forth from their circling mists, at intervals, on our return, and were
pointed out to us by their different names; but as we came back in the
evening to Pau, the range which was most familiar to us re-appeared in
all its splendour, much clearer than when we were nearer to them.
At Beost, in the midst of the valley, lives a man, whose industry and
genius have made him an object of curiosity and interest in the country,
and whose fame must probably cause considerable interruption to his
studies in the season of the baths; for it has become quite the fashion
to visit him. He is called Pierrine, or Gaston Saccaze; is a shepherd
who has always lived in these mountains, and has made himself so
thoroughly acquainted with the botany of the district as to have become
a valuable correspondent of the members of the Jardin des Plantes at
Paris: he taught himself Latin, by means of an old dictionary which he
bought for a few sous, and, by dint of extraordinary perseverance, has
made himself master of the whole Flora of the Pyrenees.
CHAPTER VII.
GABAS--POPULAR SONGS--PONT CRABE--THE RECLUSE OF THE VALLÉE
D'OSSAU--MARGUERITE--THE SPRINGS.
I made another excursion to the Vallée d'Ossau in the February of 1843,
when the weather was singularly mild--infinitely more so than when I was
first there in October, and the clearness of the sky enabled me to see
all the mountains which were before concealed in clouds. With an
adventurous party, all anxious to take advantage of the propitious
moment, I undertook a long _walk_--for at this season it is difficult to
procure horses--towards Gabas, having this time the Pic du Midi bright
and clear and close in view. The carriage was able to advance along the
steep road which extends above the foaming Gave de Gabas, nearly half
way to the desired spot; for the snow had fallen in very small quantity
during the winter, and there had been no interruption to the roads.
From a certain place, however, where two paths diverged, we found that
the height we had reached had brought us to the snows, and that it was
too slippery for the horses to proceed; accordingly we alighted and
performed the rest of the journey on foot. The walk was very exciting
and amusing, our feet sinking deep in snow at every step, while a
burning sun, _gaümas_, as the guide said, was shining over our heads,
glittering on the white peaks above, and sparkling in the deep, clear,
green torrent at the foot of the box-covered hills, over which silver
streams of water were flowing from the summits into the murmuring wave,
which churlishly received their tributary visits, and disputed the place
they took, dashing, foaming, and springing over the enormous masses of
rock in their course, till all the valley re-echoed with their ceaseless
quarrelling.
Every now and then we stopped to look back at the sublime scenery, and
to make a hasty sketch of the peaks, which tempted us to pause. Summer
and winter seemed combined in our stroll, and it appeared as if we were
realizing the fable of "_the man, the sun, and the cloud_," not knowing
whether to yield to the heat or the cold. We met two Spaniards hurrying
along, who had crossed the mountains from Saragossa: they were fine,
strong-looking men, and sufficiently wild; but too dirty and slovenly to
excite much admiration _here_; if we had seen them on the opposite side
of the ravine they might have passed for picturesque, in the same manner
as the singing of our guide might have delighted our ears had we heard
him from a distance: as it was, he indulged our request by intoning some
of the pastorals of Despourrins, which, if the spirit of the poet of the
Pyrenees is wandering amongst the mountains, must have greatly
_perturbed_ it.
A long, loud, unmelodious drawl, like a dirge, with many a dying fall,
was the vehicle in which the tender expressions of the poet were
conveyed to our ears; and I was reproached by my companions for having
injudiciously praised the verses of the Swan of Béarn: certainly heard
in mutilated fragments, and sung by such a musician--"_La Haüt sus las
Mountagnes_" and "_La Plus Charmante Anesquette_," were not calculated
to excite much admiration.
A lady of our party, who was acquainted with the popular songs of
Languedoc, repeated a few verses to our guide, who took up the strain,
which was not new to him: it is singular how widely these simple songs
are spread from one part of France to the other; indeed, they are
scarcely confined to any country, and, like traditions, seem to have
wandered up and down into all regions. For instance, I was very much
surprised, a short time ago, to see in a work on Persian popular
literature, an almost literal version of a song, well-known on the
Bourbonnais, which I had met with at Moulins.
I questioned the guide on the subject of the superstitions of the
valley, and found that he had himself _seen_ the fairies called _Les
Blanquettes_: those charming mountain-fairies who roam along the peaks
singing mournful songs. "I had often heard of them," said he, "and many
of my friends had seen them hovering about the mouths of caverns on the
highest points of the mountains. I wished, therefore, to satisfy myself,
and went to the spot where others had beheld them, and sure enough there
they were, figures in white, like women, in a circle round the entrance
of a cavern."
"And were these fairies?" I asked.
He paused a moment, and then said--"As for fairies, that is an old
story, which some people believe: these that I saw _were only shadows_."
It appears to me that superstition is fast wearing out in the Pyrenees,
as well as everywhere else.
As we continued our way, we observed, along the snowy path, tracks of
the feet of animals--a troop of wild-cats had evidently been before us,
and here and there we remarked a print, which could be nothing less than
the foot-mark of a wolf. The flight of a large bird, which I believe to
have been a vulture, added to the solemnity of the scene; but there were
less of these indications of solitude than I hoped to experience, for
all was sunshine and gaiety around.
We observed near the Pont Crabe, _i.e._ Pont des Chèvres, on the
opposite side of the ravine, a desolate-looking mill, placed in so wild
and rugged a position, that one could not but pity those whose fortune
might have condemned them to a residence there all the year round: a
story attached to the cottage made it still more sad.
It appears that a young girl, the very flower of maidens in the Vallée
d'Ossau, had been deceived and deserted by her lover, and on the point
of becoming a mother, when she consulted the priest of her parish,
confessing to him her weakness, and entreating his aid to enable her to
propitiate offended Heaven. The virtuous and holy man, shocked at the
infirmity and want of propriety exhibited by the unfortunate girl, was
very severe in his censures, and informed her that there was no way left
for her but by penance and mortification to endeavour to wipe away her
sin. He condemned her, therefore, to take up her abode in that solitary
cottage, far away from all human habitation, to spend her life in
prayer and lamentation, and to endeavour, by voluntary affliction, to
win her way to heaven.
She did so; and she and her child lived for ten years in that secluded
spot, where the constant sound of murmuring waters drowned her sighs,
and where no intruding foot came to disturb her solitude, except when
the good priest, from time to time, visited her, to afford the
consolation of his pious prayers. At the end of that time her spirit
departed, and her little son was received into the convent, of which he
became a member.
THE RECLUSE OF THE VALLÉE D'OSSAU.
"Say, ye waters raging round,
Say, ye mountains, bleak and hoar,
Is there quiet to be found,
Where the world can vex no more?
May I hope that peace can be
Granted to a wretch like me!
"Hark! the vulture's savage shriek--
Hark! the grim wolf scares the night,--
Thunder peals from peak to peak,
Ghastly snows shroud ev'ry height.
Hark! the torrent has a tone,
Dismal--threat'ning--cold--alone!
"Was I form'd for scenes like this,
Flattered, trusting, vain and gay--
In whose smile _he_ said was bliss,
Who to hear was to obey?--
Yes! weak idol! 'tis thy doom,
This thy guerdon--this thy tomb!
"When I from my heart have torn
All the mem'ries cherish'd long;
When my early thought at morn,
And my sigh at even-song,
Have not all the self-same theme,
Peace upon my soul may gleam!
"When no more I paint his eyes,
When his smile no more I see,
And his tone's soft melodies
Wake not in each sound to me;
When I can efface the past,
I may look for calm--at last.
"When resentment is at rest,
Scorn and sorrow, rage and shame,
Can be still'd within my breast--
And I start not at his name;
When I weep, nor faint, nor feel,
Then my heart's deep wounds may heal.
"Years, long years, it yet will take,
Spite of pain and solitude,
Ere this heart can cease to ache,
And no restless dreams intrude:
Ere I crush each fond belief,
And oblivion vanquish grief.
"It might be--but in my child
All his father lives the while;
Such his eyes--so bright, so wild--
Such his air, his voice, his smile--
Still I see him o'er and o'er,
Till I dare to gaze no more!
"Is it sin to love him yet?
Was it sin to love at all?
Is my torture, my regret,
For his loss--or for my fall?
Change, oh Heaven!--thou canst, thou wilt--
Thoughts that sink my soul in guilt!
"Teach me that regret is crime,
That my past despair is vain,
And my penance through all time
Shall be ne'er to hope again,--
Only in His pardon trust--
Pitying, merciful, and just."
It is said that La Reine Marguerite, sister of Francis I., wrote the
greatest part of her celebrated stories during a sojourn at the Eaux
Chaudes: there, surrounded with a brilliant court of ladies and poets,
she passed several joyous months, and recruited her health, while she
amused her imagination, in wandering amongst the rocks and wild paths of
Gabas and La Broussette: in her train were "_joueurs, farceurs,
baladins_, and _garnemens de province_," and nothing but entertainment
seemed the business of the lives of those fair and gay invalids, who, so
long ago, set an example which has not failed to be well followed since.
The pompous inscription which once appeared in a chapel at La Hourat, in
honour of the passage of the Princess Catherine, sister of Henri IV. is
now replaced by a modern exhortation to the traveller to implore the aid
of the Virgin before he tempts the perils of the pass: and our guides
very reverently took off their _berrets_, as they went by the little
niche, where stands the image, which is an object of their adoration and
hope. Poor Catherine, always disconsolate at her separation from the
object of her choice, found but little relief from the waters--they
could not minister to a mind diseased--and she had not the joyous,
careless mind of her predecessor and grandmother; nor are we told that
she attempted to compose amusing histories to distract her thought, nor
could exclaim--
"I write--sad task! that helps to wear away
The long, long, mournful melancholy day;
Write what the fervour of my soul inspires,
And vainly fan love's slow-consuming fires."
All was sad and solitary to her; for the only companion she desired was
not there to give her his hand along the rugged paths, to support her
amongst the glittering snows, and smooth her way through the pleasing
difficulties of the abrupt ascents. Cold ceremony, and, at best, mere
duty, attended her whose heart sighed for tenderness and affection which
she was never destined to know. At that period, there was neither hotel
nor street, and the rudest huts sheltered that simple court; but they
might perhaps afford, after all, as much comfort as may at the present
day be found, in cold weather, in the irreclaimably smoky rooms of the
principal inn at the Eaux Chaudes.
The accommodation is much superior--at least, _out_ of the season--at
the Eaux Bonnes, the situation of which is, as I before observed,
infinitely more cheerful; but in hot weather it must be like an oven,
closed in as the valley is with toppling mountains, which one seems
almost to touch. Rising up, and barring the way immediately at the top
of the valley in which the waters spring, is the isolated mountain
called _La butte du Trésor_, on the summit of which is erected a little
rustic temple, doubtless the favourite resort of adventurous invalids,
during their stay at the waters. I cannot imagine the sojourn agreeable
at that period to persons in health, who are led there only by
curiosity; for often, while balls and parties are going on in the
saloons below, some unfortunate victim of disease is being removed from
the sick chambers above to his last home. Nothing but insensibility to
human suffering can allow enjoyment to exist in such a spot, under such
circumstances. I rejoiced that, at the period of both my visits, we had
the scenery all to ourselves, with no drawback of melancholy to spoil
the satisfaction we experienced.
These waters were first used, it is said, by Henri II. of Navarre, after
his return from the fatal fight of Pavia, where he was wounded by a
musketshot. They, from hence, took the name of Eaux des Arquebusades, as
they were found efficacious in cases similar to his own.
Michel Montaigne was one of the illustrious visitors to these healing
springs, which he calls _Grammontoises_.
Jacques de Thou came to the Eaux Bonnes in 1582; and recounts that, in
the week which he passed there, he drank twenty-five glasses of water a
day; but in this he was exceeded by a German companion, who took no less
them _fifty_.
These springs were forgotten for more than a century after this; and
Barèges was preferred to them. The great physician, Bordeu, of whom
Béarn is justly proud, restored their reputation in a great measure: but
it is rather within the last thirty years that they have reached the
celebrity which they now enjoy.
It is generally said that the Vallée d'Ossau combines all the beauties
and grandeurs of the Pyrenees; and that the traveller, who has only time
to visit this part, has had a specimen of all that is most admirable in
this beautiful chain of mountains. For myself, I endeavour to believe
this, not having been able to see so much of the Pyrenees as I desired.
CHAPTER VIII.
PEASANTS OF OSSAU--CAPTIVITY OF FRANCIS THE FIRST--DEATH OF
JOYEUSE--DEATH OF THE DUKE DE MAINE--DANCES.
A great deal has been said and written about the peasants of the Vallée
d'Ossau; and most persons appear to have been guided rather by
enthusiasm than truth, exaggerating and embellishing facts as it suited
their views or their humour. It is the custom to admire the young girls
and children who pester travellers with shabby, faded little bouquets,
which they throw into the carriage-windows, and to see something
peculiar in the custom; but it does not strike me that there is the
slightest difference in this, or any other usage, between the Pyrenees
and all parts of France, through which I have passed. On the road from
Calais, as well as in the Vallée d'Ossau, ragged dirty groups, eager for
sous, place themselves in your way, and endeavour to obtain money: on
fête-days they may look better; but on ordinary occasions there is
certainly but little to admire, either in their dress or manners.
A lively but sarcastic French writer has observed on the proneness of
tourists to exalt the peasants of Ossau into the Arcadian beings of
Virgil and Theocritus, representing them as assembling together to sing
the verses of Despourrins: that--"it is, perhaps, better to see romance
than not to see at all; but those who have discovered these pastoral
heroes and heroines, can assuredly never have met with them on the Ger
or the Pic du Midi: the only songs that one can hear in that
neighbourhood are drawling, monotonous lines, without either rhyme or
reason,--a sort of ballad like that of the wandering Jew. As for their
occupations, they are commonly employed in knitting coarse woollen
stockings, or in preparing, in the dirtiest manner in the world, the
poorest and most insipid cheese that ever was made. The youths and
maidens are by no means Estelles and Nemourins. I am aware that this
account will be considered profane, and the writer of these facts, a
morose, disagreeable person; but the truth is, nevertheless, better than
false enthusiasm, which causes misrepresentation; and, having always
before our eyes so much that is glorious and sublime, it cannot be
necessary to inflate the imagination for ever _à propos de rien_.
"Let those who would form an idea of the singing of the Ossalois observe
them on a fête-day, in some of their villages, when the young people are
returning home. They separate in two bands: some holding each other by
the waist, some round the neck. The foremost party go about thirty steps
in silence, while those behind sing a couplet in chorus; the first then
stop, sing the second verse, and wait till those behind have joined
them; and the latter sing the third verse as they arrive at home. This
chant is called, in the country, _Passe-carrère_. Every now and then the
song is intermingled with sharp, wild cries, called _arénilhets_,
peculiar to the mountaineers; which prove the strength of their lungs,
if not their ear for melody. All this is performed slowly and heavily,
without any appearance of joyousness or gaiety, and seems singularly
ill-adapted to a fête."
It must be allowed that, whenever a good voice occurs in this part of
the country, it is an exception to the general rule; but this happened
not long since, in the case of a young and very handsome girl of Ossau,
whose melodious voice and fine execution attracted the notice of an
amateur, by whom she was introduced to the theatre at Berlin, and
obtained great applause and success. She may be considered as a
nightingale who had lost her way amongst a wood of screech-owls; for her
talent was quite alone. She used to sing an old historical romance of
the valley, composed on the captivity of Francis I., which has seldom
since found a voice capable of giving it effect.
There is something in this old ballad very like those of Spain, both in
character and rhythm; and there exist several others, on historical
subjects, which have the same kind of simple merit:
THE CAPTIVITY OF FRANCIS I.
"Quan lou Rey parti de France," &c.
When the king, from France departing,
Other lands to conquer sought,
'Twas at Pavia he was taken,
By the wily Spaniard caught.
"Yield thee, yield thee straight, King Francis,
Death or prison is your lot;"
"Wherefore call you me King Francis?
Such a monarch know I not."
Then the Spaniards raised his mantle,
And they saw the fleur-de-lys;--
They have chained him, and, full joyous,
Bore him to captivity.
In a tower, where sun nor moon-light
Came but by a window small;
There he lies, and as he gazes,
Sees a courier pass the wall.
"Courier! who art letters bringing,
Tell me what in France is said?"
"Ah! my news is sad and heavy--
For the king is ta'en, or dead."
"Back with speed, oh, courier, hasten--
Haste to Paris back with speed,
To my wife and little children;
Bid them help me at my need.
"Bid them coin new gold and silver,
All that Paris has to bring,
And send here a heap of treasure,
To redeem the captive king."[32]
[Footnote 32: The popularity of this ballad is accounted for by the
circumstance of the Prince of Béarn, Henry II. d'Albert, having been
made prisoner with Francis; he was, however, more fortunate than the
king, for he made his escape. The original runs thus:--
THE CAPTIVITY OF FRANCIS I.
Quan lou Rey parti de France,
Counqueri d'aütes pays,
A l'entrade de Pavi
Lous Espagnols bé l'an pris.
"Renté, renté, Rey de France,
Que si non, qu'en mourt ou pris,"
Quin seri lou Rey de France?
Que jamey you nou l'ey bist."
Queou lheban l'ale deoü mantoü
Troban l'y la flou de lys.
Quoü ne prenen et quoü liguen
Dens la prison que l'an mis.
Dehens üe tour escure,
Jamey sour ni lue s'y a bist;
Si nou per üe frinistote....
U poustillou bet beni.
"Poustillou qué lettres portis
Que si counte tà Paris?"
"La nouvelle que you porti
Lou Rey qu'ere mort ou pris."
"Tourne t'en poustillou en poste,
Tourne t'en entà Paris.
Arrecommandem à ma femme
Tabé mous infants petits.
"Que hassen batte la mounede,
La qui sie dens Paris,
Que men embien üe cargue
Por rachetam aü pays."
The chorus is usually at the end of each verse--"La lyron, la lyré," or
"doundoun, doundone."]
The following is also a favourite ballad on the battle of Coutras and
the death of Joyeuse, the magnificent favourite of Henry III., whose
contemptuous remark on his effeminacy was the cause of his exposing
himself in the _mêlée_. The episode of the fate of Joyeuse is an
affecting one in the life of the valiant and generous Henry of Navarre.
The treasure was immense that was taken from the gorgeous army destined
to overthrow the harassed Huguenots, but literally cut to pieces by the
stern and bold, though ragged warriors. The gold, silver, and jewels
that were brought to Henry's tent, after the victory, were heaped on the
floor, and the dead body of the beautiful and admired Duke de Joyeuse
was brought to him. Henry turned away, sick at heart, and commanded the
corpse to be covered with a cloak, and removed carefully; and desired
that all the spoil should be divided amongst the soldiers; holding it
beneath him to accept any: nor could he restrain his tears at the sight
of so much carnage of those whom he looked upon as his subjects.
THE DEATH OF JOYEUSE.
Between La Roche and Coutras
Was heard our battle cry;
And still we called--"To arms! to arms!"
Our voices rent the sky.
Our king was there with all his men,
And all his guards beside,
Within, the Duke de Joyeuse,
And to the king he cried:
"Oh, yield, King Henry, yield to me!"--
"What simple squire art thou,
To bid King Henry yield him,
And to thy bidding bow?"
"I an no simple squire,
But a knight of high degree;
I am the Duke de Joyeuse,
And thou must yield to me."
The king has placed his cannon
In lines against the wall,--
The first fire Joyeuse trembled,
The next saw Joyeuse fall.
Alas! his little children,
How sad will be their fate!--
A nurse both young and pretty,
Shall on them tend and wait:
And they shall be brave warriors,
When they come to man's estate.
The next ballad is in the same strain:
THE DEATH OF THE DUKE DE MAINE.
The noble Duke de Maine
Is dead or wounded sore;
Three damsels came to visit him,
And his hard hap deplore.
"Oh! say, fair prince, where is your wound?"
"'Tis in my heart," he said,
"'Twill not be many moments
Ere you will see me dead."
"Oh! call my page, and bid my squire;--
They ink and paper bring;--
For I must write a letter
To my cousin and my king."
And when the king the letter read,
Tears from his eyelids fell;
"Oh! who shall lead my armies now.
Who shall command so well!"
"Oh! who shall guide my valiant bands
To conquest in the fight!--
The Duke de Vendôme[33] must succeed,--
He is a gallant knight."
[Footnote 33: Antoine de Bourbon.]
* * * * *
It is seldom now that the tamborine or pipe, celebrated by Despourrins,
is heard as an accompaniment to the dances of the peasants. A violin is
the usual music; and the antique and pastoral character is at once
destroyed.
Sometimes it is possible to see a real mountain-dance, which is
certainly picturesque, if not graceful, and belongs peculiarly to the
spot, and the objects which inspired it; as, for instance, _"The Dance
of the Wild Goat," "The Dance of the Izard," "La Gibaudrie," "La Ronde
du Grand Pic."_
The young men are very agile in these exercises; but, in general, the
woman's part is very inferior: they, indeed, seldom dance together, and
usually are only spectators. This seems to indicate an Eastern origin.
There is one exception to this rule in a _ronde_, executed by both
sexes, hand-in-hand; but in this the men leap and cut, while the women
move their feet slowly and heavily: in fact, they look half asleep,
while the young men seem much more occupied with their own feats of
agility than with their partners.
As I have not seen any of these dances, nor the peasants in their
holiday costumes, I have some difficulty in imagining that there is
either beauty or grace amongst them. At the Eaux Bonnes, our female
attendant wore her red-peaked _capeline_ in the house, which had a
singular effect, but was by no means pretty: indeed, the only impression
it gives me is, that it is precisely the costume which seems to suit _a
daunce o' witches_; and cannot by possibility be softened into anything
in the least pleasing to the eye. All the peasants I saw at different
periods of the year had a remarkably slovenly, dirty, squalid
appearance; and, except in the instance of one little girl of about
thirteen, I saw none who had the slightest claim to beauty, or could
excite interest for a moment. There is a humble, civil air about the
people in the Vallée d'Ossau, which propitiates one: the _berret_ is
always taken off as a stranger passes, and a kind salutation uniformly
given. But, beyond this, there is nothing worthy of remark as respects
the common people, who appear to be a simple race, content to work hard
and live poorly.
Our guide pointed out to us a village, from the valley, perched up on a
height in the midst of snows, where, he said, the inhabitants, who were
all shepherds, _were very learned_. "Not one of them," said he, "but can
read and write; and, as they are always in the mountains with a book in
their hands, and have nothing to interrupt their studies, they know a
great deal, and are brave _gens_." Probably Gaston Saccaze the naturalist
belongs to such a fraternity.
CHAPTER IX.
COARRAZE--ORTON--THE PONT LONG--LES BELLES
CANTINIÈRES--MORLAAS--THE CURÉ--RESISTANCE TO
IMPROVEMENT--UZAIN--LESCAR--REFORMATION IN NAVARRE--TOMBS--FRANÇOIS
PHOEBUS--THE MOTHER.
"A très lègues de Pau, a cap à las mountagnes
Aprés abé seguit gayhaventes[34] campagnes,
Sus û Pic oûn lou Gabe en gourgouils ba mouri
Lou Castel de Coarraze aüs oueils qu'es bien ouffri."
WITHIN a pleasant drive of Pau is the Castle of Coarraze, where the
youth of Henry IV. was passed, under the guardianship of Suzanne de
Bourbon-Busset, Barronne de Miossens. Of this castle nothing now remains
but one tower, on which may still be traced the motto, "_Lo que ha de
ser non puede faltar_," from whence is a magnificent view _into_ the
mountains.
Of the Castle of Coarraze, it will be seen that more marvellous things
are told than that Henri Quatre passed much of his childhood there.
[Footnote 34: Smiling.]
Froissart has immortalized it as the scene of one of his romances of
Orthez; and this is the tale he tells of its lord:
It seems, Count Gaston Phoebus had such early knowledge of every event,
that his household could only account for the fact by supposing that he
possessed some familiar spirit, who told him all that had happened in
the country, far and near. This was considered by no means unusual; and
when Sir John Froissart expressed his surprise on the subject, a squire
belonging to the count related to him a circumstance of a similar
nature.
"It may be about twenty years ago," said he, "that there reigned, in
this country, a baron, who was called Raymond, and who was Lord of
Coarraze. Now, Coarraze is a town and castle, about seven leagues from
this town of Orthez. The Lord of Coarraze had, at the time of which I
speak, a suit before the Pope, at Avignon, respecting the tithes of the
church, which were claimed by a certain clerk of Catalonia, who insisted
on his right to a revenue from them of a hundred florins a-year.
Sentence was given by Pope Urban the Fifth, in a general consistory,
against the knight, and in favour of the Churchman; in consequence of
which, the latter hastened, with all speed, back to Béarn with his
letters and the Pope's bull, by virtue of which he was to enter into
possession of the tithes.
"The Lord of Coarraze was much incensed at this; and, in great
indignation, went to the clerk, and said, 'Master Peter,' or 'Master
Martin,'--it matters not for his name--'do you suppose that I shall be
content to lose my inheritance for the sake of those letters of yours? I
do not believe you to be so bold as to lay your hands on a thing which
belongs to me; for, if you do, it is as much as your life is worth. Go
elsewhere, and get what you can; as for my inheritance, you shall have
none of it, and I tell you so once for all.'
"The clerk stood much in awe of the knight at these words, for he knew
him to be a determined man, and dared not persevere in his demand; he
found it safe to retire to Avignon, or, at all events, out of the
count's reach; but, before he departed, he said to him, 'Sire, by force,
and not by right, you have taken and kept from me the dues of my church,
which in conscience is a great wrong. I am not so strong in this country
as you are; but I would have you know, and that soon, that I have a
champion, whom you will have cause to fear more than you do me.' The
Lord of Coarraze, who cared nothing for his menaces, replied: 'Go, in
Heaven's name, and do your worst. I value you as little dead as living;
and, for all your words, you shall not get my property.'
"Thus they parted: the clerk either to Avignon, or into Catalonia; but
he did not forget what he had said to the knight, for soon after there
came to his castle of Coarraze, and into the very chamber where he and
his lady slept, invisible messengers, who began to riot and overturn
everything they found in the castle; so that it seemed as if they would
destroy all they came near; so loud were the strokes which they struck
against the doors of the bed-rooms, that the lady shook as she lay, and
was greatly terrified. The knight heard all; but he took no sort of
notice, for he would not seem to be moved by this event, and was bold
enough to wait for stranger adventures.
"The noise and uproar continued for a long space in different chambers
of the castle, and then ceased. The domestics and squires represented
what had happened to their master; but he feigned to have heard nothing,
and to believe that they had been dreaming: but his lady one day assured
him that she had heard the noise but too clearly.
"That same night, as he was sleeping in his bed, came the uproar again
as before, and shook the windows and doors in a wonderful manner. The
knight then could not but rouse himself; and, sitting up, cried out,
'Who knocks so loud at my chamber at such an hour?'
"'It is I--it is I!' was the answer.
"'And who sends you?'
"'The clerk of Catalonia, whom you have wronged out of his property; and
I will never leave you in peace till you have reckoned with him for it,
and he is content.'
"'And what is your name, who are so good a messenger?'
"'I am called Orton.'
"'Orton,' said the knight, 'the service of a clerk is beneath you; you
will find it more trouble than profit; leave it, and serve me--you will
be glad of the exchange.'
"Now, Orton had _taken a fancy_ to the Lord of Coarraze; and, after a
pause, he said,
"'Are you in earnest?'
"'Certainly,' replied the knight; 'let us understand each other. You
must do evil to no one, and we shall be very good friends.'
"'No, no,' said Orton, 'I have no power to do evil to you or others,
except to disturb them when they might sleep.'
"'Well, then, we are agreed,' said the knight; 'in future, you serve me,
and quit that wretched clerk.'
"'Be it as you will,' said Orton, 'so will I.'
"From this time, the spirit attached himself with such affection to the
lord, that he constantly visited him at night; and when he found him
asleep he made a noise at his ear, or at the doors and windows; and the
knight used to wake and cry out, 'Orton, let me alone, I entreat!'
"'No, I will not,' was the reply, 'till I have told you some news.'
"Meantime, the lady used to lie frightened to death--her hair on end,
and her head covered with the bed-clothes. Her husband would say:
"'Well, what news have you?--from what country do you come?'
"The spirit would answer:
"'Why, from England, or Germany, or Hungary, or other countries. I set
out yesterday, and such and such things happened.'
"In this manner was the count informed of all that occurred in every
part of the globe for five or six years: and he could not conceal the
truth, but imparted it to the Count of Foix, when he came to visit him.
The count was greatly surprised at what he told, and expressed a wish
that he possessed such a courier.
"'Have you never seen him?' said he.
"'Never,' answered the knight.
"'I would certainly do so,' said the Count de Foix; 'you tell me he
speaks Gascon as well as you or I. Pray see him, and tell me what form
he bears.'
"'I have never sought to do so,' said the knight; 'but, since you wish
it, I will make a point of desiring him to reveal himself.'
"The next time Orton brought his news, his master told him he desired to
behold him; and, after a little persuasion, he agreed that he should be
gratified. 'The first thing you see to-morrow morning,' said he, 'when
you rise from your bed, will be me.'
"The morning came, and when the knight was getting up, the lady was so
afraid of seeing Orton that she pretended to be sick, and would not
rise. The knight, however, was resolved, and leapt up with the hope of
seeing him in a proper form, but nothing appeared. He ran to the
windows, and opened the shutters to let the light in, but still there
was no appearance in his room.
"At night Orton came, and told him he had appeared in the form of two
straws, which, he might have observed, whirled about on the floor.
"The knight was much displeased, and insisted on not being thus played
with: 'when I have seen you once,' said he, 'I desire no more.'
"''Tis well,' replied Orton. 'Remark, then, the first object which meets
your eye when you leave your chamber, that will be me.'
"The next day the Lord of Coarraze got up, as usual; and when he was
ready, he went out of his room into a gallery, which overlooked a court
of his castle. The first thing which attracted his notice was a large
sow, the most enormous creature he had ever beheld in his life; but she
was so thin, that she seemed nothing but skin and bone, and she looked
miserable and starved, with a long snout and emaciated limbs.
"The lord was amazed and annoyed at seeing this animal in his
court-yard, and cried out to his people to drive it away, and set the
hounds upon it. This was accordingly done, without delay; when the sow
uttered a loud cry, turned a piteous look upon the knight, and
disappeared: nor could any one find her again.
"The Lord of Coarraze returned to his chamber in a pensive mood; and was
now convinced, too late, that he had seen his messenger--who never
afterwards returned to him: and the very next year he died in his
castle."
Beginning almost from the entrance to Pau, extends an immense district
of uncultivated land, called the Pont Long. This _lande_ is covered with
coarse fern and heath, and is intersected with wide marshes; thirty-two
communes have a right in this ground; but it chiefly belongs to the
Vallée d'Ossau. It was formerly much more extensive than it now is; but,
even yet, a very inconsiderable portion has been reclaimed: its extent
is about twelve leagues in length, and one and a half in width.
In the centre of this wild country is the ancient town of Morlàas, whose
name, tradition says, was derived from the circumstance of a
prince--Gaston Centulle--having been there assassinated; from whence it
was called _Mort-là_, a derivation, probably, as likely as any other
that can be found.
We chose a very bright, warm, and beautiful day--during the continuance
of fine weather, in November--to drive to Morlàas. Our carriage was
stopped, just as we got out of the town, by a regiment of soldiers who
were marching out, and, but for the courtesy of the colonel, we should
have been impeded for nearly a league: he, however, kindly ordered the
ranks to open, and we were allowed to go on between the two lines. This
regiment--the 25th of the line--is a remarkably fine one, and appears to
be kept in constant activity by its commanders, going out to great
distances to exercise in every weather. It is attended by a pretty troop
of young women, whose appearance reminded me of Catherine's _petite
bande_, so attractive did it seem. I do not know whether this is a
common thing, but I never saw such a troop before in company with a
regiment. They wear a costume, half feminine half military; have short
dresses of grey cloth--the colour of the men's great coats--sitting
close to their shape, very full in the skirt, and with cuffs turned up
with red facings, red trowsers, and military boots, a white plaited ruff
and habit-shirt, a white--neatly frilled and plaited--cap, surmounted
with a small, smart glazed hat, round which is the word _Cantinière_:
across their shoulder is slung a canteen, and in this equipment they
step along with a military air, and in a dashing style which would be
invaluable on the stage. I never saw anything more singular and pretty,
and to me so new: almost every one of the women was young and very
good-looking, extremely well made, and active and strong; as, indeed,
they require to be, for they accompany the soldiers on all their
expeditions, and remain out all day. It is something as amusing to
behold as the troop of _savans and asses_, taken care of by Napoleon in
his Egyptian campaign.
The road to Morlàas is rather monotonous, and that part which crosses
the marsh very bleak and desolate: with the gigantic mountains bounding
the horizon, it seems as if the marsh-fiend might here well establish
his abode; and the salubrity of the air of the neighbourhood I should
somewhat doubt. After a considerable distance, the road quits the
_Lande_, and mounts a hill, along and from the summit of which is a very
agreeable view, which improves at every step. From this point the Lande
below appears cultivated, and vines and fields are seen in all
directions. You descend the hill, and Morlàas is in sight: that town was
once regal, and of old renown, but is now in the very perfection of ruin
and desolation.
It was the great market, and our driver was so delighted at the
circumstance, that it was with the utmost difficulty we could prevent
him from taking us to a plain outside the town, where the horse-fair was
going on, as he assured us that there we should see all the _monde_. As
we were quite aware of the style of gentry assembled, by the quantity of
blue frocks and berrets which we saw from a distance, and by the
neighing of steeds which reached our ears, we declined joining the
commercial party, and contented ourselves with being jostled and crowded
by the assemblage in the streets of Morlàas, whose avenues were blocked
up with market-folks, not only from every village and commune round, but
from Pau, and Orthez, and Peyrehourade, and Lescar.
We stopped at the once magnificent church of Sainte Foix, before a
little low porch, where we had to endure much persecution from beggars,
_en attendant_ the arrival of the curé who was to show us the interior.
We were amused at one of these people, who continued his whining cry of
"Charita madama, per l'amor de Déieux!"--half French, half _patois_; till
our driver asking him to point out the curé's abode, he answered
briskly, in a lively tone; and, having given the required information,
resumed the accustomed drawl.
The curé seemed very cross, and little propitiated by our apologies for
having disturbed him: he looked sleepy and flushed, and had evidently
been enjoying a nap, after a hearty meal and a bottle of Jurançon. He
hurried us through the ruined church, from which almost every vestige of
its early character has disappeared. On a pillar are still seen some
Gothic letters, which may be thus read: "In the year of God 1301, this
pillar and this altar were made by Téaza, whom God pardon! in honour of
God, St. Orens, and Sainte Foi." A picture of the sixteenth century
adorns the choir. It represents the Judgment of our Lord; each of the
judges is in the costume of the period; and his opinion is expressed by
a label attached to his person.
One little chapel alone remains of all that must have adorned this
church: the sculpture of this is very beautiful, and the grimacing heads
introduced amongst the foliage sufficiently grotesque. There is a very
large antique baptismal font, and near it is a mutilated statue of the
Virgin sustaining the Saviour on her knees, which the curé insisted upon
was Nicodemus. His scriptural knowledge seemed about equal to his
historical; but he evidently had no mean opinion of his own
acquirements, which, he almost told us, were of too high a character to
be wasted on mere travellers and foreigners, who knew nothing about
Notre Dame or the saints. He would not let us see the belfry-tower,
which he assured us was unsafe, and was displeased at our stopping him
to remark on the extreme antiquity of two of the huge pillars which
support the roof, and which, though much daubed with whitewash, have not
lost all their fine _contours_. Having got rid of us, the curé hurried
back to his siesta, and we strolled round the church. Beautiful circular
arches, with zigzag mouldings, almost perfect, adorned several towers,
and showed how admirable must once have been the form of the building.
We found ourselves carried away by the crowd into the street again, and
were obliged to pause and take breath by the side of the clear rivulet,
which, as in most of the towns here, runs swiftly through the streets,
rendering them much cleaner than they would otherwise be. Here we were
accosted, from an open window, by a female who had been watching our
proceedings, from the time of our driving into the town, and who seemed
quite distressed to see three ladies alone, without a cavalier.
"However," she said, "three of you are company, to be sure, and can take
care of each other." She was very eloquent on the subject of Morlàas,
and had no idea but that we had purposely chosen the market-day for our
visit, in order to be _gay_.
We made our way, with some difficulty--through the throng of persons
which filled the market-place, and who were busy buying and selling
coarse stuffs and mérinos, coloured handkerchiefs, and woollen goods--to
the principal façade of the church, against which the ruinous old
_halle_ is built; and there we contrived to get a sight of the remains
of one of the most splendid portals I ever beheld. Of gigantic
proportions, circle within circle, each elaborately carved, with
figures, foliage, and intersecting lines, the magnificent door-way of
the church of Sainte Foi presents a treasure to antiquarians: equal in
riches to, but more delicate, and larger and loftier, than that of
Malmsbury Abbey, in Wiltshire, it has features in common with that fine
structure; but I never saw so wide a span as the arch, or more exquisite
ornaments.
It appears that the town of Morlàas, which, ruined as it is, is said to
be _rich_ (!) is about to restore this fine entrance. A new town-hall
and market-place are being built, and, when completed, the miserable
huts which disfigure the church will be cleared away, and the façade
allowed to appear. Above this door is a fine steeple, crested with
figures, which we could scarcely distinguish, but which we found were
the _Cows of Béarn_ clustered round the summit.
When Morlàas was the residence of the Viscounts of Béarn, it possessed a
sovereign court, and a mint of great celebrity, where copper, silver,
and even _gold_ coins were struck. Money seems to have been coined at
Morlàas in the time of the Romans; its pieces were much coveted in the
country for their purity, and were considered far superior to any other
in Gascony. There was a _livre Morlane_ as there was a _livre Tournois_,
and it long preserved its celebrity. It was worth triple _the livre
Tournois_, and was subdivided into _sols_, _ardits_, and _baquettes_, or
_vaquettes_, _i.e. little cows_. A very few of those remarkable coins
are still preserved; some exist, in private museums, of the time of the
early Centulles and Gastons, of François Phoebus, of Catherine
d'Albret, Henry II., Henry IV., and Queen Jeanne. The device they bear
is--_"Grâtia Dei sum id quod sum."_
Some Moorish coins, with Arabic inscriptions, have been found in this
neighbourhood, which are also preserved in the cabinets of the curious.
The Hôtel or Palace of the Viscounts was formerly called the Hourquie,
or Forquie: from whence the money was called _moneta Furcensis_: the
town itself was occasionally called Furcas. The _patois_ name by which
it is known is Morlans. No vestige is left of this magnificent palace;
and Morlàas presents, altogether, a most wretched aspect, being
literally a heap of stones and ruin. Its situation offers no inducement
to its restoration; for, being placed in the midst of marshes, it has no
beauty of country which should make it a desirable residence. From time
immemorial, prejudice and custom have prevented any attempt being made
to cultivate these dismal swamps; or if a few energetic persons have
tried to ameliorate their condition, and have taken possession of parts
of the waste with such a view, at once the Ossalois have descended from
their mountains, with sticks and staves, and driven the invaders from
their ground. Even at the present day, as the right remains to the
people of Ossau, they have the power, which they are sure to enforce, of
preventing any incursions on the _landes_ along the valley of Pau; and,
if they please, they can pasture their sheep by the banks of the Gave,
and pen them in the lower town, beneath the castle, asking "no bold
baron's leave." There is no fear, now, of these fierce mountaineers
"sweeping like a torrent down upon the vales," as in the days when
Lescar, Morlàas, and Pau, were obliged to shut their gates in terror,
when they saw their advance.
It is related, that, in 1337, a lord of Serres erected a castle in the
midst of the Pont Long, and in a short time nearly two hundred houses
were nestling under the protection of his turrets. All was going on
well; the ground began to be drained and cultivated, and everything
promised a happy result to the undertaking; but a storm of wrath rose in
the mountains, the haughty owners of a useless marsh, unwilling that it
should serve a good purpose to others, though of no importance to
themselves, roused their followers, and, to the number of several
hundreds, rushed from their snowy retreats, and, in one night, ravaged
and destroyed all they met with. The new settlers fled in consternation,
while the Ossalois burnt and threw down their dwellings, leaving a heap
of ruins, which may still be traced in the midst of the Pont Long. They
took refuge at some distance, where their dangerous neighbours had no
right, and built themselves a village, which is that of Serres-Castel at
the present time.
At one period Henry II., the grandfather of Henry IV., was desirous of
forming a park for deer, and, taking possession of a track of ground, he
surrounded it with walls. The Ossalois consulted together, and
discovered that this ground was one of the dependencies on the Pont
Long. Without condescending to remonstrance they assembled in bands, and
marching down with flags flying, demolished the enclosures and took back
their possession.
In the same year, 1543, the sovereign of Béarn was obliged to solicit of
these tyrants of the valley permission for his cousin, the Dame
d'Artiguelouve, to send her cattle to feed in the Pont Long, to which
they consented "_for a consideration_"--_i.e._ by being paid the
_baccade_, such as is demanded of the shepherds.
The Princess Magdelaine, governess of Prince François Phoebus, in 1472,
obtained, _as a favour_, the permission for her physician, Thomas
Geronne, to introduce _seven mares_ to feed in the marsh. A letter of
the princess entreats, also, at another period, the same grace for the
cattle of her treasurer-general.
For more than eight centuries the possession of this _precious_ marsh
has been the subject of litigation, and it has remained in its barren
state.
The Vallée d'Ossau has had to defend its rights sometimes against the
viscounts of Béarn, sometimes against the monks of Cluny, and the
_Poublans_ of Pau. Law or combats have been always necessary to enable
them to retain their rights. It was on occasion of a decision in their
favour by Gaston IV., that the Ossalois made a gift to that prince of
the sum of two thousand four hundred florins, to aid him in finishing
the castle of Pau, which was then in the course of erection.
This Pont Long, which has so long been an apple of discord to Béarn, is
at the present hour likely to have settled bounds; for, in 1837, the
members of the Cour-Royal of Pau occupied themselves on the subject, and
a chance exists of something useful being done with the ground: there is
a project for encouraging mulberry-trees and silk-worms there, and of
making a canal to carry off its waters, and render it fit for
cultivation. This is the more necessary, as fever and ague are
sufficiently common in its neighbourhood. But, even within a very few
years, when an enlightened agriculturist, M. Laclède, endeavoured to
clear the ground, and plant and improve, the fury of opposition he
experienced was disgracefully extraordinary. Under the pretext that
their pastures were invaded, the people came with fire and hatchet, and
burnt his trees, and cut away his bridges and aqueducts.
A spot is shown in the Pont Long, called Henri Quatre's marsh; for it is
said that this prince being one day out shooting snipes, got so
entangled in the mud that it was with the greatest difficulty he was
rescued from his unpleasant predicament.
There is an oasis in this desert, the village of Uzein, which is a
standing proof of the possibility of effecting all that industry can
desire in this condemned place: the people of this flourishing village
owe their success to the determined perseverance of their curate, who
exhorted and persuaded his parishioners to bring manure for their fields
from Serres, and, at the end of a few years, all was brilliant and
smiling, and Uzein is considered to produce the best maize in Béarn.
There are a few towers still standing, where castles have been erected
on the Pont Long; an old grey tower of Navailles, and one of Montaner,
so strong as to have proved indestructible: it was built by Gaston
Phoebus, at the same time as that of Pau, and what remains of the walls
of its donjon are upwards of ten feet thick!
Lescar was once an important town of Béarn, and in its fine cathedral
princes were buried, whose ashes even rest there no longer, and whose
tombs have long since been destroyed. Most of its magnificence
disappeared at the period when Queen Jeanne declared her adherence to
the new doctrine, and gave her sanction to the enemies of Catholic
superstition to pull down the _Pagan images_. Angry and fierce was the
discussion which took place between the Queen and the Cardinal
d'Armagnac, her former friend, on the occasion of the attack on the
cathedral of Lescar: the following extracts from their letters, given
by Mr. Jameson in his work on "the Reformation in Navarre," are
characteristic on both sides.
The cardinal's courier, it seems, waited while Jeanne, without pause or
hesitation, wrote her reply to his representation. His letter ran thus:
"Madam,--The duty of the service in which I was born, and which I have
continued faithfully to fulfil, both to the late sovereigns, your father
and mother, as well as to the late king your husband, has so complete an
influence on my conduct, that I must ever be attentive to the means of
sustaining your welfare, and the glory of your illustrious house. Moved
by the zeal which attaches me to your interests, I will never conceal
from you whatever it is desirable that you should learn, and which I may
have previously heard, trusting that you will receive in good part the
representations of your long-tried, most attached, and faithful servant,
who will never offer to make them for his own private advantage, but
solely for the sake of your conscience, and the prosperity of your
affairs. I cannot, then, Madam, conceal from you the deep affliction
which penetrates me on account of the information I have received of the
overthrow of images and altars, and the pillage of ornaments, silver,
and jewels, committed in the cathedral of Lescar, by the agents of your
authority, as well as the severity of those agents to the chapter and
people, by the interdiction of divine service. This proceeding appears
to me to be the more monstrous, since it took place in your presence,
and resulted from evil counsels which must lead to your ruin. It is in
vain for you to conceive that you can transplant the new religion into
your dominions at your pleasure. The wishes of the ministers who have
assured you of this are at variance with those of your subjects. They
will never consent to quit their religion, as they have declared by
their protest at the last meeting of the estates of Béarn. * * * And,
even supposing that they were reduced to accept your faith, consider
what you would have to fear from the two sovereigns whose territories
surround you, and who abhor nothing so much as the new opinions with
which you are so delighted. Their policy would lead them to seize your
dominions, rather than suffer them to be the prey of strangers. To
shelter you from these dangers, you have not, like England, the ocean
for a rampart. Your conduct perils the fortunes of your children, and
risks the beholding them deprived of a throne. * * * You will thus
become worse than an infidel, by neglecting to provide for those of your
own house. Such is the fruit of your Evangelism. * * * Has not God, who
worked so many miracles through them, (_i.e._ the saints,) manifestly
directed us to regard those holy personages rather than Luther, Calvin,
Farel, Videl, and so many other presumptuous men, who would desire us
to slight those reverend names, and adopt their novelties? Would they
have us hold an open council to hear them, or unite in one common
opinion against the Catholic Church? * * * Without wasting time in
further reflections, let me entreat you to place in their former
condition the churches of Lescar, of Pau, and other places, which have
been so deplorably desolated by you. This advice is preferable to that
given you by your ministers, which it imports you to abandon, &c.
&c.--Your loyal and very obedient servant,
"THE CARDINAL D'ARMAGNAC.
"_Vielleperite_, _Aug_. 18_th_, 1563."
* * * * *
To this Queen Jeanne replied in the following terms:--
"My Cousin,--From my earliest years I have been acquainted with the zeal
which attached you to the service of my kindred. I am not authorized by
ignorance of that zeal to refuse it the praise and esteem it merits, or
to be prevented from feeling a gratitude which I should be desirous of
continuing towards those who, like you, having partaken of the favour of
my family, have preserved good-will and fidelity towards it. I should
trust you would still entertain those feelings towards me, as you
profess to do, without allowing them to be changed or destroyed by the
influence of I know not what religion, or superstition. Thanking you, at
the same time, for the advice you give me, and which I receive according
to its varied character, the dissimilar and mingled points it touches
being divided between heaven and earth, God and man! As to the first
point, concerning the reform which I have effected at Pau, and at
Lescar, and which I desire to extend throughout my sovereignty, I have
learnt it from the Bible, which I read more willingly than the works of
your doctors. * * * As to the ruin impending over me through bad
counsel, under the colour of religion, I am not so devoid of the gifts
of God or of the aid of friends, as to be unable to make choice of
persons worthy of my confidence, and capable of acting, not under a vain
pretence, but with the true spirit of religion. * * * I clearly perceive
that you have been misinformed, both respecting the answer of my estates
and the disposition of my subjects. The two estates have professed their
obedience to religion. * * * I know who my neighbours are; the one hates
my religion as much as I do his, but that does not affect our mutual
relations: and besides, I am not so destitute of advice and friends as
to have neglected all necessary precautions for the defence of my rights
in case of attack. * * * Although you think to intimidate me, I am
protected from all apprehension; first, by my confidence in God whom I
serve, and who knows how to defend his cause. Secondly, because my
tranquillity is not affected by the designs of those whom I can easily
oppose, * * * with the grace of Him who encompasses my country as the
ocean does England. I do not perceive that I run the risk of sacrificing
either my own welfare or that of my son; on the contrary, I trust to
strengthen it in the only way a Christian should pursue; and even though
the spirit of God might not inspire me with a knowledge of this way, yet
human intellect would induce me to act as I do, from the many examples
which I recall with regret, especially that of the late king, my
husband, of whose history you well know the beginning, the course, and
the end. Where are the splendid crowns you held out to him? Did he gain
any by combating against true religion and his conscience? * * * I blush
with shame when you talk of the many atrocities which you allege to have
been committed by those of our faith; cast out the beam out of thine own
eye, and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the moat in thy
brother's eye: purify the earth that is stained with the innocent blood
which those of your party have shed, a fact you can bear testimony to.
* * * You are ignorant of what our ministers are, who teach patience,
obedience to sovereigns, and the other virtues of which the apostles and
the martyrs have left them an example. * * * You affirm that multitudes
draw back from our belief, while I maintain that the number of its
adherents increases daily. As to ancient authorities, I hear them every
day cited by our ministers. I am not indeed sufficiently learned to have
gone through so many works, but neither, I suspect, have you, or are
better versed in them than myself, as you were always known to be more
acquainted with matters of state than those of the church. * * * I place
no reliance on doctors, not even Calvin, Beza, and others, but as they
follow Scripture. You would send them to a council. They desire it,
provided that it shall be a free one, and that the parties shall not be
judges. The motive of the surety they require is founded on the examples
of John Huss and Jerome of Prague. Nothing afflicts me more than that
you, after having received the truth, should have abandoned it for
idolatry, because you then found the advancement of your fortune and
worldly honours. * * * Read again the passages of Scripture you quote,
before you explain them so unhappily on any other occasion: it might be
pardonable in me, a female, but you, a cardinal, to be so old and so
ignorant! truly, my cousin, I feel shame for you. * * * If you have no
better reasons for combating my undertaking, do not again urge me to
follow your worldly prudence. I consider it mere folly before God; it
cannot impede my endeavours. _Your_ doubts make me tremble, _my_
assurance makes me firm. When you desire again to persuade me that the
words of your mouth are the voice of your conscience and your
faithfulness, be more careful; and let the fruitless letter you have
sent me be the last of that kind I shall receive. * * * Receive this
from one who knows not how to style herself: not being able to call
herself a friend, and doubtful of any affinity till the time of
repentance and conversion, when she will be
"Your cousin and friend,
"JEANNE."
* * * * *
We drove to Lescar, which is within a short distance of Pau, anxious to
discover some remains of its former grandeur; but, like almost all the
towns in this part of France, the glory is indeed departed from it. The
situation is remarkably fine; it stands on a high _côteau_, by the side
of the road to Bayonne, and from the terrace of the cathedral a
magnificent view of the snowy mountains spreads along the horizon.
Nothing but dilapidated, ugly stone houses, and slovenly yards, are now
to be seen in the town; though it is said the people are by no means
poor, as, indeed, the rich gardens and vineyards around testify.
There is not a tomb or monument of any kind left in the cathedral; but
it is entirely paved with inscribed stones, few of them earlier than
the beginning of the seventeenth century. The church itself has been so
much altered as to be scarcely the same; it is still of great extent,
and is imposing as to size: a few strange old pillars, with grotesque
capitals, remain of its earliest date; but, from these specimens, it is
plain that there could never have been much architectural grace
displayed in its construction. The organ was playing as we walked
through the aisles, and is a very fine one: we could not but regret
that, at Pau, there should not be a single church where we could have
the advantage of hearing similar music; and that the chief town of Béarn
should be denuded of every attraction common to even the most neglected
French town. No thanks, however, are due to the arms of Montgomery, that
one stone remained on another of the cathedral of Lescar; and that all
in Pau should have been destroyed in his time, is not surprising. When
one thinks on the former magnificence of this town and cathedral, and
the pomp and circumstance of all the royal funerals which took place
here; of all the gorgeous tombs and splendid ceremonies; and, looking
round, beholds only ruined towns and crumbling walls, the contrast is
striking to the mind.
In the ninth century, this part of the country was covered with a thick
forest, called Lascurris. The Duke of Gascony, (Guillaume Sance,) about
980, having excited a knight to murder one of his enemies, was seized
with qualms of conscience, and, to relieve his mind, rebuilt the church,
which was _then_ fallen to decay, and founded a monastery in the
solitude, which he dedicated to Notre Dame. The assassin, sharing his
remorse, became a monk, and afterwards abbot there, and is known as
Lopoforti.
The future abbots seem to have been men of valour; for they armed
themselves, when occasion called, against the followers of Mahound, who
ventured from the passes of Spain into their territories.
The bishops of Lescar had the jurisdiction of 178 parishes, and the
diocese comprised two abbeys: it is contended that this was the most
ancient bishopric of Béarn; and the town the capital of the country in
former days. In the seventeenth century it was certainly a place of
importance, and was well defended by walls, gates, and fosses, of which
a few picturesque ruins alone remain.
In the choir of the cathedral there are still the sculptured stalls of
oak, executed in the time of Louis XIII., which are bold and graceful,
and in excellent preservation; some mosaic pavement has lately been
discovered, which was laid down by Bishop Guy in very early times; and
it is to be expected more discoveries could be made if more zeal were
roused in the cause. The chapels are richly adorned, and in better taste
than usual, and the church is, on the whole, extremely well kept: the
vault-like chill one feels, however, on entering does not say much for
its salubrity.
The most important tombs which once adorned this sanctuary, were those
of the young Prince of Béarn and King of Navarre, (François Phoebus,)
who died in 1483. Jean II. d'Albret in 1516, and his wife, Catherine de
Foix. Marguérite de Valois--the Fleur des Marguérites,--in 1548; and
Henry II., her husband--the _immortal grandfather_ of the great
Béarnois. It has been said that the body of their daughter, Jeanne
d'Albret, was brought here; but this appears to be incorrect, as her
tomb is at Vendôme.
The death of young François Phoebus is one of the most melancholy
episodes in the history of the country. It is thus recounted:
He was under the guardianship of his mother, Magdelaine of France,
Countess of Foix, a woman of superior mind and qualities, who devoted
herself to his interests and those of his kingdom, and spared no pains
to foster the noble dispositions which were in her son.
The time _was out of joint_, in consequence of civil dissensions, and
the unjust claims on Navarre of the King of Arragon; and her position
was very critical; but her wisdom and prudence had greatly calmed the
turbulence of those with whom she had to deal, and her subjects looked
forward with hope and delight to the majority of her son, who was as
amiable as he was transcendently beautiful, and whom, in imitation of
the title of their hero, Gaston, they had surnamed Phoebus. Magdelaine
was aided in her good intentions by her brother-in-law, the Cardinal de
Foix, whose sage advice greatly relieved and guided her, and when she
saw her beloved son, then aged fifteen, enter his territories in
triumph, apparently received with friendly interest by all contending
parties, her heart became joyous, and the future seemed all hope and
pleasure to her.
Several marriages were proposed for him; but she was desirous that as
much delay as possible should take place before that important step
should be decided. Numerous powerful princes came forward, offering
their alliances. Amongst others, Don Ferdinand, of Castile, named his
second daughter, Doña Juana, who afterwards inherited all his
possessions; but the Countess of Foix rejected this, as it would have
given umbrage to Louis XI. of France, whose friendship it was necessary
to secure; and whose wily mind was working at his own interest, which
prompted him to desire that a young nun of Coimbra should be drawn from
her sacred retreat, and made the bride of the young king: this was
another Doña Juana, for whose claim to the kingdom of Castile the artful
monarch of France chose to contend. Louis, therefore, wishing to avoid
the vicinity of Spain for his young _protégé_, persuaded his mother to
withdraw him from Pampeluna to his castle at Pau, where he went on with
his studies, and, by his amiable and conciliating disposition, won the
affection of all his subjects, by whom he was quite adored, as well as
by his mother, and his sister, the Princess Catherine, to whom he was
tenderly attached.
One morning, as they were all three together engaged in their different
occupations, a flute was brought to the young prince, who, after a time,
took it up with the intention of practising some music; for in this
accomplishment he excelled. He had been playing but a short time when
his sister observed him turn pale, and the next moment the instrument
fell from his hand: he uttered a deep sigh, and dropped senseless on the
ground. They lifted him up, used instant means for his recovery, but all
was vain; their hope, their joy, their treasure, was gone: François
Phoebus--the young, beautiful, and good--was dying. Poison had done its
work, and treason was successful: he lived but a few minutes, and his
last words were suitable to his pure life. When he saw his distracted
mother and sister hanging over him in agony, he whispered, "Do not
lament, my reign is not of this world: I leave the things of earth, and
go to my father."
What a scene of desolation ensued to the country and the bereaved
mother, who had so long struggled with accumulated misfortune! To add
to the difficulties of her position, her only support, Louis XI., just
then died, and, beset by ambitious ministers and selfish counsellors,
betrayed, deceived, and thwarted, the unfortunate Magdelaine sunk under
her sorrows, and soon followed her fair son to the grave.
He was buried in great pomp at the cathedral of St. Marie of Lescar, and
his young sister, Catherine, was left to reign in his place. Of her
Providence made its peculiar care, and her fate, which threatened ill,
was happily turned aside.
Olhagaray, the historian of Béarn, gives the affecting answer of the
Countess Magdelaine to the ambassador of Spain, who, immediately after
her son's death, came to her Court to treat for the hand of the young
Queen Catherine. It was thus she spoke, "with an infinity of sobs and
tears:"
"Gentlemen,--You find me in poor condition to receive you according to
your merits: but you see my desolation and misery, and the ruin which is
come upon me. This last torrent of misfortune is as a deluge which
overwhelms me--a deep abyss of evil in which I am engulphed. Alas! when
I consider the just grief which environs me, I know not where I am!
Gaston, the brave Gaston, my lord and my husband, while yet I was in the
early joy of his sweet society, and was happy in his precious affection,
was torn from me. My woes were softened, and the dark night of my
widowhood enlightened by the brightness of my Phoebus. Poor, desolate
mother that I am! Heaven envied my content, and has hidden him from my
eyes. In this sad spot he expired: here, raising his eyes above, he
exclaimed, 'My reign is not of this world!'
"Did we not, nevertheless, expect much of him! would he not, had he
lived, have healed the wounds of his country, have applied salutary
remedies to all her evils! He saw the difficulties, he prepared himself
to thread the intricate mazes belonging to his crown of Navarre; yet,
when he held it in his hands, he said, it was not that crown that he
expected.
"What means have I now left me in the world that permit me to speak to
you of the state of Spain, of the health of the king, the queen, or the
court. I have no words but these, no reply but this: go, therefore, and
for all answer tell the king of Spain how you found me; say, that my
sadness and my tears but ill permitted me to read the letter with which
he honoured me; and thank him that he has kept so kind a remembrance of
me, praying him to continue me his friendship while I live his humble
servant."
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.
THE most interesting place on the road to Bayonne is Orthez, once the
seat of the counts of Foix. We proposed remaining there a short time, in
order to visit its remains on our way to Bayonne, and alighted at the
hotel of _La Belle Hôtesse_, which is on the site of _La Lune_, where
the historian, Froissart, stopped some centuries before us, and where he
heard so many stories and legends which he has immortalized in his
charming _romantic_ chronicle. The soldiers of Marshal Soult occupied
this inn in 1814, when the pale old lady, who is still mistress, then
deserved the title which her beauty gave to her house of entertainment.
On approaching Orthez we were struck with the appearance, on a height
above the town, of the castle ruins, whose battered walls seem so
fragile that a breath of wind might blow them away: the upper part of
the great tower is much injured, and its irregular stones project in a
manner which threatens their fall: the blue sky shone through the arrow
slits and windows, and the whole mass gave us an idea of its hastening
to immediate dissolution. It has an imposing and venerable effect, and
excited in our minds considerable interest: we therefore hastened up the
rugged way to the hill on which it stands, and there found ourselves in
the midst of the remains of one of the strongest castles of which this
part of Béarn could boast, from the earliest time.
It is called the castle of Moncade, having been, in 734, the abode of a
Catalonian knight of that name, who was accustomed to issue forth from
this strong-hold to combat the Moors of Spain. In after times the
fortress was possessed by a warlike lady, called La Grosse Comtesse
Garsende de Béarn, who, in 1242, offered her services to Henry III. of
England; and, after having fought in his cause with her knights and
vassals, and received a large sum of money in requital, she returned
home, and expended it on the castle, which she rendered impregnable. It
was probably a ruin in the time of Garsende; for the reparations she
made in the great tower are very evident; the lower part being more
discoloured than the upper story, in which there are windows, at a
great height, of trefoil form. The shape of the tower itself is very
unlike any I had before seen, and seemed to me extremely curious; it is
five-sided, each side presenting an acute angle, and one being flattened
at about a quarter of the height by a two-sided projection, which is not
a tower but probably a recess within from whence to send arrows; yet
there are no openings now visible; nor is there, on any side, a means of
entrance, except that a square-headed window opens very high up in the
wall towards the part where the rest of the castle joined this donjon. A
large hole in the wall, towards the open country, made, perhaps,
originally by English cannon in 1814, and enlarged since, allows ingress
to the interior. There are arches and recesses, and some ornamental
architecture to be traced within, but no doors in any direction; and my
idea of the fragility of the building was quickly dispelled when I
discovered that the solid walls were at least nine feet thick, the
angles sharp as a knife, and the apparently tottering stones as firm in
their rocky cement as if just built.
All round, for some extent, are remains of ruined walls, with a few
circular and pointed arches here and there; the clear stream flows
beneath where once was the moat, in one part, and on the other sides
bushes and brambles fill up the defences. A huge, fearful-looking well,
of enormous depth, is in the midst of all; where, perhaps, was once the
inner court-yard, and here we saw a group of peasants drawing water;
for Orthez is so badly supplied that the townspeople have to mount this
steep height, and fill their brass-bound pails, from which they dispense
the fine clear water to the inhabitants. This must have been long a
great inconvenience and trouble; but we discovered afterwards that
another fountain has been found in the town, not far from the bridge,
where we saw numerous visitors busy in the same occupation.
The view from the castle-height is very fine; the last of the range of
snowy mountains seen in such perfection from Pau rises in great majesty,
and closes the scene; while the luxuriant plain and hills around are
seen to a great distance. The valiant Catalonian, and the fierce
countess, must have been dangerous neighbours to their foes, commanding
as they did the country, for leagues round.
One of the lords of Moncade was father to a chosen Viscount of Béarn,
known in the annals of the country, amongst their numerous Gastons, as
Le Bon.
The story told respecting him is as follows: In the year 1170, Marie,
Viscountess of Béarn, a young princess of only sixteen, was induced by
interested counsellors to do homage for her domains to Alphonso the
Second, King of Arragon. This act, which took place at Jaca, required to
be confirmed by the barons of Béarn; but the latter, indignant at the
infringement of their rights, and attack on the independence of their
country, solemnly protested against the transaction, and proclaimed the
young viscountess unfit to govern, deprived her of her power, and
proceeded to the election of a new ruler.
Their choice fell on a lord of Bigorre, who, not proving himself worthy
of his election, but endeavouring to violate the laws, was put to death
in open assembly, falling, like Cæsar, by the hand of a patriot. Another
took his place, but the Béarnais, it appeared, were particularly
unfortunate in their selection, for he turned out no better than the
former, and was deposed.
It became necessary to fix on a governor, and the great men of the
kingdom, consulting together, came to the following conclusion: The
young viscountess, after her banishment, married William de Moncade, one
of the richest lords of Catalonia, and the issue of this union was
twins, both boys. It was agreed that one of these should fill the vacant
seat of sovereignty of Béarn, and two of the _prudhommes_ were deputed
to visit their father with the proposition. On their arrival at his
castle the sages found the children asleep, and observed with attention
their infant demeanour. Both were beautiful, strong, and healthy; and it
was a difficult matter to make an election between two such attractive
and innocent creatures. They were extremely alike, and neither could be
pronounced superior to the other; the _prudhommes_ were strangely
puzzled, for they had been so often deceived that they felt it to be
most important that they should not err this time. As they hung in
admiration over the sleeping babes, one of them remarked a circumstance
that at once decided their preference, and put an end to their
vacillation; one of the little heroes held his hand tightly closed; the
tiny, mottled palm of the other was wide open as it lay upon his snowy
breast. "He will be a liberal and bold knight," said one of the
Béarnais, "and will best suit us as a head." This infant was accordingly
chosen, given up by his parents to the wise men, and carried off in
triumph to be educated amongst his future subjects. The event proved
their sagacity, and Gaston le Bon lived to give them good laws and
prosperity.
A descendant of this chief was a Gaston, who opposed Edward I., of
England, and was thrown into prison by that terrible warrior, who
revenged his defeat in Santonge by fearful reprisals, and gave up the
town of Orthez to his soldiers, to pillage and destroy as they pleased.
Gaston was obliged to agree to a composition with the English prince;
and he was released from his dungeon in a castle in Gascony. An appeal
to the King of France was agreed on; and, when both were in presence of
the suzerain, Gaston threw down his glove of defiance against the King
of England, calling him a traitor and felon knight. Edward, starting
forward, and commanding his people, who heard the charge with rage, to
stand back, picked up the glove himself, and entreated that a single
combat might be allowed between them. The King of France, however,
opposed this; and the question of their dispute was decided by
law--rather an unusual thing in those days.
This tower of Moncade,--rendered, it appears, by Gaston, the father of
the little open-handed hero, as like as possible to his château in
Catalonia,--is the scene of several tragedies; and every stone could
tell some tale of sorrow and oppression. There is something singularly
fearful in the aspect of its strong walls and donjon, without an outlet.
In this very tower died, by his father's hand, the unfortunate son of
Gaston Phoebus, whose touching story is recounted by Froissart. Although
well-known, it is impossible to pass it over here, or to forget that
equally melancholy history of the young Queen Blanche, poisoned by her
sister.
The Son of Gaston Phoebus.
FROISSART, after describing the splendours of the castle of Orthez in
glowing terms, continues: "Briefly, and, considering all things, before
I came to this court I had visited those of many kings, dukes, princes,
counts, and ladies of high quality, but I never was in any which pleased
me so well, for feats of arms and gaiety, as that of the Count de Foix.
You might see, in the saloons and the chambers and in the courts,
knights and squires of honour going and coming; and you might hear them
speak of war and of love. All honour might there be found. There I was
informed of the greatest part of those feats of arms which took place in
Spain, Portugal, Arragon, Navarre, England, Scotland, and the frontiers
and limits of Languedoc, &c.; for I met there, on various missions to
the count, knights and squires of all these nations.
"Once, on a Christmas Day, I there saw at his table four Bishops, two
_Clémentins_, and two _Urbanists_ (partisans of the rival popes). There
were seated the Count de Foix, and the Viscount de Roquebertin
d'Arragon, the Viscount de Bruniquil, the Viscount de Gousserant, and an
English knight sent by the Duke of Lancaster, from Lisbon, where he then
sojourned. At another table were five abbés and two knights of Arragon;
at another, knights and squires of Gascony and Bigorre; and the
_sovereign master of the hall_ was Messire Espaign de Lyon, and four
knights _maîtres d'hôtel_. And the count's two natural brothers, Messire
Ernould Guillaume and Messire Pierre de Béarn, served him, together with
his two sons, Messire Yvain de l'Escale and Messire Gratien. I must tell
you that there was a crowd of minstrels, as well belonging to the count
as strangers, who filled up every interval with specimens of their art.
And this day the count gave to both minstrels and heralds the sum of
five hundred francs; and habits of cloth of gold, furred with _menu
vair_, he gave to the minstrels of the Duke of Touraine; the which
dresses were valued at two hundred francs. And the dinner lasted till
four hours after noon."
One figure is wanting in this brilliant account--the only legitimate son
of the magnificent Count of Foix, his child by Agnes of Navarre, whose
place, as well as that of her son, is vacant at her husband's table.
What might, even then, be the pangs of remorse that shot along the mind
of the mighty chief, as he looked round that brilliant assembly and felt
that his honours would end with himself? "No son of his succeeding."
Where was the young, blooming, accomplished, and promising heir, so
loved by his people, and once the object of his pride and hope?
Brilliant and gorgeous as was the present scene, what would have been
that which should have welcomed the affianced bride of his son to his
court? and many such would have hailed the happy events which might have
ensued. His two _natural_ sons, Yvain and Gratien, are there, full of
beauty, grace, and health; but, as the first approaches, and hands him a
cup of wine, he trembles and sets down the goblet, untasted, for an
instant. He recovers, however, and quaffs the wine to the health of his
friends: the minstrels strike their harps; and one--the chief--bursts
forth in a strain of adulation, lauding to the skies the glories and the
virtues of the most liberal and magnificent prince of his time. Gaston
listens with pride and satisfaction; and, by degrees, the low moaning
which had seemed to sound in his ears dies away, and he laughs loud, and
dispenses his gracious words around, endeavouring to forget that so
great a prince could ever know care, or feel remorse, for what it was
his will to do. But it is necessary to tell why Gaston Phoebus felt
remorse in the midst of his splendid court.
At the conclusion of a long war between the houses of Foix and Armagnac,
it was agreed between the chiefs of the contending parties, that a
marriage should take place between Gaston, the young heir of Béarn, and
the fair Beatrix d'Armagnac. A temporary house was constructed on the
confines of the two territories, between Barcelone and Aire, where now a
wooden pillar indicates the division of the departments of Les Landes
and Gers; and there everything was settled. The Bishop of Lectoure said
mass; and an oath of the most terrible description passed between the
two princes, that they would never infringe the treaty. Part of the
_formula_ ran thus: "And, in case of failing in this promise, they would
deny God, _that he might be against them_; and, utterly to damn both
their bodies and souls, they would take the devil for their lord, and
have their sepulchres in hell, now and for evermore."
The young bride, in consideration of twenty thousand francs of gold,
which were given her as a dower, renounced all her rights, both paternal
and maternal; and the pope, to stop the effusion of blood caused by the
quarrels of the two houses, gave all the necessary dispensations
required in consequence of parentage. Then the Bishop of Lescar
celebrated the betrothment, that same day, in the Château de Monclar.
Both bride and bridegroom were very young, full of hope, and with every
prospect of happiness. _La gaie Armagnoise_, as the young princess was
called, lively and happy, and, according to all historians, a lady of
the greatest amiability; the Prince of Béarn affectionate, brave, and
handsome. With the whole assembly at Monclar,
"All went merry as a marriage bell;"
but they had reckoned without Charles the Bad, King of Navarre!
Like one of those fell enchanters of romance, who appear suddenly in the
midst of rejoicings where they have not been invited, and cast a spell
upon the guests, changing joy to mourning, Charles of Navarre's
influence blighted the
"----bud of love in summer's ripening breath,"
that
"should prove a beauteous flower----."
Agnes of Navarre, Countess of Foix, had become the victim of the
disputes between her husband and brother: she had been sent from
Gaston's court to that of Charles, in order to induce the latter to pay
a ransom which he owed the count, and which he treacherously and
dishonourably withheld. The unfortunate wife remained at her brother's
court, soliciting in vain that he should do justice to the severe
husband, to whom she dared not return empty-handed. Her son, attached to
his mother, and anxious to receive her blessing on his marriage,
entreated permission to visit her in Navarre. He was received there with
great demonstrations of honour and affection. Charles the Bad lamented
to him the feud between his father and himself, and expressed his regret
at the manifest dislike which Count Gaston showed to his wife, and
dwelling much on this last cause of sorrow, in which the young prince
heartily joined, he gave it as his opinion that the feeling must be
occasioned by supernatural means, and could only be combated by a
similar power. He had, he said, in his possession a medicine of such
virtue that, if it were administered properly, it would counteract any
evil influence, and restore the mind of the person to whom it was given
to a right tone.
"Take, my beloved nephew," said he, "this bag of powder, and when an
opportunity presents itself, pour it into your father's cup, or strew it
over the meat he eats: it is a love potion--and no sooner shall he have
swallowed it, than all his former affection for your dear mother will
return. Think, then, what happy days are in store for us all! Agnes will
once more take her place amongst you; will bless you and your fair wife;
and I, who am banished from that society I most prize, shall once more
embrace my friend and witness his happiness."
This picture was too flattering to the ardent young boy of fifteen: with
all the credulity of his time and the simplicity of his age, he caught
at such a means of restoring his family to peace and joy, and,
gratefully accepting the present of his uncle, he suspended the little
bag containing the wondrous drug round his neck by a ribbon, and
departed from the Court of Navarre full of hope and expectation.
On his arrival in Béarn he could scarcely refrain, in spite of his
uncle's injunctions to the contrary, from communicating his secret to
his favourite brother, Jobain (Yvain), his father's natural son, who
shared his confidence as well as his couch. Jobain, however, was not
long before he observed the ribbon round his brother's neck, and pressed
him to explain the meaning of the little bag which he saw suspended
there. Young Gaston, confused at finding his secret so nearly
discovered, bade him inquire no further,--that there was a mystery
attached to it which he dared not tell; "but you will soon see," he
added, cheerfully, "a great change in my father: and he and my dear
mother will be well together."
A few days after this, the brothers were playing at the _jeu de paume_,
and a dispute arose between them which grow more and more violent, till
Gaston forgot himself so far as to strike Jobain on the face: it was but
a childish quarrel, which the next moment might have healed, but
Jobain's passion was so excited, that in his first fury he rushed to his
father, and accused Gaston of concealing in his bosom a bag of poison,
intended to be administered to the count, in order to cause his death.
Count Gaston, on hearing this accusation, without giving himself time
for a moment's reflection, which would have shown him the improbability
of the story, burst into so ungovernable a fury that he became almost
frantic, and it was with the utmost difficulty his knights prevented his
instantly putting his son to death. The states of Foix and Béarn, to
whose judgment he was at length induced to refer the sentence of this
involuntary parricide, were more moderate. "My lord," said they, "saving
your grace, we will not that Gaston should die: he is your heir, and you
have no other."
It is even asserted, that those of Foix in particular would not consent
to retire until they had received a promise from the count that he would
not attempt his son's life. It was, therefore, on the servants of young
Gaston that the weight of his fury fell; and he caused no less than
fifteen to suffer the utmost extremity of torture, under which they
died. As for the unhappy prince, he had already condemned himself.
Confined in his tower of Orthez, he had taken to his bed, and there lay,
concealing himself in the clothes; and for several days refused all
nourishment, giving himself up altogether to despair. Those whose
business it was to serve him, finding this, became alarmed, and,
hastening to his father, related the fact:
"My Lord," said they, "for the love of God, take heed to your son; for
he is starving in the prison, where he lies, and has not eaten since he
entered there, for his meat remains untouched as when we first took it
into the tower."
Thereupon the count started up, without uttering a word, and, quitting
his chamber, hurried to the prison where his son was, says Froissart,
and, "by ill fortune, he held in his hand a _small, long knife_, with
which he was cleaning and arranging his nails. He commanded the door of
the dungeon to be opened, when he went straight to his son, and, still
holding the knife in his hand by the blade, _which did not project from
it more than half an inch_, he caught him by the throat, calling out,
'Ha! traitor!--why will you not eat?' and by some means the steel
entered into a vein. The count, on this, instantly departed, neither
saying or doing more, and returned to his chamber. His poor child,
terrified at the sight of his father, felt all his blood turn, weak as
he was with fasting, and the point of the knife having opened a vein in
his throat, _however small it might have been_,--turned him round--and
died!
"Thus," continues the chronicler, "it was as I tell you: this was the
death of young Gaston de Foix. _His father, in truth, killed him_; but
it was the King of Navarre who directed the blow."
The agony of remorse or affection of the inhuman count, it is but just
to say, was extreme, on finding how all had ended; "and the body of the
child was taken away with cries and tears to the _Frères Mineurs_, at
Orthez, and there buried."
What now remained to the brilliant Gaston Phoebus? He had no legitimate
child, and he hated the next heir, Mathieu de Castelbon, "because he was
not a valiant knight at arms." His intention was to leave his large
possessions to his two natural sons; but, before he had made the proper
dispositions to secure it to them, he was surprised by death in the
hospital of Orion, two leagues from Orthez, as he was washing his hands
on his return from his favourite pursuit of hunting the bear, about
which he is eloquent in his work on the Chase; and all that Yvain, the
betrayer of young Gaston, could do, was to take possession of his
father's ring, and his _little long knife_--that fatal instrument!--and
by those tokens procured that the gates of the castle of Orthez should
be opened to him; hoping to obtain _a part of the treasures_ of the
count, who had not less than a million of crowns of gold in his coffers.
It was in the month of August, under a hot sun, that Gaston Phoebus had
hunted the bear half the day; and on arriving at Orion, about two
leagues from Orthez, he appeared delighted at the coolness of the fresh
strewn room, where the dinner was prepared: "This verdure," said he,
"does me good, for the day has been fearfully hot!" They brought him
water to wash, but no sooner did he feel its coldness on his
fingers--which were "_fine, long and straight_"--than he was seized with
a fit, probably of apoplexy, and was dead almost immediately, to the
extreme terror of all with him. Yvain, it seems, was at first full of
grief, but listened to the advice of those who recommended him instantly
to repair to the castle of Orthez, and secure what treasure he could.
Accordingly he rode off, and by showing the count's ring and knife, was
admitted; but the coffer, bound with iron and closed with many locks,
was opened by a key, which the count always wore round his neck, in a
little bag, and that key was found by the chaplain on his master, after
Yvain's departure, who was vainly striving to force open the strong
chest. The news, in spite of precaution, soon spread in Orthez; and the
citizens, who were all greatly attached to their lord, came in crowds to
the court of the castle, demanding news of him. Yvain was obliged to
speak to them from a window, and declare the truth; appealing to them to
protect his right, and not suffer the castle or its contents to be
injured. To this they all agreed, as they deplored his being
illegitimate, and consequently incapable of succeeding his father.
Then the air rung with lamentations. "Alas!" cried they, "all will go
ill with us now! we shall be attacked by all our neighbours: no more
peace and safety for us; nothing but misery and subjection, for we have
none to defend us now, and none to answer the challenger. Ha, Gaston!
unfortunate son! why did you offend your father? We might still have
looked to you; for beautiful and great was your beginning, and much
comfort were we promised in you. We lost you too young, and your father
has left us too soon. Alas! he had seen but sixty-three years--no great
age for a knight so powerful and so strong, and one who had all his
wishes and desires. Oh, land of Béarn! desolate, and lamenting for thy
noble heir, what is to be thy fate? Never shall be seen the peer of the
gentle and noble Count of Foix!"
With such cries and tears was the body of Gaston Phoebus, "uncovered on
a bier," brought through Orthez to the church of the Cordeliers, and
there laid in state; with forty-eight squires to guard it, and
four-and-twenty large tapers burning by it, night and day. Then came the
burial, where knights and lords and bishops assisted; and the new Count
of Castelbon, the heir of all the possessions of the magnificent Gaston,
showed becoming honour to his remains. Castelbon then took possession;
and his first act was to provide for the two sons, who had no
inheritance, and to release the prisoners in the tower of Orthez,--"of
which," says Froissart, "there were many; for the Count of Foix, of
excellent memory, was _very cruel in this particular_, and never spared
man, how high soever, who had offended him: nor was any bold enough to
plead for the ransom of a prisoner, for fear of meeting the same fate:
_they were put in the fosse, and fed on bread and water_. This very
cousin, Castelbon, had been his captive in such a dungeon for eight
months, and was ransomed only for forty thousand francs, and he held him
in great hatred; and, had he lived two years more, he would never have
had the heritage."
The famous work of the count, on Hunting, he dedicated to the King of
France; and in it he endeavours to prove the advantages, both to body
_and soul_, of the manly exercise of which he was a passionate lover.
His own death appears to disprove his arguments, which are curious
enough. He thus expresses himself in his Prologue:--"I, Gaston, by the
grace of God, surnamed Phoebus, Count of Foys, and Lord of Béarn, have,
all my life, been fond of three things--war, love, and hunting; in the
two first others may have excelled me, and been more fortunate; but, in
the last, I flatter myself, without boasting, that I have no superior.
* * * and, besides treating of beasts of chase and their natures, I am
convinced that my book is calculated to prove the great good that may
arise from the exercise of hunting. A man, by its means, avoids the
seven mortal sins; for he has no time to think of the commission of any
while he is engaged with his horses and hounds: he is more lively, more
ready, more expert, more enterprising, makes himself acquainted with
countries, and is quick and active: all good habits and manners follow,
and the salvation of his soul as well; for, by avoiding sin, a Christian
shall be saved; and this he does; therefore, a hunter must be saved. His
life is full of gaiety, pleasure, and amusement, and he has only to
guard against two things: one, that he forgets not the knowledge and
service of God, _and does not neglect his duty to his liege lord_.
"Now, I will prove this fact. It is well known that idleness is the root
of evil; when a man is lazy, negligent, unemployed, he remains in his
bed, and in his chamber, and a thousand evil imaginations take
possession of him: now a hunter rises at daybreak, and sees the sweet
and fresh morning, the clear and serene weather; he hears the song of
birds warbling softly and lovingly, each in its language: when the sun
is up, he beholds the bright dew glittering with its rays on streams and
meadows, and joy is in the heart of the hunter. Then comes the excited
delight of the pursuit, the cries, the sound of horns, the cry of dogs,
the triumph of success--what time has he to think of evil things! He
comes back weary, but satisfied; his early meal was but slight, for he
set out so soon; it is late before he seeks a second, and that is seldom
otherwise than frugal; he washes, he dresses, and he sups upon his game,
and shares it with his friends: then he enjoys the soft air of evening:
after his exertions, he lies him down in fine sheets of fresh and fair
linen, and sleeps well and healthily, without thinking of evil things.
Thus, by frugal living, great exercise, and cheerful occupation, he
avoids great maladies, has good health, _and lives long_. And never knew
I man, who was attached to hawks and hounds, but was of good disposition
and habits; for the love of hunting springs from nobleness and
gentleness of heart, whether one be a great lord or a poor man, high or
low."
The brother of poor young Gaston, who, perhaps, had a deeper motive than
momentary passion when he made the accusation to his father which
destroyed him, guilty or innocent, afterwards met a dreadful doom. In
that fatal masquerade of savages, when Charles VI. was so nearly burnt
to death, Yvain de Foix was one of those, whose dress catching fire,
and being sewn on close to his skin, could not be taken off, and he died
in extreme torture, after lingering two days. If he had, indeed,
intended to effect his brother's death, what must have been his feelings
under all the frightful sufferings he endured!
Alas! the glories of the magnificent Gaston Phoebus were fearfully
extinguished in blood and flame! Alas! the splendours of the proud
castle of Orthez were dimmed with cruelty and suffering! No wonder that
spectres are still said to walk and wail around the ruined tower; no
wonder that the moans of the feeble prince, fainting beneath the blow of
his mail-clad chief, are heard at night echoing through the loop-holes
of the battered walls; or that the plaintive cries of another victim
startle the shepherd returning late from the hills.
This other victim has also a melancholy story to relate of the injustice
and cruelty of near relatives, and the dangers of exalted birth and
great possessions. Charles and Blanche of Navarre, brother and sister,
were both "done to death" by those nearest to them; and while the pale
shade of Queen Blanche still flits along the ruined battlements of
Moncade, the spectre of Prince Charles haunts the streets of Barcelona,
where he was poisoned; crying out for ever on his murderess,
"Vengeance--Vengeance on Doña Juana!"
Story of Queen Blanche.
The mother of these two died, leaving the youthful Prince of Vienne heir
to her kingdom of Navarre, having just married her eldest daughter,
Blanche, to Henry, King of Castile, and her younger daughter, Leonore,
to the Count of Foix. She was herself the wife of John, King of Arragon;
who, after her death, desired to be himself the sovereign of Navarre, in
lieu of his son, Charles, whom he instantly confined in a dungeon in
Lerida. The prince was, however, beloved by the people, and the Catalans
rose in a body to deliver him: they effected their purpose, and bore off
the rescued prisoner in triumph, but not before a cruel step-mother,
Doña Juana, who had replaced the first wife of King John, had
administered to him a potion, whose effects soon showed themselves, for
he died in the hands of his deliverers.
The young Queen Blanche, of Castile, was now the heiress of Navarre; but
she succeeded her brother only in his misfortunes and his fate. Married
at twelve years old, her husband, when she was sixteen, had already
repudiated her, believing himself bewitched, and in danger in her
society. Impressed with this imagination, the King of Navarre, in an
interview with his wife's brother-in-law, the Count de Foix, agreed that
Blanche should be given up to him, and forced to embrace a life of
celibacy, in order that her sister, Leonore, Countess of Foix, should
enjoy her possessions.
When news was brought to Queen Blanche that she must follow the
messengers sent to Olite, to carry her to Orthez, her despair knew no
bounds: she felt that her doom was sealed, and her fearful destiny was
but too clear to her mind. She even, in her agony, wrote a letter of
entreaty to her unnatural husband, to entreat his protection; but he
remained deaf and indifferent to her supplications, and the doomed lady
was taken away, a prisoner, to the tower of Moncade.
Hero, for two years, languished the ill-fated heiress; her captivity
embittered by the sad reflection that her sister was her jailor, and her
father and husband her betrayers. A ray of hope suddenly gleamed upon
her fortunes; but whether, in her secret dungeon, any pitying friend
contrived to let her know that she had yet a chance of escape and
triumph, does not appear. Louis XI. came into Béarn. It was not any
feeling of compassion for a political victim that influenced him to take
part with the captive; for he was just the person to approve of an act,
however cruel, which would secure power to a sovereign; but his own
interests appeared affected by this arrangement of things; and, in a
conference at Pampluna, in which the powerful family of Beaumont offered
their services to assist the project, it was agreed that the captive
Queen should be demanded at the hands of the Count de Foix, and
reinstated in her rights.
Leonora and her husband saw that the time was come when nothing but a
further crime could secure them from danger. Blanche, once dead, nothing
stood between her sister and the throne of Navarre; and what was her
life in comparison with the great advantages they should derive? A
deputation from the states of Béarn arrived; the Beaumonts and King
Louis sent imperious messages, which were received with the utmost
humility by the Count and Countess of Foix: they had no wish to oppose
the general desire; there was but one obstacle to the accomplishment of
the end in view. They represented that their beloved sister, whose
health had long required extreme care, and who had been the object of
their solicitude ever since Prince Charles's death, was on a bed of
sickness--every hour she grew worse--and, at length, it was their
melancholy duty to announce her death.
"Treason had done its worst,"
and Blanche had breathed her last in the Tour de Moncade.
A magnificent funeral was prepared--much lamentation and mourning
ensued--and the body of the royal victim was pompously interred with her
ancestors, the Princes of Béarn, in the cathedral of Lescar.[35]
[Footnote 35: Some historians say that Blanche was confined at the
castle of Lescar, but there is no foundation for the assertion: no
castle but that of Pau or Orthez would have been sufficiently strong to
retain a prisoner of so much importance. Moret, and other Spanish
authors, relate the event as above.]
Five years after this tragedy, the vengeance of Heaven--still called for
by the shades of the brother and sister--overtook Doña Juana, their
cruel step-mother. She died in the agonies of a lingering disease, and
in her torments betrayed, by her ravings, her crimes to all. Her
constant exclamation was, "Hijo! que me caro cuestas!" _Oh, my son! you
have cost me dear!_ alluding to her own son, for whose sake she had
sacrificed the former children of her husband. She died, deserted by
all; for that husband, equally guilty, on hearing that her words had
betrayed her, thought it policy to feign indignation at her wickedness,
and refused to visit her in her dying moments. The memory of the
unnatural father is still preserved in a Spanish proverb, which alludes
only to his sole good quality--liberality--in which he was extreme: in
application to courtiers--who look for presents which are long
coming--it is usual to say, "Ya se muriò rey Don Juan."
There is no end to the stories which may be told of the castle of
Orthez, and those in its neighbourhood; the knights and squires of
Gaston de Foix's court, when not engaged in jousts and tournaments, or
in fighting in earnest, seemed never weary of telling histories which
their guest, Froissart, listened to with eager attention; amongst them,
the following is characteristic of his ready belief, and the credulity
of the time:
The Great Bear of Béarn.
Messire Pierre de Béarn, natural brother of Gaston Phoebus, was the
victim of a strange malady, which rendered him an object both of fear
and pity: there was a mystery attached to his sufferings which no one of
the learned or inquisitive attendants who surrounded him could explain;
and when Froissart inquired why it was that he was not married, being so
handsome and so valiant a knight, his question was met with "the shrug,
the hum, the ha," that denoted some secret. At length, as he was not
easily to be satisfied when anything romantic was on the _tapis_, he
found a person to explain to him how things stood with respect to the
brother of the count.
"He is, in fact, married," said the squire who undertook to resolve his
doubts; "but neither his wife nor children live with him, and the cause
is as follows." He then went on to relate his story:
The young Countess Florence, of Biscay, was left an heiress by her
father, who had died suddenly in a somewhat singular manner; his cousin,
Don Pedro the Cruel, of Castile, being the only person who could tell
the reason of his having been put to death. His daughter, who feared
that the friendship of such a relation might be as dangerous to herself,
being warned to avoid him, as she had fallen under his displeasure in
consequence of having hinted that she knew how his wife, the sister of
the Duke of Bourbon, and the Queen of France, met her end, thought it
better to escape as quickly as she could from Biscay, leaving her
estates in his power; and she came to the Basque country a fugitive,
with a small retinue, glad to have saved her life, though all besides
was his prey. This distressed damsel, knowing that all honour was shown
to ladies at the court of Gaston de Foix, lost no time in directing her
steps to the Castle of Orthez, where, throwing herself at the feet of
the gallant count, she related her wrongs, and implored his assistance.
Gaston entreated her to be comforted, and assured her that he was ready
to do all in his power to assist her: he consigned her to the care of
the Lady of Coarraze, his relation, a high baroness of the country. With
all his generosity, Gaston Phoebus never seems to have lost sight of his
own interest, and it struck him immediately that the heiress was exactly
the match he desired for his brother, Pierre de Béarn. Accordingly, he
so arranged matters that the young Countess of Biscay and her domains
should remain in his family; he married her to Pierre, and re-conquered
her lands from the cruel King of Castile.
A son and a daughter were the fruits of this union, which appeared a
happy one; but the fates or the fairies did not allow it to remain so.
In Béarn, as in other parts of the world, although hunting is a very
agreeable amusement, it sometimes brings with it unpleasant
consequences, though Count Gaston may say nay. The woods, forests, and
mountains, it is well known, belong exclusively to beings who are
tenacious of their reign being disturbed, and who generally contrive to
revenge themselves on the hardy hunter who ventures to invade their
secret retreats. Nevertheless, at all periods, men are found incautious
enough to tempt them, and seldom does it happen that they do not suffer
for their temerity.
Pierre de Béarn, like his brother, Gaston, was remarkably fond of the
chase. The Countess Florence, on the contrary, held the pastime in the
utmost abhorrence, and to please her he abstained from the sport he
loved during the early period of their union; but at length he became
weary of this self-denial, and, in an evil hour, he set forth on an
expedition into the forests of Biscay to hunt the bear. He had not been
fortunate at first in his search, and had climbed some of the highest
parts of the mountain in hopes to meet with game worthy of him, when he
suddenly came upon the track of a tremendous animal, such as he had
never before beheld in his experience.
He followed it for some time over plains of ice, his gallant hounds in
full chase; at length, the mighty beast--apparently, indignant at their
perseverance, just as they had arrived at a gorge of the rocks, beneath
which a precipice descended on either side--turned round on his
pursuers, and presented a front sufficient to daunt the courage of the
boldest. The dogs, however, rushed on him, but, with one blow of his
enormous paw, he stretched them dead at his feet; four of the finest met
the same fate, and several, disabled and wounded, shrunk howling back to
their master, who stood firm, his spear poised, waiting the proper
moment of attack. Pierre saw that no time was to be lost, for he was
alone, having, in his eagerness, outstripped his companions; his dogs
were of no further use, and he must trust now to his own strength and
skill.
The spear went flying through the air, and struck the monster in the
breast; furious with pain, he uttered a hideous howl, and rushed
forward, catching, in his long claws, the left arm of the knight, whose
right hand was armed with his hunting-knife, which he had hastily drawn
from his belt; with this, in spite of the pain he felt, he continued to
strike the monster, whose roaring echoed through the caverns of the rock
like thunder at every stroke.
At this instant, and just as the knight's strength was nearly exhausted,
he beheld, with joy, his friends advancing to his aid; two of them
sprang forward and discharged their spears; but still, though
desperately wounded, the bear would not release the arm he continued to
gripe, and, as he turned upon them, dragged his first foe with him. As,
however, his head was directed towards the new comers, Pierre, with a
strong effort, made another plunge in his neck, which instantly had the
effect of making him release his hold; he then drew his dagger--for his
knife remained in the animal's body--and, with the assistance of his
friends, the bear was despatched. As the body lay on the ground, a pause
of astonishment ensued after the shouts of the victors; for never was so
gigantic a beast beheld in the Pyrenees, and it seemed a miracle that
Pierre had escaped: his arm was fearfully injured, and he was faint with
exertion; but his triumph was so great that he hardly permitted his
wound to be bound up. They placed the carcase of the bear on their
shoulders, and with great difficulty carried it from the spot where it
fell; it was then consigned to their attendants, and the whole train
returned in great delight to the castle. As they entered the court, they
were met by the Countess Florence and her ladies, who had been uneasy at
the long absence of her lord. No sooner had she cast her eyes on the
huge beast they were carrying, than she turned deadly pale, uttered a
loud shriek, and fainted on the ground.
The lady was borne to her chamber, and for two days and two nights she
uttered not a word; but was in great pain and tribulation, sighing and
moaning piteously: at the end of that time she said to her husband, "My
lord, I shall never be better till I have been on a pilgrimage to St.
James; give me leave to go, and to take with me Pierre, my son, and
Adriana, my daughter. I beg it as a boon." Messire Pierre, distressed to
see her situation, granted her request too readily.
The countess then ordered a great train to be prepared, and set forth on
her journey, taking with her treasure and jewels of great value, which
was not much remarked at the time; but she knew well that she did not
intend to return. Her journey and her pilgrimage accomplished, she
announced her intention to pay a visit to her cousins, the King and
Queen of Castile; and to their Court she went, and was received with
joy. And there the Countess Florence is still, and will not return, nor
send back her children. The very night on which he had killed the great
bear, Messire Pierre was seized with the malady which has ever since
taken possession of him. "He rises," said the squire, "in the night,
arms himself, draws his sword, and, with loud and furious cries and
gestures, like a man possessed, flies at every one near him, and makes
such a terrific noise and confusion that it would seem fiends were in
his chamber. His squires and valets awake him, and he is quite
unconscious of what has happened, and will not believe those who relate
to him what he has done in his sleep. Now, it is said," continued the
squire, "that the lady knew well what would happen the moment she saw
the great bear; for her father had hunted that very animal, and when he
came up to it, he heard a voice which said, 'Why do you persecute me
thus? I never did you any ill: you shall die of an untimely death.' And
so, indeed, did he, being beheaded by King Pedro the Cruel, without
cause. This was the reason she fainted and was in such tribulation; and
for this cause she never loved her husband after, for she always feared
he would do her a bodily injury; and that harm would happen to her or
hers, while she stayed with him."
The squire and the historian's comments on this strange story are more
amusing than wise. "We know well," said Froissart, "by ancient writings,
that gods and goddesses were in the habit of changing into birds and
beasts men and women who offended them. It might well, therefore, happen
that this great bear was in his time a knight accustomed to hunt in the
forests of Biscay; he probably did something to anger some deity of the
woods, and consequently lost his human shape, and got changed into a
bear, to do penance for his offence."
Whether Froissart really believed what he was saying, or whether the
opinion was merely advanced to afford him an opportunity to display his
classical learning, is not clear; but he forthwith inflicts upon his
hearer the story of the "_Joli Chevalier Acteon_;" at which the other is
marvellously pleased.
They continue to speculate upon the reasons of the Countess Florence for
quitting her husband, and conclude that she knew more than she chose to
tell. It has been thought that the lady, when very young, was one day in
the forest, having strayed from the castle, within whose garden walls
she was weary of being kept. She was delighted when she found herself at
liberty, and kept wandering on, up one alley and down another, wherever
she saw flowers, and the sun streamed through the leaves; till, at last,
the evening began to close, and she turned her steps to return; but
there was such a labyrinth of trees, and every path was so like another,
that she knew not which to choose, and became alarmed lest she should
not reach home before night, and her absence would be discovered. She
hurried forward in great uncertainty, and her fears increased every
moment; for she seemed to be getting further and further in the depths
of the forest; suddenly she came upon a great rock in which was a
cavern, and at its mouth she paused a moment to look round her, when a
sound issued from it which almost paralysed her with terror, and
presently forth rushed a huge black bear, who seized her in his paws.
She shrieked loudly, for she expected her hour was come, when, to her
amazement, she heard a voice from the monster, and these words: "You
have intruded on my privacy; I did not seek you; remain and be my
companion, or at once I put you to death." She was so amazed that she
had scarcely power to answer; but summoning her courage, she replied, "I
am a great lady, and the daughter of the lord of Biscay: release me, and
it shall be the better for you; kill me, and my father will take a
signal revenge." "You shall not quit this forest," replied the monster,
"till you promise what I demand. I will then transport you to your
father's castle, when you shall make him swear never to hunt in my
domains again. If he should do so, he shall die a violent death; and all
with whom you shall in future be in connexion shall be under the same
promise, or I will cause them to die badly. If any, after this vow, hunt
me, and it should happen that I am killed, misfortune shall come on you
and your race for my sake."
The lady promised, as indeed she had no choice but to do; and the great
bear then ordered her to follow him; she did so, and in a few moments
she saw the castle in view. "Now," said he, "give me another promise. If
I should be killed by any one belonging to you, swear that you will go
to the shrine of St. James, of Compostella, and pray for my soul, for I
am not a bear, as I appear, but a knight, transformed for my sins." As
he spoke, and while Florence made the vow he required, she saw his skin
changing by degrees, and his form taking another appearance, till he
stood before her, in the misty light, a fair young knight, the
handsomest her eyes had ever beheld; he looked mournfully upon her, and
disappeared, and she found herself suddenly in her own turret, in her
chamber, on her bed, and no one had perceived her absence. She related
this adventure to her father, who, much amazed thereat, refused to
credit her tale; nor would he give up his accustomed pastime of hunting
for all her entreaties, by which stubborn conduct his fate came upon him
as has been related.
The lady, the more she thought of the beauty of the transformed knight,
loved him the more; but she had no hope ever again to see him, and her
misfortunes having obliged her to quit her country, and take refuge in
Béarn, all happened as has been told. She was not more fortunate with
her husband than her father, in preventing his hunting in the forests
of Biscay; and when she saw the great bear had been killed, she lamented
her lover, as well as the ill fate which he had predicted for her
lineage. Certain it is, that she never afterwards returned to Messire
Pierre, and that she gave great treasure to the church of St. James, of
Compostella, that perpetual mass might be said for _a soul in
purgatory_.
CHAPTER XI.
THE COUNTESS OF COMMINGES--THE CHARGE--THE PERSECUTED HEIRESS--THE
BRIDGE--THE CORDELIER--COSTUME--ASPREMONT--PEYREHORADE.
ALTHOUGH Count Gaston Phoebus was a tyrant, who spared none in his
anger, yet he had all the virtues which were admired by the bold spirits
of the men of his time; amongst the chief of which was hospitality. Like
a true knight of old, he afforded protection to distressed ladies and
damsels, and his Court was a refuge sought, and not in vain, by all who
had been injured by those stronger than themselves, or who required
assistance in any way. Amongst other ladies who came to throw themselves
at the feet of this redoubted righter of wrongs was the Countess Alienor
de Comminges, wife of the Count of Boulogne, and the right heiress of
the county of Comminges, then in the hands of the Lord of Armagnac, who
unjustly detained it. This spirited lady one day made her appearance at
the Castle of Orthez, with her little girl of three years old in her
hand, and demanded protection of Gaston Phoebus. She was received with
great honour and respect, and Gaston listened with great benignity to
her complaint.