabrielle

d'Estrées--Chasseaux Palombes--Penne de l'Héris--Pic du Midi--Charlet

the Guide--Valley of Campan--La Gatta--Grip--The Tourmalet--Campana del

Vasse--Barèges--Luz--Cagot Door--Gavarine--The Fall of the

Rock--Chaos--Circus--Magnificence of Nature--Pont de

Neige--Roland--Durendal--Izards--Les

Crânes--Pierrefitte--Cauteretz--Cerizet--Pont d'Espagne--Lac de

Gaube--Argelez

CHAPTER VI.

Vallée d'Ossau--Le Hourat--The Rio Verde--Eaux Chaudes--Eaux Bonnes---

Bielle--Izeste--Saccaze, the Naturalist

CHAPTER VII.

Gabas--Popular Songs--Pont Crabe--The Recluse of the Vallée

d'Ossau--Marguerite--The Springs

CHAPTER VIII.

Peasants of Ossau--Capitivity of Francis the First--Death of

Joyeuse--Death of the Duke de Maine--Dances

CHAPTER IX.

Coarraze--Orton--The Pont Long--Les Belles Cantinières--Morlàas--The

Curé--Resintance to Improvement--Uzain--Lescar--Reformation in

Navarre--Tombs--François Phoebus--The Mother

CHAPTER X.

The Romances of the Castle of Orthez--Tour de Moncade--The Infants--The

Son of Gaston Phoebus--Legends--The Oath--The bad King of Navarre--The

Quarrel--The Murder--Death of Gaston Phoebus--Paradise the Reward of

Hunters--The Captive--The Step-Mother--The Young Countess--The Great

Bear--The Return--The Real Cause--The Meeting in the Forest--The Mass

CHAPTER XI.

The Countess of Comminges--The Charge--The persecuted Heiress--The

Bridge--The Cordelier--Costume--Aspremont--Peyrehourade

CHAPTER XII.

Bayonne-Public Walks--Biaritz--Atalaya--Giant Fernagus--Anne of

Neubourg--The Dancing Mayor

CHAPTER XIII.

Basque Language--Dialects--Words--Poetry--Songs--The

Deserter--Character--Drama--Towns

CHAPTER XIV.

Cagots--Cacous of Brittany

CHAPTER XV.

The Cagot--Vallée d'Aspe--Superstitions--Forests--Despourrins--The two

Gaves--Bedous--High-road to Saragossa--Cascade of Lescun--Urdos--A

Picture for Murillo--La Vache

CHAPTER XVI.

Aramitz--The Play--Mauléon--The Sisters--Words--St. Jean

CHAPTER XVII.

Arneguy--The Cacolet--Rolando's Tree--Snow-white Goats

--Costume--Sauveterre--The Pastor--Navarreux--Spanish Air

BÉARN AND THE PYRENEES. VOL. II.

CHAPTER I.

RENOWN OF PAU--LECTOURE--THE LABOURER-DUKE--AUCH--TARBES--THE

PRINCESS AND THE COUNT--COSTUME--ARRIVAL AT PAU--THE

PROMENADES--THE TOWN--IMPROVEMENTS-FIRST

IMPRESSIONS--WALKS--BUILDINGS--HOTELS--THE MAGNIFICENT BAKER--THE

SWAIN--TOU-CAI!

WE left Agen on our way to Pau, where we proposed taking up our winter

quarters, having so frequently heard that it was one of the best

retreats for cold weather in the South of France: its various

perfections casting into the shade those, long-established, but now

waning, of Montpelier, Nice, &c. At Lectoure we changed horses, and

remained long enough to admire the fine view from its exalted position,

and a few of the humours of its population of young ragged urchins,

whose gambols with a huge Pyrenean dog diverted us for some time.

Lectoure is situated on the summit of an immense rock, surrounded by

hills and deep valleys. It was formerly very strongly fortified, as the

remains of its Roman and Middle-Age walls attest.

The tower of the church, partly Roman, partly English, is a very

striking object, from its extreme height and apparent fragility, which

is, however, merely imaginary; for it has resisted the efforts of time

and war for centuries: it once had a steeple of stupendous height; but

as it was continually attracting the stray lightnings, and was, besides,

much dilapidated, it was demolished. The episcopal palace, now the

Mairie, is near it, bought for the town by Marshal Lannes, Duke de

Montebello. The statue of this hero of Napoleon is in the grand square,

and his portrait, as well as those of other great men born in Lectoure,

adorn the walls of the interior. There are many fine promenades, from

whence delicious views can be enjoyed; from that of Fleurance it is

said that, on a clear day, the towers of the cathedral of Auch are seen;

and the view is bounded by the snowy giants of the Pyrenees. Although

the day was fine, we could not, however, distinguish either. This public

walk was made at the time when Lannes was a simple labourer in his

native place; and he, with others, received six sous a-day for his work.

The Duke de Montebello is said afterwards to have sat beneath the trees

which overshadow it, and told his companions in arms how his youth was

passed, and what his pay was at that time. This is a trait which does

the brave soldier's memory infinite honour.

The country is agreeable and diversified on the way to Auch, and the two

towers of the cathedral are seen at a great distance, crowning the

height on which the town stands. They have so much the aspect of a

feudal castle, that it is difficult to believe that one is looking on a

church. The nearer you approach, the more determined seems the form: and

walls, and bastions, and turrets, and ruins, seem rising out of the

hill: all, however, as you come quite close, subside into a huge mass,

which gives a promise of magnificence and grandeur by no means realized;

for there is more of Louis XIV. and XV., than Charles VIII., who began

the building, about the architecture; and the towers, which appeared so

grand at a distance, have a singularly poor and mean appearance

attached to the façade, and compared to the enormous bulk of the fabric.

The boast and glory of the cathedral of Auch are the series of painted

windows in the choir, of remarkable beauty, and in wonderful

preservation: the colours vivid, and the size of the figures colossal;

but though extremely gorgeous, they cannot compare, in purity of effect,

to earlier specimens, where less is attempted and more accomplished. I

never saw such large paintings of the kind: the nearest approach to it

being those of the same period at Epernay, amongst the vines of

Champagne. There is a great deal of rich sculpture, both in the stalls

and in the surrounding tombs, but the taste did not accord with mine,

and, on the whole, I felt but little interest in the cathedral: we were

spared the usual fearful exhibition in the winding staircase of one of

the towers, where a little child, to earn a few sous, is in the habit of

suspending itself by a rope, over the well, formed by the twisting

steps, and sliding down to the bottom with terrific celerity.

The town of Auch did not please me enough to induce us to stay longer

than to wait for the diligence, which was passing through to Tarbes;

and, having secured the _coupé_ we continued our journey. Before we had

travelled half a league, on descending a hill, suddenly, a line of

singularly-shaped objects, quite apart from all others in the

landscape, told us at once that the purple Pyrenees were in sight; and

we indeed beheld their sharp pinnacles cleaving the blue sky before us.

For some distance we still saw them; but, by degrees, they vanished into

shade as evening came on, and we lost them, and all other sights, in the

darkness of night; in the midst of which we arrived at Tarbes.

"Tharbes is a large and fine town, situated in a plain country, with

rich vines: there is a town, city, and castle, and all closed in with

gates, walls, and towers, and separated the one from the other; for

there comes from the heights of the mountains of Béarn and Casteloigne

the beautiful _River of Lisse_, which runs all throughout Tharbes, and

divides it, the which river is as clear as a fountain. Two leagues off

is the city of Morlens, belonging to Count de Foix, and at the entrance

of the country of Béarn; and beneath the mountain, at six leagues from

Tharbes, is the town of Pau, also belonging to the said Count."

This is Froissart's description of Tarbes, in his time; and, as far as

regards its beautiful sparkling river, which is _not the Lisse_, but the

Adour, might apply to it now; for the streams that appear in all

directions, in and round the town, are as clear as crystal, and run

glittering and murmuring through streets, roads, and promenades, as if

the houses and squares had no business there to intercept its

mountain-torrent.

We were much struck, when we first issued from our hotel in the

Place-Maubourguet, to behold, opposite, framed, as it were, in a square

opening between the streets, a gigantic mass of blue mountains shining

in the sun. They appeared singularly near; and one cannot fail to regard

them with a certain awe, as if a new nature had dawned, different from

any one had known before. This is the most interesting spot in Tarbes;

and its beautiful promenade by the river is also attractive. There are

no monuments,--no buildings worth notice. The once fine castle may be

traced in a few solid walls, and its moated position; but this tower was

one of the first indications we had that all specimens of architectural

art had ceased, and in future, with a few exceptions, it must be nature

alone which was to interest us. The red _capelines_ of the market-women,

and their dark mantles (_capuchins_), lined with the same colour, give

their figures a strange, nun-like appearance, which always strikes a

stranger, and at first pleases. As these shrouded forms flit about

amongst the trees, they look picturesque and mysterious; but the eye

soon wearies of this costume, which is totally devoid of grace. The

cloak, being so cut as to prevent its falling in folds, hangs stiffly

round the wearer's limbs; concealing the shape, and producing a mean

effect. It is a sort of penitential habit; and the peaked hood looks

like the dress of the San Benitos, or a lively image of the appropriate

costume of a witch who might be an inquisitor's victim. We could not

help contrasting it with the beautiful and graceful cloak worn by the

charming Granvillaises,--those Spanish-looking beauties whose appearance

so delighted us in that distant part of Normandy. The Granville girl has

also a black camlet mantle, or _capote_; but the stiff hood is not

peaked: it is lined with white, and is worn in the most elegant and

coquettish manner; showing the figure to great advantage, and setting

off the invariably pretty face, and its snow-white, plaited, turban-like

cap, never to be seen in the South. There are so few pretty countenances

in the Pyrenees, that perhaps even the Granville drapery would not make

much difference; but, certainly, nothing can be uglier than to see the

manner in which this scanty shroud is dragged over the form; giving more

the idea of a beggar anxious to shield herself from the inclemency of

the season, than a lively, smart, peasant girl pursuing her avocations.

The scarlet gleams of its lining alone in some degree redeem its

ugliness; as, at a distance, the vivid colour looks well amongst more

sombre tints.

It is difficult, at the present day, to picture Tarbes as it was at the

period when the Black Prince, and his Fair Maid of Kent, came to this

city of Bigorre, in all the splendour of a conqueror, to see the Count

of Armagnac, who was in debt to the magnificent Gaston Phoebus, for his

ransom, two hundred and fifty thousand francs.

The manner in which the count managed to get off part of his debt is not

a little amusing. He had represented his case to Edward, who saw nothing

in it but a very ordinary event: "You were taken prisoner," said he, "by

the Count of Foix; and he releases you for a certain sum. It would be

very unreasonable to expect him to waive his claim. I should not do so;

nor would my father, the king, in similar circumstances: therefore, I

must beg to decline interfering." The Count of Armagnac was much

mortified at this straight-forward answer, and began to devise what

could be done. He bethought him of the power of beauty; and applied to

the right person.

Gaston Phoebus arrived at Tarbes, from Pau, with a retinue of six

hundred horse, with sixty knights of high birth, and a great train of

squires and gentlemen. He was received with much joy and state by the

prince and princess, and entertained with infinite honour.

The fair princess chose her moment, and took occasion to beg a boon of

the Count of Foix, whose gallantry was proverbial; but, just as he was

on the point of granting it without condition, a momentary light made

him cautious "Ah! madam," said he, "I am a little man, and a poor

bachelor, who have not the power to make great gifts; but that which you

ask, if it be not of more value than fifty thousand francs, shall be

yours."

The princess talked and cajoled, and was as charming and insinuating as

possible, in hopes to gain her boon entire; but Gaston began to feel

certain that the ransom of the Count d'Armagnac was the object of her

demand; he, therefore, kept firm, in spite of her fascinations, and she

was obliged to name her request that he would forgive the count his

ransom.

"I told you," replied he, "that I would grant a boon to the value of

fifty thousand francs; therefore, I remit him that sum of what he owes

me."

And thus did the fair Princess of Aquitaine obtain a remission of part

of the ransom of the Count d'Armagnac.

We took a carriage from Tarbes to Pau,--our intended resting-place for

the winter. The drive, for several leagues, was extremely charming; the

banks were covered with rich purple heath; the oak and chestnut growing

abundantly and luxuriantly. But though, in our certainty of seeing some

_new_ growth as we approached nearer to the sunny South, we transformed

the round, thick oaks into _cork trees_, we were obliged to submit to

disappointment when we were assured that there was not a cork-tree till

the Spanish side of the Pyrenees was reached. Long before we arrived at

Pau, the hitherto pleasant, bright day had changed, and a sharp,

drizzling, chilly rain accompanied us on the remainder of our

journey--mist shutting out the prospect, and all becoming as dreary as a

wet day makes things everywhere. We were a little surprised to find that

there was no amelioration in this particular, since we looked forth upon

the streaming streets of Lisieux!

We drove into Pau through an ugly suburb, which gave a sufficiently mean

idea of its appearance; but we imagined that the town would repay us for

its approach. Still the grey, unpainted shutters of the slovenly-looking

houses were not replaced by others of brighter and cleaner aspect: still

ruined, barrack-like buildings, dilapidated or ill-constructed, met our

view; and, when we drove through the whole of the town to the Grande

Place de Henri Quatre, and paused at the Hôtel des Postes, instead of a

handsome, flourishing inn, we were astonished to see a wretched,

ancient, red, low-roofed tenement, adjoining a somewhat

ambitious-looking house without taste or grace. Here we could not find

accommodation; and, considering the appearance of what we had heard was

the best inn, we did not much regret the circumstance.

We were equally unsuccessful at several others; having looked at dirty,

dingy, black apartments on a fifth floor as the only ones left: so full

was the town of visitors returning, in all directions, from the

different baths in the Pyrenees, where, as _it had rained all the

summer_, invalids and tourists had been lingering for fine days, until

patience was exhausted, and "all betook them home."

At length we got housed in very tolerable but desolate cold rooms, with

furniture as scanty, and accommodations as meagre, as we had ever met

with in towns where no English face had been seen, except _en passant_.

This surprised us, as we had heard _comfort_ abounded in Pau, as well as

every luxury and beauty which wearied travellers would be glad to call

their own; add to which, a soft, mild climate, _which could be depended

on_, and the only drawback _too little wind_ and too continuous warmth.

This was the third of October, and it was as cold as Christmas; the rain

continued without ceasing; and, in spite of our impatience, we were

obliged to remain in our inn. The next day, however, brighter skies

revived us; and when we stepped forth on the rugged pavement, we felt in

better spirits; no change, however, did the fine sun and sky operate on

the town, which, it is sufficient to say, is one of the ugliest,

worst-paved, "by infinite degrees," and most uninteresting that exist

in France. The castle, of course, was the first attraction; and--though

without the slightest claim to notice on the score of architecture;

though dirty, and slovenly, and rugged, and dilapidated, more than could

possibly be expected in a region which is immortalized by the name of

Henri Quatre, and being, as it is, the goal sought by all travellers,

consequently forming the riches of Béarn, the cause of such a host of

travellers and tourists visiting Pau; the subject of all boast, the

theme of all pride; though it is neglected and contemned by the ingrates

of its neighbourhood,--the castle is, from its recollections, almost

worth the long journey which is to find it at its close.

We returned to the Place Royale, after lingering long, on this our

_first_ visit, in the chambers now in the course of restoration by the

most thoughtful and beneficent of sovereigns; and there we lost no time

in securing an abode in one of the beautifully-situated pavilions of the

Bains de la Place Royale,--a new and well-arranged building, let in

_suites_ of apartments, well furnished, and perfectly clean and

inviting, having been recently renovated. From the windows of the rooms

allotted to us, we beheld the whole of the long chain of the magnificent

Pyrenees, from the Pic de Bigorre to the giant du Midi, and the

countless peaks beyond. Our first impression was almost wild delight at

the prospect of living long in a spot with these splendid objects

always before our eyes, in uninterrupted grandeur; with a glowing sun

always shining, sheltered from the north wind by the high promenade at

the back of the house; with a beautiful little rapid stream running

along at the base of our tower, the murmuring, sparkling, angry Gave[25]

meandering through the meadows beyond; the range of vine-covered and

wooded hills opposite, dotted with villas, which glittered white amidst

their luxuriant groves; and, at the back of all, the everlasting awful

mountains, purple and transparent and glowing with light.

[Footnote 25: _Gave_ is the generic name of all the mountain streams in

this region, but that of Pau is called _"the Gave,"_ par excellence.]

We were not deceived in the enjoyment we anticipated in this particular,

for, to make amends for the unwilling _discoveries_ we made as to the

reputation of Pau, our mountains seemed to devote themselves to our

pleasure, assuming every form of beauty and sublimity to satisfy and

enchant us.

When we took our first walk in the promenade, improperly called _the

Park_, we were fascinated with the extreme beauty of this charmed grove,

which is planted in terraces, on a _cóteau_ bordering the Gave, and is

_one of the most_ charming possessed by any town in France: there is the

same glorious view of the range of giant mountains even more developed

than from the Place Royale; the paths are kept clean and clear and neat;

the trees are of the finest growth, and everything combines to make it a

most attractive spot, though the usual somewhat Gascon mode of

describing it, adopted at Pau, as _"the most beautiful in the world,"_

appears to me rather hyperbolical when I recollect those of Laon,

Auxerre, Dijon, Dinan, Avranches, and others; which have not, however,

the Pyrenees as a back-ground, it must be confessed.

The only part of the town of Pau which will bear mention, is that

portion which borders the Gave, above a fine avenue of trees, which

extends to a considerable distance along the banks of the small clear

stream of the Ousse: that is to say, _the houses_ which face the

mountains; but the street in which their entrances are found is narrow,

dirty, slovenly, and worse than _ill_-paved. These mansions--for some

of them are large and isolated--have a magnificent position, and, seen

from the Bois Louis, as the grove below is called, have a very imposing

aspect. The principal street, Rue de la Prefecture, is extremely mean,

and the shops of the least inviting appearance. It is very badly paved

throughout its great extent, for it reaches from one end of the town to

the other; but here and there a few flagstones serve to make their

absence elsewhere regretted. There is one good square, which might be

fine if, as seldom happens in France, the intention had been carried

out, or success had attended it. There are two rows of good houses, with

paved colonnades, but very few of the shops, which should have made it a

_Palais Royal_, are inhabited; consequently, the appearance of poverty

and desolation is peculiarly striking. One or two houses are taken, and

some windows filled with goods, very different from those, doubtless,

originally expected to appear; grocers, sadlers, and wine-merchants

occupy the places which should have been filled by _marchandes de

modes_, jewellers, toysellers, and ornamental merchants. The Place Henri

Quatre is, therefore, a half-executed project, and impresses the

stranger with no admiration. Another large, desolate space, called the

Place Grammont, contains the Champ de Mars, and is dedicated to the

military, whose barracks form one side of the square. A walk, called the

Haute Plante, is near this, and, descending from it, the baths of Henri

Quatre and the Basse Plante are reached, and the approach to the Park.

The great horse fair of Pau is kept in the Haute Plante; but it is by no

means an inviting spot: the park is, in fact, the only place where one

can walk pleasantly; for the pretty Bois Louis is principally devoted to

the washerwomen of the town, and soldiers; and the drains of the streets

running down in this direction, generally cause so unpleasant an odour,

that a stroll there can rarely be accomplished with pleasure. To reach

the park and to return from it, is a work of great pain; the pointed and

uneven stones making the walk intolerable, and there is no way by which

to arrive there, but through the damp, dirty streets.

If, as was once projected, a terrace walk was made to extend from the

Place Royale--which is a small square planted with trees in rows, to the

castle court, it would be an incalculable advantage; and such a means of

arriving at the only objects of interest, would be the saving not only

of many a sprained ankle, but many a severe cold, as, at all times, the

streets are cold and damp; and the less a visitor sees of the town of

Pau, and the more of the mountains, and _côteaux_, and streams, the less

likely is he to dissatisfied with a residence in this most favoured and

misrepresented of all ugly towns.