the illustrated works of gordon home author and painter by gordon home an index edited by david widger gordon home ( - ) project gutenberg editions contents ## normandy ## yorkshire ## yorkshire�coast and moorlands ## england of my heart�spring ## beautiful britain ## the evolution of an english town volumes, chapters and stories normandy preface list of coloured illustrations list of line illustrations chapter i some features of normandy chapter ii by the banks of the seine chapter iii concerning rouen, the ancient capital of normandy chapter iv concerning the cathedral city of evreux and the road to bernay chapter v concerning lisieux and the romantic town of falaise chapter vi from argentan to avranches chapter vii concerning mont st michel chapter viii concerning coutances and some parts of the cotentin chapter ix concerning st lo and bayeux chapter x concerning caen and the coast towards trouville chapter xi some notes on the history of normandy list of coloured illustrations mont st michel from the causeway on the road between conches and beaumont-le-roger this is typical of the poplar-bordered roads of normandy. the chateau gaillard from the road by the seine the village of le petit andely appears below the castle rock, and is partly hidden by the island. the chalk cliffs on the left often look like ruined walls. a typical reach of the seine between rouen and le petit andely on one side great chalk cliffs rise precipitously, and on the other are broad flat pastures. the church at gisors, seen from the walls of the norman castle the tour de la grosse horloge, rouen it is the belfry of the city, and was commenced in . the cathedral at rouen showing a peep of the portail de la calende, and some of the quaint houses of the oldest part of the city. the cathedral of evreux seen from above on the right, just where the light touches some of the roofs of the houses, the fine old belfry can be seen. a typical farmyard scene in normandy the curious little thatched mushroom above the cart is to be found in most of the norman farms. the bridge at beaumont-le-roger on the steep hill beyond stands the ruined abbey church. in the rue aux fevres, lisieux the second tiled gable from the left belongs to the fine sixteenth century house called the manoir de francois i. the church of st jacques at lisieux one of the quaint umber fronted houses for which the town is famous appears on the left. falaise castle the favourite stronghold of william the conqueror. the porte des cordeliers at falaise a thirteenth century gateway that overlooks the steep valley of the ante. the chateau d'o a seventeenth century manor house surrounded by a wide moat. the great view over the forests to the south from the ramparts of domfront castle down below can be seen the river varennes, and to the left of the railway the little norman church of notre-dame-sur-l'eau. the clock gate, vire a view of mont st michel and the bay of cancale from the jardin des plantes at avranches on the left is the low coast-line of normandy, and on the right appears the islet of tombelaine. the long main street of coutances in the foreground is the church of st pierre, and in the distance is the cathedral. the great western towers of the church of notre dame at st lo they are of different dates, and differ in the arcading and other ornament. the norman towers of bayeux cathedral ouistreham list of line illustrations the chatelet and la merveille at mont st michel the dark opening through the archway on the left is the main entrance to the abbey. on the right can be seen the tall narrow windows that light the three floors of abbot jourdain's great work. the disused church of st nicholas at caen a courtyard in the rue de bayeux at caen yorkshire chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix chapter x chapter xi chapter xii chapter xiii chapter xiv chapter xv chapter xvi chapter xvii chapter xviii chapter xix chapter xx chapter xxi chapter xxii chapter xxiii chapter xxiv chapter xxv illustrations york from the central tower of the minster sleights moor from swart houe cross runswick bay robin hood's bay sunrise from staithes beck the red roofs of whitby whitby abbey from the cliffs an autumn day at guisborough the skelton valley in pickering church the market-place, helmsley richmond castle from the river a rugged view above wensleydale a jacobean house at askrigg aysgarth force view up wensleydale from leyburn shawl ripon minster from the south fountains abbey knaresborough bolton abbey, wharfedale settle wolds filey brig the outermost point of flamborough head hornsea mere the market-place, beverley patrington church coxwold village the west front of the church of byland abbey bootham bar, york kirkstall abbey, leeds yorkshire�coast and moorlands chapter i��across the moors from pickering to whitby chapter ii��along the esk valley chapter iii��the coast from whitby to redcar chapter iv��the coast from whitby to scarborough chapter v��scarborough chapter vi��whitby chapter vii��the cleveland hills chapter viii��guisborough and the skelton valley chapter ix��from pickering to rievaulx abbey england of my heart�spring introduction chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix chapter x chapter xi chapter xii chapter xiii chapter xiv chapter xv chapter xvi chapter xvii chapter xviii chapter xix chapter xx chapter xxi list of illustrations shooters' hill dartford church and bridge the gateway of the monastery close, rochester rochester canterbury cathedral from christchurch gate west gate, canterbury on the stour near canterbury chilham a corner of romney marsh rye winchelsea church battle abbey lewes castle the downs the weald of sussex, north of lewes arundel castle the market cross, chichester bosham the tudor house, opposite st michael's church, southampton in the new forest romsey abbey north transept, winchester cathedral st cross, winchester selborne from the hanger beautiful britain chapter 	page i. 	the pilgrim's approach to the city 	 ii. 	the story of canterbury 	 iii. 	the cathedral 	 iv. 	the city 	 	index list of illustrations plate . 	the nave of canterbury cathedral 	frontispiece 	facing page . 	christ church gate 	 . 	the cathedral from north-west 	 . 	the "angel" or "bell harry" tower and the lavatory tower of the cathedral 	 . 	the chapel of "our lady" in the undercroft of the cathedral 	 . 	the warrior's chapel 	 . 	the martyrdom in the north-west transept 	 . 	the doorway from the cloisters to the martyrdom 	 . 	the greyfriars' house in canterbury 	 . 	the house of the canterbury weavers 	 . 	westgate canterbury from within 	 . 	the norman staircase to the king's school 	on the cover . 	plan of canterbury. 	 . 	plan of canterbury castle. 	 the evolution of an english town preface. list of illustrations. introduction chapter i concerning those which follow chapter ii the forest and vale of pickering in palaeolithic and pre-glacial times chapter iii the vale of pickering in the lesser ice age chapter iv the early inhabitants of the forest and vale of pickering chapter v how the roman occupation of britain affected the forest and vale of pickering, b.c. to a.d. chapter vi the forest and vale in saxon times, a.d. to chapter vii the forest and vale in norman times, a.d. to chapter viii the forest and vale in the time of the plantagenets, a.d. to chapter ix the forest and vale in tudor times, a.d. to chapter x the forest and vale in stuart times, a.d. to chapter xi the forest and vale in georgian times, a.d. to chapter xii the forest and vale from early victorian times up to the present day, a.d. to chapter xiii concerning the villages and scenery of the forest and vale of pickering chapter xiv concerning the zoology of the forest and vale books of reference list of the vicars of pickering index the purpose of the footnotes having always considered footnotes an objectionable feature, i have resorted to them solely for reference purposes. therefore, the reader who does not wish to look up my authorities need not take the slightest notice of the references to the footnotes, which in no case contain additional facts, but merely indications of the sources of information. list of illustrations pickering church from hall garth (coloured) pickering from the north-west rosamund tower, pickering castle kirkdale cave hyænas' jaws elephants' teeth bear's tusk pickering lake in ice age newtondale in ice age pickering lake, eastern end scamridge dykes pre-historic weapons leaf-shaped arrow head lake dwellings relics remains of pre-historic animals from lake dwellings skeleton of bronze age a quern urns in pickering museum sketch map of roman road and camps the tower of middleton church ancient font and crosses saxon sundial at kirkdale saxon sundial at edstone pre-norman remains near pickering saxon stones at kirkdale saxon stones at sinnington south side of the nave of pickering church norman doorway at salton norman work at ellerburne the crypt at lastingham norman font at edstone wall paintings in pickering church the devil's tower, pickering castle wall painting of st christopher wall painting of st edmund and acts of mercy wall painting of herod's feast and martyrdom of st thomas a becket effigy of sir william bruce effigies in bruce chapel holy water stoup in pickering church sanctus bell cattle marks section of fork cottage details of fork cottage pickering castle from the keep pre-reformation chalice font at pickering church alms box at pickering church house in which duke of buckingham died maypole on sinnington green inverted stone coffin at wykeham magic cubes newtondale, showing the coach railway relics of witchcraft a love garter horn of the sinnington hunt interior of the oldest type of cottage ingle-nook at gallow hill farm autographs of wordsworth and mary hutchinson riding t' fair halbert and spetum old key of castle pickering shambles the old pickering fire-engine market cross at thornton-le-dale lockton village the black hole of thornton-le-dale hutton buscel church sketch map of the pickering district from page images generously made available by bibliothèque nationale de france (http://gallica.bnf.fr/) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) normandy picturesque. by henry blackburn, author of 'travelling in spain,' 'the pyrenees,' 'artists and arabs,' etc. travelling edition. with appendix of routes and list of watering-places. [illustration: joan of arc's house at rouen] [illustration: map] london: sampson low, son, & marston, crown buildings, fleet street. . london: printed by william clowes and sons, stamford street & charing cross. preface to "_travelling edition._" in issuing the travelling edition of "normandy picturesque," the publishers deem it right to state that the body of the work is identical with the christmas edition; but that the appendix contains additional information for the use of travellers, some of which is not to be found in any guide, or handbook, to france. the descriptions of places and buildings in normandy call for little or no alteration in the present edition, excepting in the case of one town, concerning which the author makes the following note:-- "the traveller who may arrive at pont audemer this year, with '_normandy picturesque_' in his hand, will find matters strangely altered since these notes were written; he will find that a railway has been driven into the middle of the town, that many old houses have disappeared, that the inhabitants have left off their white caps, and have given up their hearts to modern ways. "such changes have come rapidly upon pont audemer, but we must not, in consequence, alter our description of it; for the old houses and the old customs are dear memories, and the more worth recording because the reality has faded before our eyes." _london, may, ._ contents. page chap. i.--on the wing " ii.--pont audemer " iii.--lisieux " iv.--caen--dives " v.--bayeux " vi.--st. lo--coutances--granville " vii.--avranches--mont st. michael " viii.--vire--mortain--falaise " ix.--rouen " x.--the valley of the seine " xi.--architecture and costume " xii.--the watering places of normandy appendix list of illustrations. joan of arc's house at rouen _by_ s. prout. _frontispiece_. chap. page ii.--market-place at pont audemer s. p. hall (_from a sketch by a. e. browne._) " a sketch at pont audemer m. tibialong " old houses at pont audemer a. e. browne iii.--wood-carving at lisieux a. e. browne iv.--church of st. pierre, caen m. clerget " a sketch, at caen m. tibialong " old woman of caen m. tirard v.--bayeux cathedral h. blackburn " corner of house at bayeux a. e. browne " ancient tablet in cathedral h. blackburn " facsimile of bayeux tapestry a. severn vi.--a sketch, at cherbourg m. tibialong " exterior pulpit at st. lo _from a photograph_ " a 'toiler of the sea' s. p. hall " mont st. michael h. blackburn vii.--church near avranches h. blackburn " ancient cross h. blackburn viii.--clock tower at vire h. blackburn ix.--rouen cathedral m. clerget x.--market-women--lower normandy s. p. hall (_from a sketch by a. e. browne._) xi.--modern houses at houlgate h. blackburn " 'the wrestlers' gustave dorÉ normandy picturesque. chapter i. _on the wing._ it is, perhaps, rather a subject for reproach to english people that the swallows and butterflies of our social system are too apt to forsake their native woods and glens in the summer months, and to fly to 'the continent' for recreation and change of scene; whilst poets tell us, with eloquent truth, that there is a music in the branches of england's trees, and a soft beauty in her landscape more soothing and gracious in their influence than 'aught in the world beside.' whether it be wise or prudent, or even pleasant, to leave our island in the very height of its season, so to speak--at a time when it is most lovely, when the sweet fresh green of the meadows is changing to bloom of harvest and gold of autumn--for countries the features of which are harder, and the landscape, if bolder, certainly less beautiful, for a climate which, if more sunny, is certainly more bare and burnt up, and for skies which, if more blue, lack much of the poetry of cloud-land--we will not stay to enquire; but admitting the fact that, for various reasons, english people _will_ go abroad in the autumn, and that there is a fashion, we might almost say a passion, for 'flying, flying south,' which seems irresistible--we will endeavour in the following pages to suggest a compromise, in the shape of a tour which shall include the undoubted delight and charm of foreign travel, with scenery more like england than any other in europe, which shall be within an easy distance from our shores, and within the limits of a short purse; and which should have one special attraction for us, viz., that the country to be seen and the people to be visited bear about them a certain english charm--the men a manliness, and the women a beauty with which we may be proud to claim kindred. we speak of the north-west corner of france, divided from us (and perhaps once not divided) by the british channel--the district called normandy (_neustria_), and sometimes, 'nautical france,' which includes the departments of _calvados_, _eure_, _orne_, and part of _la manche_. it comprises, as is well known, but a small part of france, and occupies an area of about one hundred and fifty miles by seventy-five, but in this small compass is comprehended so much that is interesting to english people that we shall find quite enough to see and to do within its limits alone. if the reader will turn to the little map on our title-page, he will see at a glance the position of the principal towns in normandy, which we may take in the following order, making england (or london) our starting point:-- crossing the channel from southampton to havre by night, or from newhaven to dieppe by day, we proceed at once to the town of pont audemer, situated about six miles from quillebeuf and eight from honfleur, both on the left bank of the seine. from havre, pont audemer may be reached in a few hours, by water, and from dieppe, rouen or paris there is now railway communication. from pont audemer we go to lisieux (by road or railway), from lisieux to caen, bayeux and st. lo, where the railway ends, and we take the diligence to coutances, granville, and avranches. after a visit to the island of mont st. michael, we may return (by diligence) by way of mortain, vire, and falaise; thence to rouen, and by the valley of the seine, to the sea-coast.[ ] the whole journey is a short and inexpensive one, and may occupy a fortnight, a month, or three months (the latter is not too long), and may be made a simple _voyage de plaisir_, or turned to good account for artistic study. but there is one peculiarity about it that should be mentioned at the outset. the route we have indicated, simple as it seems, and most easily to be carried out as it would appear, is really rather difficult of accomplishment, for the one reason that the journey is almost always made on _cross-roads_. the traveller who follows it will continually find himself delayed because he is not going to paris. 'paris is france' under the imperial régime, and at nearly every town or railway station he will be reminded of the fact; and, if he be not careful, will find himself and his baggage whisked off to the capital.[ ] if he wishes to see normandy, and to carry out the idea of a provincial tour in its integrity, he must resist temptation, _have nothing to do with paris_, and put up with slow trains, creeping diligences, and second-rate inns. the network of roads and railways in france converge as surely to the capital as the threads of a spider's web lead to its centre, and in pursuing his route through the bye-ways of normandy the traveller will be much in the position of the fly that has stepped upon its meshes--every road and railway leading to the capital where '_m. d'araignée_' the enticing, the alluring, the fascinating, the most extravagant--is ever waiting for his prey. from the moment he sets foot on the shores of normandy, paris will be made ever present to him. let him go, for example, to the railway station at any port on his arrival in france, and he will find everything--people, goods, and provisions, being hurried off to the capital as if there were no other place to live in, or to provide for. let him (in pursuit of the journey we have suggested) tread cautiously on the _fil de fer_ at lisieux, for he will pass over one of the main lines that connect the world of fashion at paris with another world of fashion by the sea.[ ] let him, when at st. lo, apply for a place in the diligence for avranches, and he will be told by a polite official that nothing can be done until the mail train arrives from paris; and let him not be surprised if, on his arrival at avranches, his name be chronicled in the local papers as the latest arrival from the capital. let him again, on his homeward journey, try and persuade the people of mortain and vire that he does _not_ intend to visit paris, and he will be able to form some estimate of its importance in the eyes of the french people. we draw attention to this so pointedly at the outset, because it is altogether inconsistent and wide of our purpose in making a quiet, and we may add, economical, visit to normandy, to do, as is the general custom with travellers--spend half their time and most of their money in paris. thus much in outline for the ordinary english traveller on a holiday ramble; but the artist or the architect need not go so far a-field. if we might make a suggestion to him, especially to the architect, we would say, take only the first four towns on our list (continuing the journey to coutances, or returning by rouen if there be opportunity), and he will find enough to last him a summer.[ ] if he has never set foot in normandy before we may promise him an æsthetic treat beyond his dreams. he will have his idols both of wood and stone--wood for dwelling, and stone for worship; at pont audemer, the simple domestic architecture of the middle ages, and at lisieux, the more ornate and luxurious; passing on to caen, he will have (in ecclesiastical architecture) the memorial churches of william the conqueror, and, in the neighbouring city of bayeux (in one building), examples of the 'early,' as well as the more elaborate, gothic of the middle ages. if the architect, or art student, will but make this little pilgrimage in its integrity, if he will, like christian, walk in faith--turning neither to the right hand nor to the left, and shunning the broad road which leads to destruction--he will be rewarded. there are two paths for the architect in normandy, as elsewhere--paths which we may call the 'simple right' and the 'elaborate wrong,' and the right path is sometimes as difficult to follow as the path of virtue. but both artist and amateur will revel alike in the beauty of landscape, in the variety of form and colour of the old buildings, and in the costume of the people; and we cannot imagine a more pleasant and complete change from the heat and pressure of a london season than to drop down (suddenly, as it were, like a bird making a swoop in the air), into the midst of the quiet, primitive population of a town like pont audemer, not many miles removed from the english coast, but at least a thousand in the habits and customs of the people. an artist of any sensibility could scarcely do it, the shock would be too great, the delight too much to be borne; but the ordinary reader, who has prepared his mind to some extent by books of travel, or the tourist, who has come out simply for a holiday, may enjoy the change as he never enjoyed anything before. in the following pages we do not profess to describe each place on the route we have suggested, but rather to record a few notes, made at various times during a sojourn in normandy; notes--not intended to be exhaustive, or even as complete and comprehensive in description, as ordinary books of travel, but which--written in the full enjoyment of summer time in this country, in sketching in the open air, and in the exploration of its mediæval towns--may perchance impart something of the author's enthusiasm to his unknown readers, when scattered upon the winds of a publisher's breeze. [illustration] chapter ii. _pont audemer._ about one hundred and fifty miles in a direct line from the door of the society of british architects in conduit street, london (and almost unknown, we venture to say, to the majority of its members), sleeps the little town of pont audemer, with its quaint old gables, its tottering houses, its gothic 'bits,' its projecting windows, carved oak galleries, and streets of time-worn buildings--centuries old. old dwellings, old customs, old caps, old tanneries, set in a landscape of bright green hills.[ ] 'old as the hills,' and almost as unchanged in aspect, are the ways of the people of pont audemer, who dress and tan hides, and make merry as their fathers did before them. for several centuries they have devoted themselves to commerce and the arts of peace, and in the enthusiasm of their business have desecrated one or two churches into tanneries. but they are a conservative and primitive people, loving to do as their ancestors did, and to dwell where they dwelt; they build their houses to last for several generations, and take pride and interest in the 'family mansion,' a thing unknown and almost impossible amongst the middle classes of most communities. [illustration: market place, pont audemer.] pont audemer was once warlike; it had its castle in feudal times (destroyed in the th century), and the legend exists that cannon was here first used in warfare. it has its history of wars in the time of the norman dukes, but its aspect is now quiet and peaceful, and its people appear happy and contented; the little river rille winds about it, and spreads its streamlets like branches through the streets, and sparkles in the evening light. like venice, it has its 'silent highways;' like venice, also, on a smaller and humbler scale, it has its old façades and lintels drooping to the water's edge; like venice, too, we must add, that it has its odours here and there--odours not always proceeding from the tanneries. in the chief place of the _arrondissement_, and in a rapidly increasing town, containing about six thousand inhabitants; with a reputation for healthiness and cheapness of living, and with a railway from paris, we must naturally look for changes and modern ways; but pont audemer is still essentially old, and some of its inhabitants wear the caps, as in our illustration, which were sketched only yesterday in the market-place. if we take up our quarters at the old-fashioned inn called the _pôt d'Étain_, we shall find much to remind us of the th century. if we take a walk by the beautiful banks of the rille on a summer's evening, or in the fields where the peasants are at work, we shall find the aspect curiously english, and in the intonation of the voices the resemblance is sometimes startling; we seem hardly amongst foreigners--both in features and in voice there is a strong family likeness. there is a close tie of blood relationship no doubt, of ancient habits and natural tastes; but, in spite of railways and steamboats, the two peoples know very little of each other. that young girl with the plain white cap fitting close to her hair--who tends the flocks on the hill side, and puts all her power and energy into the little matter of knitting a stocking--is a norman maiden, a lineal descendant, it may be, of some ancient house, whose arms we may find in our own heraldic albums. she is noble by nature, and has the advantage over her coroneted cousins in being permitted to wear a white cap out of doors, and an easy and simple costume; in the fact of her limbs being braced by a life spent in the open air, and her head not being plagued with the proprieties of may fair. she is pretty; but what is of more importance she knows how to cook, and she has a little store of money in a bank. she has been taught enough for her station, and has few wishes beyond it; and some day she will marry jean, and happy will be jean. that stalwart warrior (whom we see on the next page), sunning himself outside his barrack door, having just clapped his helmet on the head of a little boy in blouse and sabots, is surely a near relation to our guardsman; he is certainly brave, he is full of fun and intelligence, he very seldom takes more wine than is good for him, and a game at dominoes delights his soul. [illustration] but it is in the market-place of pont audemer that we shall obtain the best idea of the place and of the people. on market mornings and on fête days, when the _place_ is crowded with old and young,--when all the caps (of every variety of shape, from the 'helmet' to the _bonnet-rouge_), and all the old brown coats with short tails--are collected together, we have a picture, the like of which we may have seen in rare paintings, but very seldom realize in life. of the tumult of voices on these busy mornings, of the harsh discordant sounds that sometimes fill the air, we must not say much, remembering their continual likeness to our own; but viewed, picturesquely, it is a sight not to be forgotten, and one that few english people are aware can be witnessed so near home. here the artist will find plenty of congenial occupation, and opportunities (so difficult to meet with in these days) of sketching both architecture and people of a picturesque type--groups in the market-place, groups down by the river fishing under the trees, groups at windows of old hostelries, and seated at inn doors; horses in clumsy wooden harness; calves and pigs, goats and sheep; women at fruit stalls, under tents and coloured umbrellas; piles upon piles of baskets, a wealth of green things, and a bright fringe of fruit and flowers, arranged with all the fanciful grace of "_les dames des halles_," in paris.[ ] all this, and much more the artist finds to his hand, and what does the architect discover? first of all, that if he had only come here before he might have saved himself an immensity of thought and trouble, for he would have found such suggestions for ornament in wood carving, for panels, doorways, and the like, of so good a pattern, and so old, that they are new to the world of to-day; he would have found houses built out over the rivers, looking like pieces of old furniture, ranged side by side--rich in colour and wonderfully preserved, with their wooden gables, carved in oak of the fifteenth century, supported by massive timbers, sound and strong, of even older date. he would see many of these houses with windows full of flowers, and creepers twining round the old eaves; and long drying-poles stretched out horizontally, with gay-coloured clothes upon them, flapping in the wind--all contrasting curiously with the dark buildings. but he would also find some houses on the verge of ruin. if he explored far enough in the dark, narrow streets, where the rivers flow under the windows of empty dwellings; he might see them tottering, and threatening downfall upon each other--leaning over and casting shadows, black and mysterious upon the water--no line perpendicular, no line horizontal, the very beau-ideal of picturesque decay--buildings of which longfellow might have sung as truly as of nuremberg,-- "memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks which round them throng." in short, he would find pont audemer, and the neighbouring town of lisieux, treasure houses of old mysterious 'bits' of colour and form, suggestive of simple domestic usage in one building, and princely grandeur in another--strength and simplicity, grace and beauty of design--all speaking to him of a past age with the eloquence of history. let us look well at these old buildings, many of them reared and dwelt in by men of humble birth and moderate means--(men who lived happily and died easily without amassing a fortune)--let us, if we can, without too much envy, think for a moment of the circumstances under which these houses were built. to us, to many of us, who pay dearly for the privilege of living between four square walls (so slight and thin sometimes, that our neighbours are separated from us by sight, but scarcely by sound)--walls that we hire for shelter, from necessity, and leave generally without reluctance; that we are prone to cover with paper, in the likeness of oak and marble, to hide their meanness--these curious, odd-shaped interiors, with massive walls, and solid oak timbers, are especially attractive. how few modern rooms, for instance, have such niches in them, such seats in windows and snug corners, that of all things make a house comfortable. some of these rooms are twenty feet high, and are lighted from windows in surprising places, and of the oddest shapes. what more charming than this variety, to the eye jaded with monotony; what more suggestive, than the apparently accidental application of gothic architecture to the wants and requirements of the age.[ ] we will not venture to say that these old buildings are altogether admirable from an architect's point of view, but to us they are delightful, because they were designed and inhabited by people who had time to be quaint, and could not help being picturesque. and if these old wooden houses seem to us wanting (as many are wanting) in the appliances and fittings which modern habits have rendered necessary, it was assuredly no fault of the th-century architect. they display both in design and construction, most conspicuously, the elements of common sense in meeting the requirements of their own day, which is, as has been well remarked, "the one thing wanting to give life to modern architecture;" and they have a character and individuality about them which renders almost every building unique. like furniture of rare design they bear the direct impress of their maker. they were built in an age of comparative leisure, when men gave their hearts to the meanest, as well as to the mightiest, work of their hands; in an age when love, hope, and a worthy emulation moved them, as it does not seem to move men now; in an age, in short, when an approving notice in the columns of the 'builder' newspaper, was not a high aspiration. but in nothing is the attraction greater to us, who are accustomed to the monotonous perspective of modern streets, than the irregularity of the _exteriors_, arising from the independent method of construction; for, by varying the height and pattern of each façade, the builders obtained to almost every house what architects term the 'return,' to their cornices and mouldings, i.e., the corner-finish and completeness to the most important projecting lines. and yet these houses are evidently built with relation to each other; they generally harmonize, and set off, and uphold each other, just as forest trees form themselves naturally into groups for support and protection. all this we may see at a distance, looking down the varied perspective of these streets of clustering dwellings; and the closer we examine them, the more we find to interest, if not to admire. if we gain little in architectural knowledge, we at least gain pleasure, we learn _the value of variety in its simplest forms_, and notice how easy it would be to relieve the monotony of our london streets; we learn, too, the artistic value of high-pitched roofs, of contrast in colour (if it be only of dark beams against white plaster) and of _meaning_ in every line of construction. these, and many more such, sheaves we may gather from our norman harvest, but we must haste and bind them, for the winds of time are scattering fast. pont audemer is being modernised, and many an interesting old building is doomed to destruction; whilst cotton-mills and steam-engines, and little white villas amongst the trees, black coats and parisian bonnets, all tend to blot out the memories of mediæval days. let us make the most of the place whilst there is time--and let us, before we pass on to lisieux, add one picture of pont audemer in the early morning--a picture which every year will seem less real.[ ] there are few monuments or churches to examine, and when we have seen the stained-glass windows in the fine old church of st. ouen, and walked by the banks of the rille, to the ruins of a castle (of the twelfth century) at montfort; we shall have seen the chief objects of interest, in what murray laconically describes as, 'a prettily situated town of inhabitants, famed for its tanneries.' _early morning at pont audemer._ that there is 'nothing new under the sun,' may perhaps be true of its rising; nevertheless, a new sensation awaits most of us, if we choose to see it under various phases. the early morning at pont audemer is the same early morning that breaks upon the unconscious inhabitants of a london street; but the conditions are more delightful and very much more picturesque; and we might be excused for presenting the picture on the simple ground that it treats of certain hours of of the twenty-four, of which most of us know nothing, and in which (such are the exigencies of modern civilization) most of us do nothing. [illustration: old houses, pont audemer.] a storm passed over the town one night in august, which shook the great rafters of the old houses, and made the timbers strain; the water flowed from them as from the sides of a ship--one minute they were illuminated, the next, they were in blackest gloom. in two or three hours it has all passed away, and as we go out into the silent town, and cross the street where it forms a bridge over the rille (the spot from which the next sketch was taken), a faint gleam of light appears upon the water, and upon the wet beams of one or two projecting gables. the darkness and the 'dead' silence are soon to be disturbed--one or two birds fly out from the black eaves, a rat crosses the street, some distant chimes come upon the wind, and a faint clatter of sabots on the wet stones; the town clock strikes half-past three, and the watchman puts out his lantern, and goes to sleep. the morning is breaking on pont audemer, and it is the time for surprises--for the sudden appearance of a gable-end, which just now was shadow, for the more gradual, but not less curious, formation of a street in what seemed to be space; for the sudden creation of windows in dead walls, for the turning of fantastic shadows into palpable carts, baskets, piles of wood, and the like; and for the discovery of a number of coiled-up dogs (and one or two coiled-up men) who had weathered the night in sheltered places. but the grey light is turning fast to gold, the warmer tints begin to prevail, the streets leading eastward are gleaming, and the hills are glistening in their bright fresh green.[ ] the sweet morning air welcomes us as we leave the streets and its five thousand sleepers, and pass over another bridge and out by the banks of the rille, where the fish are stirring in the swollen stream, and the lilies are dancing on the water. the wind blows freshly through the trees, and scatters the raindrops thickly; the clouds, the last remnant of the night's storm, career through a pale blue space, the birds are everywhere on the wing, cattle make their appearance in the landscape, and peasants are already to be seen on the roads leading to the town. suddenly--with gleams of gold, and with a rushing chorus of insect life, and a thousand voices in the long grass on the river's bank--the day begins.[ ] it is market-morning, and we will go a little way up the hill to watch the arrivals--a hill, from which there is a view over town and valley; the extent and beauty of which it would be difficult to picture to the reader, in words. listen! for there is already a cavalcade coming down the hill; we can see it at intervals through the trees, and hear men's voices, the laughter of women, the bleating of calves, and the crushing sound of wheels upon the road. it is a peaceful army, though the names of its leaders (if we heard them), might stir up warlike memories--there are howards and percys amongst them, but there is no clash of arms; they come of a brave lineage, their ancestors fought well under the walls of pont audemer; but they have laid down their arms for centuries--their end is commerce and peace. let us stand aside under the lime trees, and see them pass. but they are making a halt, their horses go straight to the water-trough, and the whole cavalcade comes to a stand; the old women in the carts (wearing starched caps a foot high) with baskets of eggs, butter, cheeses, and piles of merchandise, sit patiently until the time comes to start again; and the drivers, in blouses and wooden sabots, lounge about and smoke, or sit down to rest. the young girls, who accompany the expedition and who will soon take their places in the market, now set to work systematically to perform their toilettes, commencing by washing their feet in a stream, and putting on the shoes and stockings which they had carried during their wet march; then more ablutions, with much fun, and laughter, and tying up of tresses, and producing from baskets of those wonderful caps which we have sketched so often--_soufflés_ of most fantastic shape and startling dimensions. this was the crowning work, the picture was complete: bright, fresh, morning faces, glowing under white caps; neat grey or blue dresses with white bodices, or coloured handkerchiefs; grey stockings, shoes with buckles, and a silver cross, a rosary, or a flower. we must not quite forget the younger men (with coats, not blouses), who plumed themselves in a rough way, and wore wonderful felt hats; nor, above all, a peep through the trees behind the group, far away down the valley, at the gables and turrets of pont audemer, glistening through a cloud of haze. this is all we need describe, a word more would spoil the picture; like one of edouard frère's paintings of "cottage life in brittany," the charm and pathos of the scene lie in its simplicity and harmony with nature. if we choose to stay until the day advances, we may see more market-people come crowding in, and white caps will crop up in the distance through the trees, till the green meadows blossom with them, and sparkle like a lawn of daisies; we may hear the ringing laughter of the girls to whom market day seems an occasion of great rejoicing, and we may be somewhat distracted with the steady droning patois of the old women; but we come to see rather than to hear, and, returning to the town for the last time, we take our station at the corner of the market-place, and make a sketch of a group of norman maidens who are well worth coming out to see. [illustration] chapter iii. _lisieux._ 'oh! the pleasant days, when men built houses after their own minds, and wrote their own devices on the walls, and none laughed at them; when little wooden knights and saints peeped out from the angles of gable-ended houses, and every street displayed a store of imaginative wealth.'--_la belle france_. we must now pass on to the neighbouring town of lisieux, which will be found even more interesting than pont audemer in examples of domestic architecture of the middle ages; resisting with difficulty a passing visit to pont l'evêque, another old town a few miles distant. "who does not know pont l'evêque," asks an enthusiastic frenchman, "that clean little smiling town, seated in the midst of adorable scenery, with its little black, white, rose-colour and blue houses? one sighs and says 'it would be good to live here,' and then one passes on and goes to amuse oneself"--at trouville-sur-mer! if we approach lisieux by the road from pont audemer (a distance of about twenty-six miles) we shall get a better impression of the town than if riding upon the whirlwind of an express train; and we shall pass through a prettily-wooded country, studded with villas and comfortable-looking houses, surrounded by pleasant fruit and flower gardens--the modern abodes of wealthy manufacturers from the neighbouring towns, and also of a few english families. we ought to come quietly through the suburbs of lisieux, if only to see how its , inhabitants are busied in their woollen and cloth factories; how they have turned the old timber-framed houses of feudal times into warehouses; how the banners and signs of chivalry are desecrated into trade-marks, and how its inhabitants are devoting themselves heart and soul to the arts of peace. we should then approach the town by picturesque wooden bridges over the rivers which have brought the town its prosperity, and see some isolated examples of carved woodwork in the suburbs; in houses surrounded by gardens, which we should have missed by any other road.[ ] the churches at lisieux are scarcely as interesting to us as its domestic architecture; but we must not neglect to examine the pointed gothic of the th century in the cathedral of st. pierre. the door of the south transept, and one of the doors under the western towers (the one on the right hand) is very beautiful, and is quite mauresque in the delicacy of its design. the interior is of fine proportions, but is disfigured with a coat of yellow paint; whilst common wooden seats (of churchwardens' pattern) and wainscotting have been built up against its pillars, the stone work having been cut away to accommodate the painted wood. there are some good memorial windows; one of henry ii. being married to eleanor ( ); and another of thomas-à-becket visiting lisieux when exiled in . the church of st. jacques with its fine stained-glass, the interior of which is much plainer than st. pierre, will not detain us long; it is rather to such streets as the celebrated '_rue aux fèvres_' that we are attracted by the decoration of the houses, and their curious construction. there is one house in this street, the entire front of which is covered with grotesquely carved figures, intricate patterns, and graceful pillars. the exterior woodwork is blackened with age, and the whole building threatens to fall upon its present tenant--the keeper of a café. the beams which support the roof inside are also richly decorated. to give the reader any idea of the variety of the wooden houses at lisieux would require a series of drawings or photographs: we can do little more in these pages than point out these charming corners of the world where something is still left to us of the work of the middle ages. the general character of the houses is better than at pont audemer, and the style is altogether more varied. stone as well as wood is used in their construction, and the rooms are more commodious and more elaborately decorated. but the exterior carving and the curious signs engraved on the time-stained wood, are the most distinctive features, and give the streets their picturesque character. here we may notice, in odd corners, names and legends carved in wood on the panels, harmonizing curiously with the decoration; just as the names of the owners (in german characters) are carved on swiss châlets; and the words 'god is great,' and the like, form appropriate ornaments (in arabic) over the door of a mosque.[ ] and upon heraldic shields, on old oak panels, and amidst groups of clustering leaves, we may sometimes trace the names of the founders (often the architects) of the houses in which several generations lived and died. [illustration] the strange familiarity of some of these crests and devices (lions, tigers, dragons, griffins, and other emblems of ferocity), the english character of many of the names, and the latin mottos, identical with some in common use in england, may give us a confused and not very dignified idea respecting their almost universal use by the middle classes in england. m. taine, a well-known french writer, remarks that 'c'est loin du monde que nous pouvons jugez sainement des illusions dont nous environt,' and perhaps it is from lisieux that we may best see ourselves, wearing 'coats of arms.' it is considered by many an unmeaning and unjust phrase to call the nineteenth century 'an age of shams,' but it seems appropriate enough when we read in newspapers daily, of 'arms found' and 'crests designed;' and when we consider the extent of the practice of assuming them, or rather we should say, of having them 'found,' we cannot feel very proud of the fashion. without entering into a genealogical discussion, we have plenty of evidence that the normans held their lands and titles from a very early date, and that after the conquest their family arms were spread over england; but not in any measure to the extent to which they are used amongst us. in these days nearly every one has a 'crest' or a 'coat of arms.'[ ] do the officials of heralds' college (we may ask in parenthesis) believe in their craft? and does the tax collector ever receive _s_. _d_. for imaginary honours? such things did not, and could not, exist in mediæval times, in the days when every one had his place from the noble to the vassal, when every man's name was known and his title to property, if he had any, clearly defined. a 'title' in those days meant a title to land, and an acceptance of its responsibilities. how many "titled" people in these days possess the one, or accept the other? it would seem reserved for the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries to create a state of society when the question 'who is he?' has to be perpetually asked and not always easily answered; in a word, to foster and increase to its present almost overwhelming dimensions a great middle-class of society without a name or a title, or even a home to call its own. it was assuredly a good time when men's lives and actions were handed down, so to speak, from father to son, and the poor man had his '_locum tenens_' as well as the rich; and how he loved his own dwelling, how he decked it with ornament according to his taste or his means, how he watched over it and preserved it from decay; how, in short, his pride was in his own hearth and home--these old buildings tell us. the conservative influence of all this on his character (which, although we are in france, we must call 'home-feeling'), its tendency to contentment and self-respect, are subjects suggestive enough, but on which we must not dwell. it flourished during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, and it declined when men commenced crowding into cities, and were no longer 'content to do without what they could not produce.'[ ] let us stay quietly at lisieux, if we have time, and _see_ the place, for we shall find nothing in all normandy to exceed it in interest; and the way to see it best, and to remember it, is, undoubtedly, to _sketch_. let us make out all these curious 'bits,' these signs, and emblems in wood and stone--twigs and moss, and birds with delicate wings, a spray of leaves, the serene head of a madonna, the rampant heraldic griffin,--let us copy, if we can, their colour and the marks of age. we may sketch them, and we may dwell upon them, here, with the enthusiasm of an artist who returns to his favourite picture again and again; for we have seen the sun scorching these panels and burning upon their gilded shields; and we have seen the snow-flakes fall upon these sculptured eaves, silently, softly, thickly--like the dust upon the bronze figures of ghiberti's gates at florence--so thickly fall, so soon disperse, leaving the dark outlines sharp and clear against the sky; the wood almost as unharmed as the bronze. but more interesting, perhaps, to the traveller who sees these things for the first time, more charming than the most exquisite gothic lines, more fascinating than their quaint aspect, more attractive even than their colour or their age, are the associations connected with them; and the knowledge that they bear upon them the direct impress of the hands that built them centuries ago, and that every house is stamped, as it were, with the hall mark of individuality. the historian is nowhere so eloquent as when he can point to such examples as these. we may learn from them (as we did at pont audemer) much of the method of working in the th century, and, indeed, of the habits of the people, and the secret of their great success. it is evident enough that in those old times when men were very ignorant, slavish, easily led, impulsive (childlike we might almost call them), everything they undertook like the building of a house, was a serious matter, a labour of love, and the work of many years; to be an architect and a builder was the aspiration of their boyhood, the natural growth of artistic instinct, guided by so much right as they could glean from their elders. with few books or rules, they worked out their designs for themselves, irrespective, it would seem, of time or cost. and why should they consider either the one or the other, when time was of no 'marketable value,' when the buildings were to last for ages; and when there were no such things as estimates in those days? like the moors in spain, they did much as they pleased, and, like them also, they had a great advantage over architects of our own day--they had little to _unlearn_. they knew their materials, and had not to endeavour, after a laborious and expensive education in one school, to modify and alter their method of treatment to meet the exigencies of another. they were not cramped for space, nor for money; they were not 'tied for time;' and they had not to fight against, and make compromises with, the two great enemies of modern architects--economy and iron. at lisieux, as at pont audemer, we cannot help being struck with the extreme simplicity of the method of building, and with the _possibilities_ of gothic for domestic purposes. we see it here, in its pure and natural development, as opposed to the rather unnatural adoption of mediæval art in england, in the latter half of the th century. this last is, to quote a well-known writer on art, 'the worship of gothic-run-mad' in architecture. it instals itself wherever it can, in mediævally-devised houses, fitted up with mediæval chairs and tables, presses and cupboards, wall papers, and window hangings, all 'brand-new, and intensely old;' which feeds its fancy on old pictures and old poetry, its faith on old legend and ceremonial, and would fain dress itself in the garb of the th century--the natural reaction in a certain class of minds against the mean and prosaic aspects of contemporary work-a-day life. the quiet contemplation of the old buildings in such towns as pont audemer, lisieux, and bayeux, must, we should think, convince the most enthusiastic admirers of the archaic school, that the mere isolated reproduction of these houses in the midst of modern streets (such as we are accustomed to in london or paris) is of little use, and is, in fact, beginning at the wrong end. it might occur to them, when examining the details of these buildings, and picturing to themselves the lives of their inhabitants, in the thirteenth or fourteenth century, that the 'forcing system' is a mistake--that art never flourished as an exotic, and assuredly never will--that before we live again in mediæval houses, and realise the true meaning of what is 'gothic' and appropriate in architecture, we must begin at the beginning, our lives must be simpler, our costumes more graceful and appropriate, and the education of our children more in harmony with a true feeling for art. in short, we must be more manly, more capable, more self-reliant, and true to each other, and have less in common with the present age of shams. the very essence and life of gothic art is its realism and truism, and until we carry out its principles in our hearts and lives, it will be little more to us than a toy and a tradition. chapter iv. _caen._ 'large, strong, full of draperies, and all sorts of merchandise; rich citizens, noble dames, damsels, and fine churches.' the ancient city of caen, which was thus described by froissart in the middle of the fourteenth century, when the english sacked the town and carried away its riches, might be described in the nineteenth, in almost the same words; when a goodly company of english people have again taken possession of it--for its cheapness. the chief town of the department of calvados with a population numbering nearly , --the centre of the commerce of lower normandy, and of the district for the production of black lace--caen has a busy and thriving aspect; the river orne, on which it is built, is laden with produce; with corn, wine, oil, and cider; with timber, and with shiploads of the celebrated caen stone. on every side we see the signs of productiveness and plenty, and consequent cheapness of many of the necessaries of life; calvados, like the rest of lower normandy, has earned for itself the name of the 'food-producing land' of france, from whence both london and paris (and all great centres) are supplied. the variety and cheapness of the goods for sale, manufactured here and in the neighbourhood, testify to the industry and enterprise of the people of caen; there is probably no city in normandy where purchases of clothing, hardware, &c., can be more advantageously made. there is commercial activity at caen and little sympathy with idlers. if we take up a position in the _place royale_, adorned with a statue of louis xiv., or, better, in the _place st. pierre_ near the church tower, we shall see a mixed and industrious population; and we shall probably hear several different accents of norman patois. but we shall see a number of modern-looking shops, and warehouses full of paris goods, and even find smooth pavement to walk upon. we are treading in the 'footsteps of the conqueror' at caen, but its busy inhabitants have little time for historic memories; they will jostle us in the market-place, and in the principal streets they will be seen rushing about as if 'on change,' or hurrying to 'catch the train for paris,' like the rest of the world. a few only have eyes of love and admiration for the noble spire of the church of st. pierre, which rises above the old houses and the market-place, with even a grander effect than any that the artist has been able to render in the illustration. 'st. pierre, st. pierre,' are the first and last words we heard of caen; the first time, when--approaching it one summer's morning from dives, by the banks of the orne--the driver of our calèche pointed to its summit with the pride of a savoy peasant, shewing the traveller the highest peak of monte rosa; and the last, when caen was en fête, and all the world flocked to hear a great preacher from paris, and the best singers in calvados. built in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, in the best period of gothic art in normandy, its beautiful proportions and grace of line (especially when seen from the north side) have been the admiration of ages of architects and the occasion of many a special pilgrimage in our own day. pugin has sketched its western façade and its 'lancet windows;' and prout has given us drawings of the spire, '_percée au jour_'--perforated with such mathematical accuracy that, as we approach the tower, there is always one, or more, opening in view--as one star disappears, another shines out, as in the cathedral at bourgos in spain. [illustration: tower of st pierre. caen.] in the interior, the nave is chiefly remarkable for its proportions; but the choir is richly ornamented in the style of the renaissance.[ ] it has been restored at different periods, but, as usual in france, the whole interior has been coloured or whitewashed, so that it is difficult to detect the old work from the new. the sculptured pendants and the decorations of the aisles will attract us by their boldness and originality, and the curious legends in stone on the capitals of the pillars, of 'alexander and his mistress,' of 'launcelot crossing the sea on his sword,' and of 'st. paul being lowered in a basket,' may take our attention a little too much from the carving in the chapels; but when we have examined them all, we shall probably remember st. pierre best as prout and pugin have shewn it to us, and care for it most (as do the inhabitants of caen) for its beautiful exterior.[ ] we should mention a handsome carved oak pulpit in the style of the fifteenth century, which has lately been erected; it is an ornament to the church in spite of its new and temporary appearance--taking away from the cold effect of the interior, and relieving the monotony of its aisles. the people of caen are indebted to m. v. hugot, curé of st. pierre, for this pulpit. 'a mon arrivée dans la paroisse,' he says (in a little pamphlet sold in the church), 'un des premiers objets qui durent appeler mes soins c'était le rétablissement d'une chaire à precher.' the pulpit and staircase are elaborately carved and decorated with statuettes, bas-reliefs, &c., which the pamphlet describes at length, ending with the information that it is not yet paid for. the most interesting and characteristic buildings in caen, its historical monuments in fact, are the two royal abbeys of william the conqueror--_st. Étienne_, called the 'abbaye aux hommes,' and _la ste. trinité_, the 'abbaye aux dames'--both founded and built in the eleventh century; the first (containing the tomb of the conqueror) with two plain, massive towers, with spires; and an interior remarkable for its strength and solidity--'a perfect example of norman romanesque;' adorned, it must be added, with twenty-four nineteenth-century chandeliers with glass lustres suspended by cords from the roof; and with gas brackets of a birmingham pattern. the massive grandeur, and the 'newness,' if we may use the word, of the interior of _st. Étienne_, are its most remarkable features; the plain marble slab in the chancel, marking the spot where william the conqueror was buried and disinterred (with the three mats placed in front of it for prayer), is shewn with much ceremony by the custodian of the place. the abbaye aux dames is built on high ground at the opposite side of the town, and is surrounded by conventual buildings of modern date. it resembles the abbaye aux hommes in point of style, but the carving is more elaborate, and the transepts are much grander in design; the beautiful key-pattern borders, and the grotesque carving on the capitals of some of the pillars, strike the eye at once; but what is most remarkable is the extraordinary care with which the building has been restored, and the whole interior so scraped and chiselled afresh that it has the appearance of a building of to-day. the eastern end and the chancel are partitioned off for the use of the nuns attached to the hôtel dieu; the sister who conducts us round this part of the building raises a curtain, softly stretched across the chancel-screen, and shews us twenty or thirty of them at prayers. we can see the hospital wards in the cloisters, and, if we desire it, ascend the eastern tower, and obtain a view over a vast extent of country, and of the town of caen, set in the midst of gardens and green meadows, and the river, with boats and white sails, winding far away to the sea. 'these two royal abbeys,' writes dawson turner, 'which have fortunately escaped the storm of the revolution, are still an ornament to the town, an honour to the sovereign who caused them to be erected, and to the artist who produced them. both edifices rose at the same time and from the same motive. william the conqueror, by his union with matilda, had contracted a marriage proscribed by the decrees of consanguinity. the clergy, and especially the archbishop of rouen, inveighed against the union; and the pope issued an injunction, that the royal pair should erect two monasteries by way of penance, one for monks, the other for nuns; as well as that the duke should found four hospices, each for poor persons. in obedience to this command, william founded the church of st. stephen, and matilda, the church of the holy trinity. it is usual on this spot to recount the pitiful, but rather apocryphal story of the burial of william the conqueror, by a 'simple knight;' of its dramatic interruption by one of the bystanders, a 'man of low degree,' who claimed the site of the grave, and was appeased with sous; and of the subsequent disturbance and destruction of his tomb by the huguenots; but the artistic traveller will be more interested in these buildings as monuments of the architecture of the eleventh century, and to notice the marks of the chisel and the mason's hieroglyphics made in days so long gone by, that history itself becomes indistinct without these landmarks--marks and signs that neither armies of revolutionists nor eight centuries of time have been able to destroy. we speak of 'eight centuries' in two words (the custodian of the place has them glibly on his tongue), but it is difficult to comprehend this space of time; to realise the fact of the great human tide that has ebbed and flowed through these aisles for eleven generations--smoothing the pillars by its constant wave, but leaving no more mark upon them than the sea on the rocks of calvados. the contemplation of these two monuments may suggest a comparison between two others that are rising up in western london at the present time,--the 'albert memorial' and the 'hall of science.' they (the old and the new) stand, as it were, at the two extremities of a long line of kings, a line commencing with 'william the bold,' and ending with 'albert the good;' the earlier monuments dedicated to religion, the latter to science and art--the first to commemorate a warrior, the latter a man of peace--the first endurable through many ages, the latter destructible in a few years.[ ] the comparison is surely worth making, for is it not curiously typical of the state of monumental art in england in the present day, that we are only doing what our ancestors did better? they erected useful, appropriate, and endurable monuments which are still crowning ornaments to the town of caen. are either of our 'memorials' likely to fulfil these conditions? not to go further into detail, there is no doubt that, elaborate and magnificent as the 'albert memorial' may be, it is useless, inappropriate, and out of place in hyde park; and that the 'hall of science' at south kensington (whatever its use may be) is not likely to attract foreign nations by the external beauty of its design. at caen we are in an atmosphere of heroes and kings, we pass from one historical site to another until the mind becomes half confused; we are shown (by the same valet-de-place) the tomb of the conqueror, and the house where beau brummel died. we see the ruins of a castle on the heights where le 'jeune et beau dunois' performed historical prodigies of valour; and the chapel where he 'allait prier marie, bénir ses exploits.' but the modern military aspect of things is, we are bound to confess, prosaic to a degree; we find the dunois of the period occupied in more peaceful pursuits, mending shoes, tending little children, and carrying wood for winter fires. [illustration] there are many other buildings and churches at caen which we should examine, especially the exterior carving of '_st. Étienne-le-vieux_;' which is now used as a warehouse. the cathedrals and monuments are generally, as we have said, in wonderful preservation, but they are desecrated without remorse; on every side of them, and, indeed, upon them, are staring advertisements of 'magazines,' dedicated '_au bon diable_,' '_au petit diable_,' or to some other presiding genius; of '_magasins les plus vastes du monde_,' and of '_loteries impériales de france;_' whichever way we turn, we cannot get rid of these staring affiches; even upon the 'footsteps of the conqueror' the bill-sticker seems master of the situation. we must now speak of caen as we see it on fête days, but for the information of those who are interested in it as a place of residence, we may allude in passing to the very pleasant english society that has grown up here of late years, to the moderate rents of houses, the good schools and masters to be met with; the comparative cheapness of provisions and of articles of clothing, and to the good accommodation at the principal inns. the situation of caen, although not perhaps as healthy as avranches, is much more convenient and accessible from england. _caen, sunday, august_, -. it is early on sunday morning, and caen is _en fête_. we have reason to know it by the clamour of church bells which attends the sun's rising. there is terrible energy, not to say harshness, in thus ushering in the day. on a mountain side, or in some remote village, the distant sound of bells is musical enough, but here it is dinned into our ears to distraction; and there seems no method in the madness of these sturdy catholics, for they make the tower of st. pierre vibrate to most uncertain sounds. they ring out all at once with a burst and tumble over one another, hopelessly involved, _en masse;_ a combination terribly dissonant to unaccustomed ears. then comes the military _réveille_, and the deafening 'rataplan' of regimental drums, and the town is soon alive with people arriving and departing by the early trains; whilst others collect in the market-place in holiday attire with baskets of flowers, and commence the erection of an altar to the virgin in the middle of the square. then women bring their children dressed in white, with bouquets of flowers and white favours, and a procession is formed (with a priest at the head) and marshalled through the principal streets and back again to where the altar to 'our lady' stands, now decorated with a profusion of flowers and an effigy of the virgin. all this time the bells are ringing at intervals, and omnibuses loaded with holiday people rattle past with shouting and cracking of whips. the old fashion and the new become mingled and confused, old white caps and parisian bonnets, old ceremonies and modern ways; the norman peasant and the english school-girl walk side by side in the crowd, whilst the western door of the church of st. pierre, to which they are tending, bears in flaming characters the name of a vendor of '_modes parisiennes_' men, women, and children, in gay and new attire, fill the streets and quite outnumber those of the peasant class; the black coat and hat predominate on fête days; a play-bill is thrust into our hands announcing the performance of an opera in the evening, and we are requested frequently to partake of coffee, syrop, and bonbons as we make our way through the rue st. pierre and across the crowded square. stay here for a moment and witness a little episode--another accidental collision between the old world and the new. [illustration] an undergraduate, just arrived from england on the 'grand tour,' gets into a wrangle with an old woman in the market-place; an old woman of nearly eighty years, with a cap as old and ideas as primitive as her dress, but with a sense of humour and natural combativeness that enables her to hold her own in lively sallies and smart repartees against her youthful antagonist.[ ] it is a curious contrast, the wrinkled old woman of caen and the english lad--the one full of the realities and cares of life; born in revolutionary days, and remembering in her childhood charlotte corday going down this very street on her terrible mission to paris; her daughters married, her only son killed in war, her life now (it never was much else) an uneventful round of market days, eating and sleeping, knitting and prayers; the other--young, careless, fresh to the world, his head stored with heathen mythology, the loves of the gods, and problems of euclid--taking a light for his pipe from the old woman, and airing his french in a discussion upon a variety of topics, from the price of apples to the cost of a dispensation; the conversation merging finally into a regular religious discussion, in which the disputants were more abroad than ever,--a religion outwardly represented, in the one case by so many chapels, in the other by so many beads. it is a '_fête_' to day (according to a notice pasted upon a stone pillar) '_avec indulgence plénière_,' grand messe à a.m., les vÊpres à p.m., salut et benediction du sacrament, sermon, &c.' let us now follow the crowd (up the street we saw in the illustration) into the church of st. pierre, which is already overflowing with people coming and going, pushing past each other through the baize door, dropping sous into the '_tronc pour les pauvres_,' and receiving, with bowed head and crossed breast, the holy water, administered with a brush. we pay two sous for a chair and take our places, under a fire of glances from our neighbours, who pray the while, and tell their beads; and we have scarcely time to notice the beautiful proportions of the nave, the carving in the side chapels, or the grotesque figures that we have before alluded to, when the service commences, and we can just discern in the distance the priests at the high altar (looking in their bright stiff robes, and with their backs to the people, like golden beetles under a microscope); we cannot hear distinctly, for the moving of the crowd about us, the creaking of chairs, and the whispering of many voices; but we can see the incense rising, the children in white robes swinging silver chains, and the cocked hat of the tall 'suisse' moving to and fro. presently the congregation sits down, the organ peals forth and a choir of sweet voices chaunts the 'agnus dei.' again the congregation kneels to the sound of a silver bell; the smoke of incense curls through the aisles, and the golden beetles move up and down; again there is a scraping of chairs, a shuffling of feet, and a general movement towards the pulpit, the men standing in groups round it with their hats in their hands; then a pause, and for the first time so deep a silence that we can hear the movement of the crowd outside, and the distant rattle of drums. all eyes are now turned to the preacher; a man of about forty, of an austere but ordinary (we might almost say low) type of face, closely shaven, with an ivory crucifix at his side and a small black book in his hand. he makes his way through the crowded aisles, and ascends the new pulpit in the centre of the church, where everyone of the vast congregation can both see and hear him. his voice was powerful (almost too loud sometimes) and most persuasive; he was eloquent and impassioned, but he used little gesture or any artifice to engage attention. he commenced with a rhapsody--startling in the sudden flow of its eloquence, thrilling in its higher tones, tender and compassionate (almost to tears) in its lower passages--a rhapsody to the virgin-- 'o sweet head of my mother; sacred eyes!' * * * * * and then an appeal--an appeal for us 'true catholics' to the 'queen of heaven, the beautiful, the adorable.' he elevated our hearts with his moving voice, and, by what we might call the electricity of sympathy, almost to a frenzy of adoration; he taught us how the true believer, 'clad in hope,' would one day (if he leaned upon mary his mother in all the weary stages of the 'passage of the cross') be crowned with fruition. he lingered with almost idolatrous emphasis on the charms of mary, and with his eyes fixed upon her image, his hands outstretched, and a thousand upturned faces listening to his words, the aisles echoed his romantic theme:-- 'with my lips i kneel, and with my heart, i fall about thy feet and worship thee.' a stream of eloquence followed--studied or spontaneous it mattered not--the congregation held their breath and listened to a story for the thousandth time repeated. the preacher paused for a moment, and then with another burst of eloquence, he brought his hearers to the verge of a passion, which was (as it seemed to us) dangerously akin to human love and the worship of material beauty; then he lowered our understandings still more by the enumeration of 'works and miracles,' and ended with words of earnest exhortation, the burden of which might be shortly translated:--'pray earnestly, and always, to mary our mother, for all souls in purgatory; confess your sins unto us your high priests; give, give to the church and to the poor, strive to lead better lives, look forward ever to the end; and bow down, oh! bow down, before the golden images [manufactured for us in the next street] which our holy mother the church has set up.' with a transition almost as startling as the first, the book is closed, the preacher has left the pulpit, the congregation (excepting a few in the side chapels) have dispersed; and caen keeps holiday after the manner of all good catholics, putting on its best attire, and disporting itself in somewhat rampant fashion. everybody visits everybody else to-day, and a fiacre is hardly to be obtained for the afternoon drive in _les cours_, the public promenade. we may go to the jardin des plantes, which we shall find crowded with country people, examining the beautiful exotic plants (of which there are several thousand); to the public picture gallery, established at the beginning of the present century, which contains pictures by paul veronese, perugino, poussin, and a number of works of the french school; and to the museum of antiquities, containing roman remains, vases, coins, &c., discovered in the neighbourhood of dives. there are also excursions to bayeux, honfleur, and trouville for the day; and many tempting opportunities of visiting the neighbouring towns. but we may be most amused by mixing with the crowd, or by listening to the performance on the _place royale_ of a company of foreign musicians--shabby and dingy in aspect, enthusiastic and poor--who had found their way here in time to entertain the trim holiday makers of caen. they were of that ragged and unkempt order of slovenly brotherhood that the goddess of music claims for her own; let them call themselves 'wandering minstrels,' 'arabs,' or what not (their collars were limp, and they rejoiced in smoke), they had certainly an ear for harmony, and a 'soul for music;' a talent in most of them, half cultivated and scarcely understood. a woman in a german, or swiss, costume levied rapid contributions amongst the crowd, which seemed to prefer listening to this performance than to any other 'distraction,' not excepting the modern and exciting performance of velocipede races outside the town. the streets are crowded all day with holiday people, and somewhat obstructed by the fashion of the inhabitants taking their meals in the street. we also, in the evening, dine at an open café (with a marble table and a pebble floor) amidst a clamour and confusion of voices, under the shadow of old eaves--with creepers and flowers twining round nearly every window, where the pigeons lurk and dive at stray morsels. the evening is calm and bright and the sky overhead a deep blue, but we are chattering, laughing, eating, and smoking, clinking glasses and shouting to waiters; we drown even the sound of the church clocks, and if it were not for the little flower girls with their '_deux sous, chaque_' and their winning smiles, and for the children playing on the ground around us, we might soon forget our better natures in the din of this culinary pandemonium. but we are in good company; three tall mugs of cider are on the next table to our own, a dark, stout figure, with shaven crown, is seated with his back to us--it is the preacher of the morning, who with two lay friends for companions, also keeps the feast. _dives._ before leaving the neighbourhood of caen, the antiquary and historically minded traveller will naturally turn aside and pay a visit to the town of dives, about eighteen miles distant, near the sea shore to the north-east, on the right bank of the river dives. it is interesting to us not only as an ancient roman town, and as being the place of embarkation of the conqueror's flotilla, from whence it drifted, with favourable winds, to st. valery--but because it possesses the remains of one of the finest twelfth-century churches in normandy. we find hardly any mention of this church in 'murray,' and it stands almost deserted by the town which once surrounded it, and by the sea, on the shore of which it was originally built. at the present time there are not more than eight or nine hundred inhabitants, but we can judge by the size of the old covered market-place, and the extent of the boundaries of the town, that it must have been a seaport of considerable importance. dives was once rich, but no longer bears out the meaning of its name; in comparison to the thriving town of cabourg (which it joins), it is more like lazarus sitting at the gate. the interior of the church at dives has been restored, repaired, and whitewashed; but neither time nor whitewash can conceal the lovely proportions of the building; the pillars and aisles, and the carving over the doorways which the twelfth-century mason fashioned so tenderly have little left of his most delicate workmanship; half of the stained glass in the chancel windows has been destroyed, and the pinnacles on the roof have been broken down by rude hands. nevertheless it is a church worth going far to see; and it will have exceptional interest for those who believe that their ancestors 'came over with the conqueror,' for on the western wall there is a list of the names of the principal persons who were known to have accompanied him. some of these names are very familiar to english ears, such as percy, talbot, vernon, lovel, giffard, brewer, pigot, carteret, crespen, &c.; and there are at least a hundred others, all in legible characters, which any visitor may decipher for himself. there is a small grass-grown church-yard surrounded by a low wall, but the tablets are of comparatively modern date. if, before leaving dives, we take a walk up the hill on the east side of the town, and look down upon the broad valley, with the river dives winding southwards through a rich pasture land, flanked with thickly wooded hills--and beyond it the river orne, leading to caen--we shall see at once what a favourable and convenient spot this must have been for the collecting together of an army of fifty thousand men, for the construction of vessels, and for the embarkation of troops and horses, and the _matériel_ of war; and, if we continue our walk, through one or two cornfields in the direction of beuzeval, we shall find, on a promontory facing the sea, and overlooking the mouth of the river, a not very ornamental, round stone pillar placed here by the archæological society of france in ; 'au souvenir du plus grand ÉvÉnement historique des annales normandes--le dÉpart du duc guillaume le bÂtard pour la conquÊte de l'angleterre en ;' and, if the reader should be as fortunate as we were in , he might find a french gentleman _standing upon the top of this column_, and (forgetting probably that normandy was not _always_ part of france) blowing a blast of triumph seaward, from a cracked french horn. [illustration] chapter v. _bayeux._ the approach to the town of bayeux from the west, either by the old road from caen or by the railway, is always striking. the reader may perchance remember how in old coaching days in england on arriving near some cathedral town, at a certain turn of the road, the first sight of some well-known towers or spires came into view. thus there are certain spots from which we remember durham, and from which we have seen salisbury; and thus, there is a view of all others which we identify with bayeux. we have chosen to present it to the reader as we first saw it and sketched it (before the completion of the new central semi-grecian cupola); when the graceful proportions of the two western spires were seen to much greater advantage than at present. the cathedral has been drawn and photographed from many points of view; pugin has given the elevation of the west front, and the town and cathedral together have been made the subject of drawings by several well-known artists; but returning to bayeux after an absence of many years, and examining it from every side, we find no position from which we can obtain a distant view to such advantage as that near the railway station, which we have shewn in the sketch at the head of this chapter. the repose--the solemnity we might almost call it--that pervades bayeux even in this busy nineteenth century, is the first thing that strikes a stranger; a repose the more solemn and mysterious when we think of its rude history of wars, of pillage, and massacres, and of its destruction more than once by fire and sword. from the days when the town consisted of a few rude huts (in the time of the celts), all through the splendours of the time of the norman dukes, and the more terrible days of the reformation, it is prominent in history; but bayeux is now a place of peaceful industry, with about , inhabitants, 'a quiet, dull, ecclesiastical city,' as the guide books express it; with an aspect almost as undisturbed as a cathedral close. there are a few paved streets with cafés and shops, as usual, but the most industrious inhabitants appear to be the lacemakers--women seated at the doorways of the old houses, wearing the quaint horseshoe comb and white cap with fan-like frill, which are peculiar to bayeux. [illustration] every building of importance has a semi-ecclesiastical character; the feeling seeming to have especially pervaded the designers of the thirteenth-century houses, as we may see from this rough sketch made at a street corner. many houses have such figures carved in _wood_ upon them, and we may sometimes see a little stone spire on a roof top; the architects appearing to have aimed at expressing in this way their love and admiration for the cathedral, and to have emulated the gothic character of its decorations; the conventual and neighbouring buildings harmonizing with it in a manner impossible to describe in words. even the principal inn, called the 'hôtel du luxembourg,' partakes of the quiet air of the place; the walls of the _salle à manger_ are covered with pictures of saints and martyrs, and the houses we can see from its windows are built and carved in stone. the chief object of interest is, undoubtedly, the cathedral itself, for although we may find many curious old houses, everything gives way in importance and interest to this one central building. the noble west front, with its pointed gothic towers and spires, is familiar to us in many an engraving and painting, but what these illustrations do not give us on a small scale is the beauty of the carved doorways, the clustering of the ornaments about them, and the statues of bishops, priests, and kings. later than the cathedral itself, and 'debased in style' (as our severe architectural friends will tell us), the work on these beautiful porches has exquisite grace; the fourteenth-century sculptor gave free scope to his fancy, his hands have played about the soft white stone till it took forms so delicate and strange, so unsubstantial and yet so permanent, that it is a marvel of the sculptor's skill.[ ] the interior is feet long and feet high, open from one end to the other, and forms a very striking and imposing effect. 'the west end,' to quote a few words from the best technical authority, 'consists of florid norman arches and piers, whose natural heaviness is relieved by the beautifully diapered patterns wrought upon the walls, probably built by henry i., who destroyed the previously existing church by fire. above this, runs a blank trefoiled arcade in the place of a triforium, surrounded by a clerestory of early-pointed windows, very lofty and narrow. the arches of the nave, nearest the cross and the choir, ending in a semi-circle, exhibit a more advanced state of the pointed style, and are distinguished by the remarkable elegance of their graceful clustered pillars. the circular ornaments in the spandrils of the arches are very pleasing and of fanciful variety.' we see in the interior of this cathedral a confusion of styles--a conflict of grace and beauty with rude and grotesque work. the delicately-traced patterns carved on the walls, the medallions and pendant ornaments, in stone, of the thirteenth century, are scarcely surpassed at chartres; side by side with these, there are headless and armless statues of the eleventh and twelfth centuries, which have been painted, and tablets (such as we have sketched) to commemorate the ancient founders of the church; and underneath the choir, the crypt of bishop odo, the conqueror's half-brother, with its twelve massive pillars, which formed the foundation of the original church, built in . [illustration] in the nave we may admire the beautiful radiating chapels, with their curious frescoes (some destroyed by damp and others evidently effaced by rude hands); and we may examine the bronze pulpit, with a figure of the virgin trampling on the serpent; the dark, carved woodwork in the chancel; the old books with clasps (that haag, or werner, would delight in), and two quite modern stone pulpits or lecterns, with vine leaves twining up them in the form of a cross, the carving of which is equal to any of the old work--the rugged vine stem and the soft leaves being wonderfully rendered. the interior is disfigured by some gaudy colouring under the new cupola, and the effect of the west end is, as usual, ruined by the organ loft. there are very fine stained-glass windows, some quite modern, but so good both in colour and design, that we cannot look at them without rebelling in our minds, against the conventionality of much of the modern work in english churches.[ ] it seems not unreasonable to look forward to the time when it shall be accounted a sin to present caricatures of scriptural subjects in memorial church-windows. let us rather have the kaleidescope a thousand times repeated, or the simplest diaper pattern on ground glass, than 'jonahs' or 'daniels,' as they are represented in these days; we are tired of the twelve apostles, so smooth and clean, in their robes of red and blue (the particular red and blue that will come best out of the melting-pot), of yellow glories and impossible temples. the long-neglected art of staining glass being once more revived, let us hope that, with it, a taste will grow up for something better than a repetition of the grotesque. but it is the exterior of bayeux cathedral that will be remembered best, the beauty and simplicity of its design; its 'sky line,' that we pointed out at a distance, at the beginning of this chapter, which (like the curve of the dome of st. paul's cathedral in london, and many an english nineteenth-century church we could name), leaves an impression of beauty on the mind that the more ornate work of the renaissance fails to give us. it is an illustration in architecture, of what we have ventured to call the 'simple right' and the 'elaborate wrong;' like the composition of raphael's holy family (drawn on the head of a tub), it was _right_, whilst its thousand imitations have been wrong. and if any argument or evidence were wanting, of the beauty and fitness of gothic architecture as the central feature of interest, and as a connecting link between the artistic taste of a past and present age, we could point to no more striking instance than this cathedral. it has above all things the appearance of a natural and spontaneous growth, harmonizing with the aspect of the place and with the feelings of the people. a silence falls upon the town of bayeux sometimes, as if the world were deserted by its inhabitants; a silence which we notice, to the same extent, in no other cathedral city. we look round and wonder where all the people are; whether there is really anybody to buy and sell, and carry on business, in the regular worldly way; or whether it is peopled only with strange memories and histories of the past. on every side there are landmarks of cruel wars and the sites of battles--nearly every old house has a legend or a history attached to it; and all about the cathedral precincts, with its old lime trees--in snug, quiet courtyards, under gate-ways, and in stiff, formal gardens behind high walls--we may see where the old bishops and canons of bayeux lived and died; the house where 'master wace' toiled for many unwearied years, and where he had audience with the travelling _raconteurs_ of the time who came to listen to him, and to repeat far and wide the words of the historian.[ ] the silence of bayeux is peopled with so many memories, of wars so terrible, and of legends so wild and weird, that a book might be written about bayeux and called 'the past.' we must not trench upon the work of the antiquary, or we might point out where henry i. of england attacked and destroyed the city, and the exact spot in the market-place where they first lighted the flames of revolution; but we may dwell for a moment upon one or two curious customs and legends connected with bayeux. the 'fête of the three kings' (a remnant of a custom in the time of the druids) is still religiously observed by its inhabitants, and incantations and ceremonies are kept up by the country people around bayeux, especially on the eve of this fête. the time is winter, and around the town of bayeux (as many visitors may have noticed) a curious fog or mist hangs over the fields and the neighbouring gardens, through which the towers of the cathedral are seen like phantoms; it is then that the peasants light their torches, and both priests and people wander in procession through the fields, singing in a loud, but mournful tone, a strange and quaint ditty. thus their fields and the crops (which they are about to sow) will be productive, and a good harvest bless the land! we are still in the middle ages at bayeux, we believe implicitly in witches, in good omens, and in fairy rings; we are told gravely by an old inhabitant that a knight of argouges, near bayeux, was protected by a good fairy in his encounter with some great enemy, and we are shewn, in proof of the assertion, the family arms of the house of argouges, with a female figure in the costume of lady godiva of coventry, and the motto, _à la fée_; and we hear so many other romantic stories of the dark ages, that history at last becomes enveloped in a cloud of haze, like the town of bayeux itself on a winter's night. we must now pass from the region of romance and fable to its very antipodes in realism; to the examination of a strip of fine linen cloth of the colour of brown holland, which is exhibited in the public library at bayeux. [illustration] this world-renowned relic of antiquity, which dibdin half-satirically describes as 'an exceedingly curious document of the conjugal attachment and enthusiastic veneration of matilda,' is now kept with the greatest care, and is displayed on a stand under a glass case, in its entire length, feet. it is about inches wide, and is divided into compartments. every line is expressed by coarse stitches of coloured thread or worsted, of which this arrow's head is a facsimile, and the figures are worked in various colours, the groundwork and the flesh tints being generally left white. the extraordinary preservation of the tapestry, when we consider, not only the date of the work, but the vicissitudes to which it has been subjected, is so remarkable, that the spectator is disposed to ask to see the 'original,' feeling sure that this fresh, bright-looking piece of work cannot have lasted thus for eight hundred years. and when we remember that it was carried from town to town by order of napoleon i., and also exhibited on the stage on certain occasions; that it has survived the revolution, and that the cathedral, which it was originally intended to adorn, has long been levelled with the ground, we cannot help approaching it with more than ordinary interest; an interest in which the inhabitants, and even the ecclesiastics of bayeux, scarcely seem to share. it was but a few years ago that the priests of the cathedral, when asked by a traveller to be permitted to see the tapestry, were unable to point it out; they knew that the '_toile st. jean_,' as it is called, was annually displayed in the cathedral on st. john's day, but of its historical and antiquarian interest they seemed to take little heed. the scenes, which (as is well known) represent the principal events in the norman conquest, are arranged in fifty-eight groups. the legend of the first runs thus:-- le roi edouard ordonne à harold d'aller apprendre au duc guillaume qu'il sera un jour roi d'angleterre, &c. after the interview between the 'sainted' king edward and harold, the latter starts on his mission to 'duke william,' and in the next group we see harold, '_en marché_,' with a hawk on his wrist--then entering a church (the ancient abbey of bosham, in sussex), and the clergy praying for his safety before embarking, and--next, '_en mer_.' we see him captured on landing, by guy de ponthieu, and afterwards surrounded by the ambassadors whom william sends for his release; the little figure holding the horses being one tyrold, a dependant of odo, bishop of bayeux, and the artist (it is generally supposed) who designed the tapestry. then we see harold received in state at rouen by duke william, and afterwards, their setting out together for mont st. michael, and dinan; and other episodes of the war in brittany. we next see harold in england, at the funeral of edward the confessor, and have a curious view of westminster abbey, in red and green worsted. after the death of king edward, we have another group, where 'edouard (in extremis) parle aux hommes de sa cour;' evidently an after-thought, or a mistake in taking up the designs to work in their proper order. harold is crowned, but with an ill omen (from the norman point of view), as represented in the tapestry by an evil star--a comet of extravagant size, upon which the people gaze with most comical expressions of wonder and alarm. harold began his reign well, says an old chronicler, he 'stablysshed good lawes, specyally for the defence of holy churche;' but soon he 'waxed so proud and covetouse,' that he became unpopular with his subjects. then follows the great historical event, of 'the invasion of england by the conqueror,' and we have all the details portrayed of the felling of trees, constructing ships, transporting of cavalry, and the like; we see the preparations for the commissariat, and the curious implements of warfare, shewing, amongst other things, the lack of iron in those days; the spades, for use in earthworks and fortifications, being only _tipped_ with iron. the bustle and excitement attendant upon the embarcation are given with wonderful reality; and there is many a quaint and natural touch in the attitudes and expressions of these red and yellow men. the landing in pevensey bay is next given (the horses being swung out of the ships with cranes and pulleys as in the present day), and soon afterwards, the preparations for a feast; the artist at this point becoming apparently imbued with the true british idea that nothing could be done without a dinner. there must be a grand historical picture of a banquet before the fight, and so, like oliver cromwell and napoleon, william the conqueror has his 'night before the battle,' and, perhaps, it is the most faithful representation of the three. of the battle of hastings itself, of the consternation at one time amongst the troops at the report of william's death, of the charge of cavalry, with william on a tremendous black horse (riding as straight in the saddle as in our own day), of the cutting to pieces of the enemy, of the stripping the wounded on the ground, and of harold's defeat and death, there are several very spirited representations. for our illustration we have chosen a scene where the battle is at its height, and the melée is given with great vigour. these figures on the tapestry are coloured green and yellow (for there was evidently not much choice of colours), and the chain armour is left white. the woodcut is about a third of the size, and is, as nearly as possible, a _facsimile_ of the original. [illustration: facsimile of bayeux tapestry.] the last group is thus described in the catalogue:-- 'et fvga vetervnt angli. 'et les anglais furent mis en fuite. des hommes à pied, armés de haches et d'ípíes, combattent contre les cavaliers: mais _la défaite des anglais est complète_; ils sont poursuivis à toute outrance par les normands vainqueurs. 'la scéne suivante reprísentent des hérauts d'armes à pied, et des cavaliers galoppant à toute bride pour annoncer probablement le succés du conquérant; mais l'interruption subite du monument ne permet plus de continuer cette chronique figuríe, qui allait vraisemblablement jusqu'au couronnement de guillaume. the _design_ of the tapestry is very unequal, some of the latter scenes being weak in comparison, especially that of the _death of harold_; the eleventh-century artist, perhaps becoming tired of the work, or having, more probably, a presentiment that this scene would be painted and exhibited annually, by english artists, to the end of time. perhaps the most interesting and important scenes are:--first, when harold takes the oath of allegiance to william, with his hands leaning on two ark-like shrines, full of the relics plundered from churches; next, the awful catastrophe of the _malfosse_, where men and horses, norman and saxon, are seen rolling together in the ditch; and, lastly, the ultra-grotesque tableaux of stripping the wounded after the battle. the borders on the latter part of the tapestry (part of which we have shewn in the illustration) consist of incidents connected with the battle, and add greatly to its interest. some of the earlier scenes are very amusing, having evidently been suggested by the fables of Æsop and phædrus; there are griffins, dragons, serpents, dogs, elephants, lions, birds, and monsters that suggest a knowledge of pre-adamite life (some biting their own tails, or putting their heads into their neighbours' mouths), interspersed with representations of ploughing, and hunting, and of killing birds with a sling and a stone.[ ] the most striking thing about the tapestry is the charming freshness and _naïveté_ with which the scenes and characters are depicted. the artist who designed it did not draw figures particularly well, he was ignorant of perspective, and all principles of colouring; but he gave, in his own way, expression to his faces, and attitudes which tell their story even without the help of the latin inscriptions which accompany them. shade is often represented by colour, and that not always strictly in accordance with nature; thus, a red horse will be represented with one leg worked in blue, and so on; the faces and naked limbs of the warriors being worked in green or yellow, or left white, apparently as was found most convenient by the ladies of the time. whether queen matilda, or the ladies of her court, ever really worked the tapestry (there is good reason to doubt that she designed the borders) is a question of so little importance, that it is wonderful so much discussion has been raised upon it; it is surely enough for us to know that it was worked soon after the conquest. there is evidence of this, and also that odo, bishop of bayeux (the conqueror's half-brother), ordered and arranged the work to the exact length of the walls of the church, round which it was intended that it should have been placed. chapter vi. _st. lo--coutances--granville. (cherbourg.)_ on our way to st. lo, coutances, and granville on the western coast of normandy, we may do well--if we are interested in the appliances of modern warfare, and would obtain any idea of the completeness and magnificence of the french imperial marine--to see something of cherbourg, situated near the bold headland of cap de la hague. if we look about us as we approach the town, we shall see that the railway is cut through an extraordinary natural fortification of rocks; and if we ascend the heights of le roule, we shall obtain, what a frenchman calls, a _vue féerique du cherbourg_. we shall look down upon the magnificent harbour with its breakwater and surrounding forts, and see a fleet of iron-clads at anchor, surrounded by smaller vessels of all nations; gun-boats, turret-ships and every modern invention in the art of maritime war, but scarcely any ships of commerce. the whole energy and interest of a busy population seem concentrated at cherbourg, either in constructing works of defence or engines of destruction. the rather slovenly-looking orderly that we have sketched--sauntering up and down upon the ramparts, and sniffing the fresh breezes that come to him with a booming sound from the rocks of querqueville that guard the west side of the bay--is justly proud of the efficiency and completeness which everywhere surround him, and with a twinkle in his eye, asks if 'monsieur' has visited the arsenals, or has ever seen a naval review at cherbourg. the pride and boast even of the boys that play upon these heights (boys with '_la gloire_' upon their hats, and dressed in a naval costume rather different from our notions of sailors), is that 'cherbourg is impregnable and france invincible,' and, if we stay here long, we shall begin to believe both the one and the other. [illustration: a sketch at cherbourg.] there is a little difficulty, not insurmountable to an englishman, with the assistance of his consul, in obtaining permission to visit the government works in progress, and now fast approaching completion; for the government is courteous, if cautious, in this matter. the french people cannot help being polite; there is an english yacht riding in the harbour this morning, and the ladies, who have just come ashore, have every politeness and attention shewn to them; and the little yacht will refit, as so many do here in the summer, and take refuge again and again in this roadstead, with great convenience and many pleasant recollections of their reception. if we had been upon these heights in the summer of , and later in , we might have seen the combined fleets of england and france in the roadstead; and, in the spring of , with a good telescope, we might have witnessed a miniature naval engagement between the famous _alabama_ and the _kearsage_, which took place a few miles from the shore. the _port militaire_ and the _arsenal de marine_ at cherbourg (which are said to be five times as large as portsmouth), and its basins, in which a hundred sail of the line can be accommodated at one time, are sights which we scarcely realize in description, but which almost overwhelm us with their magnitude and importance, when seen from this vantage ground. in three hours after leaving cherbourg we may find ourselves settled in the little old-fashioned inn, called the _hôtel du soleil levant_, at st. lo, which we shall probably have entirely to ourselves. st. lo, although the _chef-lieu_ of the department of la manche, appears to the traveller a quiet, second-rate manufacturing town, well-situated and picturesquely built, but possessing no particular objects of interest excepting the cathedral; although visitors who have spent any time in this neighbourhood find it rich in antiquities, and a good centre from which to visit various places in the environs. in no part of this beautiful province do we see the country to better advantage, and nowhere than in the suburbs of st. lo, shall we find better examples of buildings of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. but st. lo is dull, and there is a gloom about it that communicates itself insensibly to the mind; that finds expression in the worship of graven images by little children, and in the burning of innumerable candles in the churches. there is an air of untidiness and neglect about the town that no trim military regulations can alter, and a repose that no amount of chattering of the old women, or even the rattle of regimental drums, seems able to disturb. they do strange things at st. lo in their quiet, dull way; they paint the names of their streets on the cathedral walls, and they make a post-office of one of its buttresses; they paste the trees all over with advertisements in the principal squares, and erect images of the virgin on their warehouses. the master at our hotel calls to a neighbour across the street to come and join us at table, and the people at the shops stand outside, listlessly contemplating their own wares. there are at least , inhabitants, but we see scarcely anyone; a carriage, or a cart, startles us with its unusual sound, and every footstep echoes on the rough pavement. the arrival of the train from paris; the commercial travellers that it brings, and the red liveries of the government grooms, leading out their horses, impart the only appearance of life to the town. nowhere in france does the military element seem more out of place, never did 'fine soldiers' seem so much in the way as at st. lo. there is a parade to-day, there was a parade yesterday, and to-morrow (sunday) there will be a military mass for a regiment leaving on foreign duty. it is all very right, no doubt, and necessary for the peace of europe, the 'balance of power,' the consumption of pipe-clay, and the breaking of hearts sometimes; but, in contrast to the natural quiet of this place, the dust and noise are tremendous, and the national air (so gaily played as the troops march through the town) has, as it seems to us, an uncertain tone, and does not catch the sympathy of the bystanders. they stand gazing upon the pageant like the venetians listening to the austrian band--they are a peace-loving community at st. lo. but let us look well at the cathedral, at the grandeur of its spires, at its towers with open galleries, at the rich 'flamboyant' decoration of the doorways; at its monuments, chapels, and stained glass, and above all at the _exterior_ pulpit, abutting on the street at the north-east end, which is one of the few remaining in france. [illustration: exterior pulpit at st lo.[ ]] if we ascend one of the towers, we shall be rewarded with a view over a varied and undulating landscape, stretching far away westward towards the sea, and southward towards avranches and vire; whilst here and there we may distinguish, dotted amongst the trees, those curious châteaux of the _ancienne noblesse_, which are disappearing rapidly in other parts of france; and the view of the town and cathedral together, as seen from the opposite hill, with the river winding through the meadows, and the women washing, on their knees on the bank, is also very picturesque. we do not, however, make a long stay at st. lo, for we are within sixteen miles of the city of coutances, with its narrow and curiously modern-looking streets, its ecclesiastical associations, and its magnificent cathedral. as we approach it, by the road, we see before us a group of noble gothic spires, and are prepared to meet (as we do in nearly every street) ecclesiastics and priests, and to find the 'catholic church' holding its head high in this remote part of france. everything gives way to the cathedral in point of interest and importance. it is considered 'one of the most complete and beautiful in france, free from exuberant ornament, and captivating the eye by the elegance of proportion and arrangement. its plan possesses several peculiar features, comprising a nave with two west towers, side aisles, and chapels, filling up what would in other cathedrals be intervals between buttresses; north and south transepts, with an octagonal tower at their intersection; a choir with a polygonal apse, double aisles, with radiating chapels, and a lady chapel at the east end. the nave, which is feet high, consists of six bays, with triforium and lofty clerestory. the effect is exceedingly grand, and is enhanced by the lateral chapels seeming to constitute a second aisle all round. the whole of this part of the building is worthy of the closest examination. the interior of the large chapel of the south transept is very curious, circular at both ends. the choir has three bays in its rectangle, and five bays in its apse, the latter being separated by coupled piers outside each other (not touching), of wonderful lightness and beauty. the double aisle of the choir has a central range of single columns running all round it, and the effect of the intersection of so many shafts, columns, and vaultings is perfectly marvellous. there is no triforium in the choir, but only a pierced parapet under the clerestory windows, which are filled with fine early glass. there is much good glass, indeed, throughout the cathedral, and several interesting tombs.' we quote this description in detail because the cathedral at coutances is a rare gem, and possesses so many points of interest to the architect and antiquary. the history of coutances is like a history of the roman catholic church, and the relics of bishops and saints meet us at every turn. as early as the third century there are records of its conversion to christianity; it has passed through every vicissitude of war, pillage, and revolution, until in these latter days it has earned the guide-book appellation of 'a semi-clerical, semi-manufacturing, quiet, clean, agreeable town.' there are about inhabitants, including a few english families, attracted here by its reputation for salubrity and cheapness of living. the beauty of the situation of coutances can scarcely be exaggerated; built upon the sides of a lofty hill commanding views over a vast extent of country, it is approached on both sides up steep hills, by broad smooth roads with avenues of trees and surrounding gardens, and is surmounted by its magnificent old cathedral, which is the last important building of the kind, that we shall see, until we reach rouen; and one the traveller is never likely to forget, especially if he ascend the tower, as we did, one morning whilst service was being performed below.[ ] it was our last morning at coutances, the air was still and clear, and the panorama was superb; on every side of us were beautiful hills, rich with orchards laden with fruit, and fields of corn; and beyond them, far away westward, the sea and coast line, and the channel islands with their dangerous shores. the air was calm, and dreamy, but in the distance we could see white lines of foam--the 'wild horses' of the atlantic in full career; beneath our feet was the open 'lantern dome,' and the sound of voices came distinctly up the fluted columns; we could hear the great organ under the western towers, the voices of the congregation in the nave, and the chanting of the priests before the altar,-- 'casting down their golden crowns, beside the glassy sea.' the town of granville, built on a rock by the sea, with its dark granite houses, its harbour and fishing-boats, presents a scene of bustle and activity in great contrast to coutances and st. lo. there is an upper and lower town--a town on the rocks, with its old church with five gilt statues, built almost out at sea--and another town, on the shore. the streets of the old town are narrow and badly paved; but there is great commercial activity, and a general sign of prosperity amongst its sea-faring population. the approach to the sea (on one side of the promontory, on which the town is built) is very striking; we emerge suddenly through a fissure in the cliffs on to the sea-shore, into the very heart and life of the place--into the midst of a bustling community of fishermen and women. there is fish everywhere, both in the sea and on the land, and the flavour of it is in the air; there are baskets, bales, and nets, and there is, it must be added, a familiar ring of billingsgate in the loud voices that we hear around us. granville is the great western sea port of france, from which paris is constantly supplied; and, in spite of the deficiency of railway communication, it keeps up constant trade with the capital--a trade which is not an unmixed benefit to its inhabitants; for in the '_messager de granville_' of august, , we read that:-- 'l'extrême chaleur de la température n'empêche pas nos marchands d'expédier à paris des quantités considérables de poisson, _au moment même où il est hors de prix sur notre marché_. nous ne comprenons rien à de semblables spéculations, dont l'un des plus fâcheux résultats est d'ajouter--une _affreuse odeur_ aux désagréments de nos voitures publiques!' all through the fruitful land that we have passed, we cannot help being struck with the evident inadequate means of transport for goods and provisions; at coutances, for instance, and at granville (the great centre of the oyster fisheries of the west) they have only just thought about railways, and we may see long lines of carts and waggons, laden with perishable commodities, being carried no faster than in the days of the first napoleon. but we, who are in search of the picturesque should be the very last to lament the fact, and we may even join in the sentiment of the maire of granville, and be 'thankful' that the great highways of france are under the control of a careful government; and that her valleys are not (as in england) strewn with the wrecks of abandoned railways--ruins which, by some strange fatality, never look picturesque. granville is a favourite place of residence, and a great resort for bathing in the summer; although the 'Établissement' is second-rate, and the accommodation is not equal to that of many smaller watering-places of france. it is, however, a pleasant and favourable spot in which to study the manners and customs of a sea-faring people: and besides the active human creatures which surround us, we--who settle down for a season, and spend our time on the sands and on the dark rocks which guard this iron-bound coast--soon become conscious of the presence of another vast, active, striving, but more silent community on the sea-shore, digging and delving, sporting and swimming, preying upon themselves and each other, and enjoying intensely the luxury of living. if we, _nous autres_, who dwell upon the land and prey upon each other according to our opportunities, will go down to the shore when the tide is out, and ramble about in the-- 'rosy gardens revealed by low tides,' we may make acquaintance with a vast lilliput community; we may learn some surprising lessons in natural history, and read sermons in shells. but, amidst this most interesting and curious congregation of fishes--a concourse of crabs, lobsters, eels in holes, limpets on the rocks, and a hundred other inhabitants of the sea, in every form of activity around us--we must not forget, in our enthusiasm for these things, the treacherous tides on this coast, and the great atlantic waves, that will suddenly overwhelm the flat shore, and cut off retreat from those who are fishing on the rocks. this happens so often, and is so full of danger to those unacquainted with the coast, that we may do good service by relating again, an adventure which happened to the late campbell of islay and a friend, who were nearly drowned near granville. they had been absorbed in examining the rocks at some distance from the shore, and in collecting the numerous marine plants which abound in their crevices; when suddenly one of the party called out-- 'mercy on us! i forgot the tide, and here it comes.' turning towards the sea they saw a stream of water running at a rapid pace across the sands. they quickly began to descend the rocks, but before they could reach the ground 'the sand was in stripes, and the water in sheets.' they then ran for the shore, but before they had proceeded far, they were met by one of the fisher-girls, who had seen their danger from the shore, and hastened to turn them back, calling to them-- 'the wave! the wave! it is coming--turn! turn and run--or we are lost!' they did turn, and saw far out to sea a large wave rolling toward the shore. the girl passed them and led the way; the two friends strained every nerve to keep pace with her, for as they neared the rock, the wave still rolled towards them; the sand became gradually covered, and for the last ten steps they were up to their knees in water--but they were on the rock. 'quick! quick!' said the girl; '_there_ is the passage to the cross at the top; but if the second wave comes we shall be too late.' she scrambled on for a hundred yards till she came to a crack in the rock, six or seven feet wide, along which the water was rushing like a mill-sluice. with some difficulty they reached the upper rocks, carrying the fisher-girl in their arms, and wading above their knees in water. here they rest a moment--when a great wave rolls in, and the water runs along the little platform where they are sitting; they all rise, and mounting the rocky points (which the little granvillaise assures them are never quite covered with water), cluster together for support. in a few moments the suspense is over, the girl points to the shore, where they can hear the distant sound of a cheer, and see people waving their handkerchiefs. 'they think the tide has turned,' says the girl, 'and they are shouting to cheer us.' she was right, the tide had turned. another wave came and wetted their feet, but when it had passed the water had fallen, and in five minutes the platform was again dry! the fisherwomen of granville are famed for their beauty, industry, and courage; we, certainly, have not seen such eyes, excepting at cadiz, and never have we seen so many active hard-working old women. the women seem to do everything here--the 'boatmen' are women, and the fishermen young girls. we may well admire some of these handsome granvillaises, living their free life by the sea, earning less in the day, generally, than our staffordshire pit girls, but living much more enviable lives. here they are by hundreds, scattered over the beach in the early morning, and afterwards crowding into the market-place; driving hard bargains for the produce of their sea-farms, and--with rather shrill and unpronounceable ejaculations and many most winning smiles--handing over their shining wares. it is all for the paris market they will tell you, and they may also tell you (if you win their confidence) that they, too, are one day for paris. let us leave the old women to do the best bargaining, and picture to the reader a bright figure that we once saw upon this shining shore, a norman maiden, about eighteen years of age, without shoes or stockings; a picture of health and beauty bronzed by the sun.[ ] this young creature who had spent her life by the sea and amongst her own people, was literally overflowing with happiness, she could not contain the half of it, she imparted it to everyone about her (unconsciously, and that was its sweetness); she could not strictly be called handsome, and she might be considered very ignorant; but she bloomed with freshness, she knew neither ill health nor _ennui_, and happiness was a part of her nature. this charming 'aphrodite piscatrix' is stalwart and strong (she can swim a mile with ease), she has carried her basket and nets since sunrise, and now at eight o'clock on this summer's morning sits down on the rocks, makes a quick breakfast of potage, plumes herself a little, and commences knitting. she does not stay long on the beach, but before leaving, makes a slight acquaintance with the strangers, and evinces a curious desire to hear anything they may have to tell her about the great world. it is too bright a picture to last; she too, it would seem, has day-dreams of cities; she would give up her freedom, she would join the crowd and enter the 'great city,' she would have a stall at '_les halles_,' and see the world. day-dreams, but too often fulfilled--the old story of centralization doing its work; look at the map of normandy, and see how the 'chemin de fer de l'ouest' is putting forth its arms, which--like the devil-fish, in victor hugo's '_travailleurs de la mer'_--will one day draw irresistibly to itself, our fair 'toiler of the sea.'[ ] 'what does monsieur think?' (for we are favoured with a little confidence from our young friend), and what can we say? could we draw a tempting picture of life in cities--could we, if we had the heart, draw a favourable contrast between _her_ life, as we see it, and the lives of girls of her own age, who live in towns--who never see the breaking of a spring morning, or know the beauty of a summer's night? could we picture to her (if we would) the gloom that shrouds the dwellings of many of her northern sisters; and could she but see the veil that hangs over london, in such streets as harley, or welbeck street, on the brightest morning that ever dawned on their sleeping inhabitants, she might well be reconciled to her present life! [illustration: a toiler of the sea.] 'is it nothing,' we are inclined to ask her, 'to feel the first rays of the sun at his rising, to be fanned with fresh breezes, to rejoice in the wind, to brave the storm; to have learned from childhood to welcome as familiar friends, the changes of the elements, and, in short, to have realised, in a natural life the 'mens sana in corpore sano'? would she be willing to repeat the follies of her ancestors in the days of the _trianon_ and louis xiv.? would she complete the fall which began when knights and nobles turned courtiers--and roués? let us read history to her and remind her what centralization did for old france; let us whisper to her, whilst there is time, what paris is like in our own day. do we exaggerate the evils of over-centralization? we only at present, half know them; but the next generation may discover the full meaning of the word. there is exaggeration, no doubt; some men have lived so long in the country that they speak of towns as a 'seething mass of corruption,' pregnant of evil; and of villages as of an almost divine arcadia, whence nothing but good can spring; but the evils of centralization can scarcely be overrated in any community. the social system even in france, cannot revolve for ever round one sun. chapter vii. _avranches--mont st. michael._ there are some places in europe which english people seem, with one consent, to have made their own; they take possession of them, peacefully enough it is true, but with a determination that the inhabitants find it impossible to resist. thus it is that avranches--owing principally, it may be, to its healthiness and cheapness of living, and to the extreme beauty of its situation--has become an english country town, with many of its peculiarities, and a few, it must be added, of its rather unenviable characteristics. the buildings at avranches are not very remarkable. the cathedral has been destroyed, and the houses are of the familiar french pattern; some charmingly situated in pleasant gardens commanding the view over the bay. the situation seems perfect. built upon the extreme western promontory of the long line of hills which extend from domfront and the forest of audaine, with a view unsurpassed in extent towards the sea, with environs of undulating hills and fruitful landscape; with woods and streams (such as the traveller who has only passed through central france could hardly imagine) we can scarcely picture to ourselves a more favoured spot. no district in normandy (a resident assures us) affords a more agreeable resting place than the hills of avranches, excepting, perhaps, the smiling environs of mortain and vire. mortain is within easy distance, as well as mont st. michael (which we have sketched from the terrace at avranches, at the beginning of this chapter), and granville, also, on the western shore of the norman archipelago; to the extreme south is seen the bay of cancale in brittany, and the promontory of st. malo; to the north, the variegated landscape of the cotentin--hills, valleys, woods, villages, churches, and châteaux smiling in the sunshine,--the air melodious with the song of the lark and innumerable nightingales.' true as is this picture of the natural beauty of the position of avranches, we will add one or two facts (gathered lately on the spot) which may be useful to intending emigrants from our shores. within the last few years house rent, though still cheap, has greatly increased; and the prices of provisions, which used to be so abundant from granville and st. malo, have risen, as they have, indeed, all over france. the railway from granville to paris will only make matters worse, and the resident will soon see the butter, eggs, and fowls, which used to throng the market of avranches, packed away in baskets for paris and london. the salmon and trout in the rivers, are already netted and sold by the pound; and the larks sing no longer in the sky. thus, like dinan, tours and pau, avranches feels the weight of centralisation and the effects of rapid communication with the capital; and will in a few years be anything but a cheap place of residence. however, from information gathered only yesterday, we learn that 'house rent bears favourable comparison with many english provincial towns; that servants' wages are not high, and that provisions are comparatively cheap;' also that the climate is 'very cold sometimes in winter, but more inclined to be damp; and that there is no good inn.' again,--'if any quiet family demands fine air, a lovely position, cheap house-rent and servants, easy and cheerful society, regular church services, and, above all, first-class education for boys, and good governesses and masters for girls, it cannot do better than settle down here.' and again (from another point of view) that, 'after a year's residence in normandy, i can see but little economy in it compared with england, and believe that sensible people would find far greater comfort, and but little more expense, if resident in wales, ireland, or some of the distant parts of our own country; if they would but make up their minds to live with as few servants, and to see as little society as is the custom abroad.' these varying opinions are worth having, coming as they do from residents, and giving us the latest information on the subject; but our friend whom we have quoted last seems to put the case most fairly, when he says, in so many words, 'english people had better live in their own country, if they can.' life at avranches is a strange contrast to granville. in a few hours we pass from the contemplation of fishermen's lives to a curious kind of civilization--an exotic plant, which some might think was hardly worth the transplanting. a little colony of english people have taken possession of one of the finest and healthiest spots in europe, and upon this vantage ground have deposited, or reproduced as in a magic mirror, much of the littleness and pettiness that is peculiar to an english country town: they have brought insular prejudices and peculiarities, and unpacked several of them at avranches. do we overdraw the picture? hear one more resident, who thus tersely, and rather pathetically, puts his grievances to us, _viva voce_:-- 'we quiet english people,' he says, 'generally dine early, because it is considered economical--_which it is not!_ 'we live exclusively and stiffly, because it is considered proper and necessary--_which it is not!_ 'we go to the expense and trouble of bringing out our families, because living is supposed to be cheaper than in england--_which practically it is not!_ 'we believe that our children will be well educated, and pick up french for nothing--_which they do not!_'--&c, &c. an amusing book might be written about english society in french towns; no one indeed knows who has not tried it, with what little society-props such coteries as those at avranches, pau, &c., are kept up. it varies, of course, every year, and in each place every year; but when we were last at avranches, 'society' was the watchword, we might almost say the war cry; and we had to declare our colours as if we lived in the days of the wars of the roses. the old inhabitants are, of course, 'rather particular,' and, to tell the truth, are sometimes rather afraid of each other. they are apt to eye with considerable caution any new arrival; the 'new arrival' is disposed to be equally select, and so they live together and apart, after the true english model; and indulging sometimes, it must be added, in considerable speculation about their new neighbours' business. 'why were they proud--because red-lined accounts were richer than the songs of grecian years? why were they proud--again we ask, aloud, why in the name of glory were they proud?' and so on; but what we might say of avranches would apply to nearly every little english colony abroad. there are two sides to the picture, and there is a good, pleasant side to the english society at avranches; there is also great necessity to be 'particular,' however much we may laugh. english people who come to reside abroad are not, as a rule, very good representatives of their nation; neither they nor their children seem to flourish on a foreign soil, they differ in their character as much as transplanted trees; they have more affinity with the poplars and elms of france than with the sturdy oaks of england.[ ] let us not be thought to disparage avranches; if it is our lot to live here we may enjoy life well; and if we are not deterred by the dull and 'weedy' aspect of some of the old chateaux, we may also make some pleasant friends amongst the french families in the neighbourhood. in summer time we may almost live out of doors, and ramble about in the fields and sketch, as we should do in england; the air is fresh and bracing, and the sea breeze comes gratefully on the west wind. we may stroll through shady lanes and between hedgerows, and we shall hear the familiar sound of bells, and see through the trees a church tower, such as the following (which is indeed the common type throughout normandy); but here the similarity to england ceases, for we may enter the building at any hour, and find peasant women at prayers. [illustration] and we may see sometimes a party of english girls from a french school, with their drawing master; sketching from nature and making minute studies of the brandies of trees. they are seated on a hill-side, and there is a charming pastoral scene before them,--wood and water, pasture-land and cattle grazing,--women with white caps, and little white houses peeping through the trees. but the trees that they are studying are small and characterless compared with our own, they are scattered about the landscape, or set in trim lines along the roads: our fair artists had better be in england for this work. there is none of the mass and grandeur here that we see in our forest trees, none of the suggestive groups with which we are so familiar, even in the parks of london, planted 'by accident' (as we are apt to call it), but standing together with clear purpose of protection and support,--the strong-limbed facing the north and stretching out their protecting arms, the weaker towering above them in the centre of the square; whilst those to the south spread a deep shade almost to the ground. french trees are under an imperial necessity to form into line; the groves at fontainbleau are as straight as the fifth avenue at new york. there are no studies of trees in all normandy like the royal oaks of windsor, there is nothing to compare in grandeur with the stems of the burnham beeches, set in a carpet of ferns; and nothing equal in effect to the massing of the blue pines--with their bronzed stems against an evening sky--in woburn park in bedfordshire. we may bring some pretty studies from avranches and from the country round, but we should not come to france to draw trees. but there are studies which we may make near avranches, and of scenes that we shall not meet with in england. if we descend the hill and walk a few miles in the direction of granville, we may see by the roadside the remnants of several wayside 'stations' of very early date. let us sit down by the roadside to sketch one of these (a.d. ), and depict for the reader, almost with the accuracy of a photograph, its grotesque proportions. it stands on a bank, in a prominent position, by the roadside; a rude contrast to the surrounding scenery. presently there comes up an old cantonnier in a blouse and heavy sabots, who has just returned from mending the roads; he takes off his cap, crosses himself devoutly, and kneels down to pray. the sun shines upon the cross and upon the kneeling figure; the soft wind plays about them, the bank is lovely with wild flowers; there are purple hills beyond, and a company of white clouds careering through space. but the old man sees nothing but the cross, he has no eyes for the beauty of landscape, no ear for the music of the birds or the voices of nature; he sees nothing but the image of his saviour, he kneels as he knelt in childhood before the cross, he clasps his worn hands, and prays, with many repetitions, words which evidently bring comfort to his soul. in a few minutes the old man rises and puts on his cap, with a brass plate on it with the number of his canton, produces a little can of soup and bread and sits down on the bank to breakfast; ending by unrolling a morsel of tobacco from a crumpled paper, putting it into his mouth and going fast asleep. [illustration] many more such scenes we could record, but they are more fitted for the pencil than the pen; the artist can easily fill his sketch-book without going far from avranches. but as autumn advances our thoughts are naturally turned more towards 'le sport;' and if we are fortunate enough to be on visiting terms with the owners of the neighbouring châteaux, we may be present at some interesting scenes that will remind us of pictures in the galleries at versailles. 'with good books, a good rod, and a double gun, one could never weary of a residence at avranches,' says an enthusiastic settler who has found out the right corners in the trout-streams, and, possibly, the denizens of the neighbouring woods. the truth, however, is that in spite of the beautifully wooded country round, and the rivers that wind so picturesquely beneath us; in spite of its unexampled situation and its glorious view, avranches is scarcely the spot for a sportsman to select for a residence. in the season there are numerous sportsmen, both english and french, and occasionally a very fair bag may be made; but game not being preserved systematically, the supply is variable, and accounts of sport naturally differ very widely. we can only say that it is poor work after our english covers, and that we know some residents at avranches who prefer making excursions into brittany for a week's shooting. trout may be caught in tolerable abundance, and salmon of good weight are still to be found in the rivers, but they are diminishing fast, being, as we said, netted at night for the paris market.[ ] it was in the shooting season of the year, when game had been unusually scarce for the sportsman and provokingly plentiful to behold in the market-place at granville--when the last accounts we had of the success of a party (who had been out for a week) was that they had bagged 'only a few woodcocks, three partridges, and a hare or two'--that the following clever sketch appeared in the newspapers. it was great fun, especially amongst some of our french friends who were very fond of the phrase 'chasse magnifique,' and resented the story as a terrible libel. an enthusiastic french marquis offered one of our countrymen, whom he met in paris, a few days' shooting, in short, a 'chasse magnifique.' he accepted and went the next day; 'the journey was seven hours by railway, but to the true sportsman this was nothing.' the morning after his arrival he was attended by the marquis's keeper, who, in answer to x.'s enquiries, thus mapped out the day's sport:-- 'pour commencer, monsieur, nous chasserons dans les vignes de m. le marquis, où à cette saison nous trouverons certainement des grives (thrushes).' 'et après?' says x. 'eh bien! après, nous passerons une petite heure sur la grande plaine, où, sans doute, nous trouverons une masse d'alouettes (larks). en suite je montrerai à monsieur certaines poules d'eau (moorhens) que je connais; fichtre! nous les attraperons. il y a là-bas aussi, dans le marais, un petit lac où, l'année passée, j'ai vu un canard, mais un canard sauvage! nous le chercherons; peut-être il y sera.' 'but have you no partridges?' 'des perdreaux! mais oui! je le crois bien! (il demande si nous avons des perdreaux!) il y en a, mais ils sont difficiles. nous en avions _quatre_, mais, le mois passé, m. le marquis en a tué un et sérieusement blessé un second. la pauvre bête n'est pas encore guérie. cela ne nous laisse que deux. nous les chasserons sans doute si monsieur le veut; _mais que feronsnous l'année prochaine_? si monsieur veut bien achever cette pauvre bête blessée, ça peut s'arranger.' 'well, but have you no covert shooting--no hares?' 'les liévres? mais certainement, nous avons des liévres. nous irons dans la forêt, je prendrai mes chiens, et je vous montrerai de belles lièvres. j'en ai trois--_josephine, alphonse_, et le vieux _adolphe_. pour le moment josephine est sacrée--elle est mère. le petit alphonse s'est marié avec elle, comme ça il est un peu père de famille; nous l'épargnerons, n'est-ce-pas, monsieur? mais le vieux adolphe, nous le tuerons; c'est déjà temps; voilà cinq ans que je le chasse!' _mont st. michael._ from the terrace of the jardin des plantes, where we are never tired of the view (although some residents complain that it becomes monotonous, because they are too far from the sea to enjoy its variety), the grey mount of st. michael is ever before us, gleaming in the sunshine or looming through the storm. in our little sketch we have given as accurately as possible its appearance from avranches on a summer's day after rain;[ ] but it should be seen when a storm passes over it, when the same clouds that we have watched so often on summer nights, casting deep shadows on the intervening plain--some silver-lined that may have expressed hope, some black as midnight that might mean despair--come over to us like messengers from the great rock, and take our little promontory by storm. they come silently one by one, and gather round and fold over us; then suddenly clap their hands and burst with such a deluge of rain that it seems a matter for wonder that any little creeping human things could survive the flood. and it does us good; we are thoroughly drenched, our houses and gardens do not recover their fair presence for weeks; our little prejudices and foibles are well nigh washed out of us, and we are reminded of the dread reality of the lives of our neighbours on the island, who form a much larger colony than ourselves.[ ] 'on no account omit a visit to mont st. michael,' say the guide-books, and accordingly we charter a carriage on a summer's morning and are driven in a few hours along a bad road, to the edge of the sands about a mile from the mount--the same sands that we saw depicted in the bayeux tapestry, when william and harold marched on dinan. we choose a favourable time of the tide, and approach the gates at the foot of the mount dryshod.[ ] for a thousand years pilgrims have crossed these treacherous sands to lay their offerings at the feet of the archangel michael; norman dukes and monks of the middle ages have paid their devotion at his shrine, and troops of pilgrims in all ages, even to this day, when a party of english school-girls come tripping across the bay, provided with a passport and a fee, bent upon having the terrors of the prison-house shewn to them as easily as the 'chamber of horrors' at madame tussaud's. before us, as we walk the last mile, the granite rock gradually becomes a mountain surrounded by a wide plain of sand, covered with clustering houses, towers, turrets, and fortifications, and surmounted by a gothic church nearly feet above the sea. there is a little town upon the rock, old, tumble-down, irregular, and picturesque, like bastia in corsica--constructed by a hardy sea-faring people, who have built their dwellings in the sides of this conical rock, like the sea-birds; and there is a little inn called the _lion d'or_, with windows built out over the ramparts, from which we can see the shore. on arriving at the island we pass under two ancient towers, and into 'the court of the lion;' then to a third gate, with its towers and battlements, and frowning portcullis; and we see, as we pass, the lion (the insignia of the knights of mont st. michael) carved in stone, and set into the wall. we are received in the ancient guard-room by a 'young brother,' who has (shall it be repeated?) 'turned the guard-room into a cheerful bazaar for the sale of photographs, ivory carvings and the like.' we are on the threshold of the sanctuary, at the end of our pilgrimage; we offer up no prayers, as of old, for safe deliverance from peril, but we set to work at once, and 'invest in a pocketful of little presents, which another brother (on business thoughts intent) packs for us neatly in a pasteboard box.' we are shewn the apartments in the 'tour des corbins,' with its grand staircase, called 'l'escalier des exils,' and the crypt one hundred feet long, built by the monks in the eleventh century; we see the great gothic hall of the knights of mont st. michael, with its carved stone-work and lofty roof, supported by three rows of pillars, beautiful in proportion, and grand in effect, although the revolution, as usual, has left us little but the bare walls; but, as we look down upon it from a gallery, it is easy to picture the splendour of a banquet of knights in the twelfth century, with the banners and insignia of chivalry ranged upon the walls.[ ] but it is now a silent gloomy chamber, and the atmosphere is so close and the moral atmosphere so heavy withal, that we are glad to leave it, and to ascend to another story of this wonderful pile; through the beautiful gothic cloisters, and out upon the cathedral roof, where we suddenly emerge upon a view more wonderful in its extent and flatness than anything, save that from the cathedral tower of chartres; before us an horizon of sea, behind us the coast line, and the hills of avranches; all around, a wide plain of sand, and northward, in the far distance, the low dark lines of the channel islands. that 'saint michael's mount has become a popular lion, and can only be seen under the vexatious companionship of a guide and a party' is true enough; nevertheless, we can stay at the inn on the island, and thus be enabled to examine and make drawings of some of the most beautiful thirteenth-century work in the cloisters that we shall meet with in normandy. these cloisters and open arcades (supported by upwards of two hundred slender pillars) are carved and decorated with grotesque and delicate ornament, the capitals to the pillars are richly foliated, and the fringe that surrounds them has been well described as a 'wilderness of vines and roses, and dragons, winged and crowned.' like the churches in normandy, the architecture of these monastic buildings is in nearly every style, from the simple romanesque of the eleventh century to the rich _flamboyant_ of the fifteenth; and, like many of the churches, its history dates from the time when the druids took possession of the island to the days when the storm of the revolution broke upon its shores. the ordinary time for visiting the rock is when the tide is out, but we have not seen mont st. michael to advantage until it is completely surrounded by water, as it is during the spring tides; it is then that, approached from the west, we may see it half-obscured by sea-foam, with its turrets shining through the clouds, and the heavy atlantic waves booming against its foundations. the little fishing population of mont st. michael, and the stories they tell of the dangers of the quicksands, will while away the time in the evening and reward us for staying; and we shall see such an exhibition of hopeless _ennui_ on the part of the french officers in garrison as will not soon be forgotten. it would require a separate work to describe in detail all the buildings on the rock;[ ] (it takes a day to examine the fortifications and dungeons alone); we have therefore only attempted to give the reader an idea of its general aspect; of what m. nodier, in his '_annales romantiques_,' describes as 'l'effet poétique et religieux de la flèche du mont st. michael;' and indeed we have hardly dared to picture to ourselves the complete magnificence of the basilica of the archangel, as mariners who approached these shores must have seen it three hundred years ago, with its lofty towers of sculptured stone; and the image of its patron saint, turning towards the western sun a fiery cross of gold. chapter viii. _mortain--vire--falaise._ we now turn our faces towards the east, and starting again from avranches on our homeward journey, go very leisurely by diligence, through mortain and vire to falaise. the distance from avranches to mortain is not more than twenty miles, and takes nearly five hours; but the country is so beautiful, and the air is so fresh and bracing, that a seat in the banquette of the diligence is one of the most enviable in life. the roof is over-loaded with goods and passengers, which gives a pleasant swaying motion to the vehicle; but the road is so smooth and even that 'nobody cares'--the rocking to and fro is soothing, and sends the driver to sleep, the pieces of string that keep the harness together will hold for another hour or two, and the crazy machine will last our journey at least. we halt continually on the journey--once, for half-an-hour, literally 'under the lindens'--they are not yet in bloom, but they give out a pleasant perfume into the dreamy air; we are again in the open country, in the atmosphere of old historic normandy, and bound, slowly it is true, for the birthplace of william the conqueror; and we can read or sleep at pleasure, as our crazy diligence crawls up and creeps down every hill, and stops at every cottage by the way. on this beautiful winding road, which is carried along and between, the ridge of hills on which avranches stands, and commands views westward over the bay to mont st. michael and eastward towards alençon and the plains of orne, we only meet one or two solitary pedestrians. we are nearly as much alone as in a swiss pass; the scenery might be part of the tête noire, and the _hôtel de la poste_, at mortain, which is built on the side of a hill over a ravine, and at which our diligence makes a dead stop, might, for many reasons, be a posada on the italian alps. if we stroll out at once, before the evening closes, we shall have time to visit the cemetery on the rocks, to see the remains of a castle of the norman dukes, and above all, the superb panorama from the heights; and we may wander afterwards into the valleys to see the cascades, the ivy-covered rocks, and the masses of ferns; scenes so exquisite and varied that we are lost in wonder that all these things are to be seen in france at small trouble and cost, and that french artists have hardly ever told us of them.[ ] that 'the country round mortain is not known as well as it deserves,' is a remark that cannot be too often repeated; we cannot, indeed, imagine a more delightful district for an english artist in which to spend a summer, and we promise him that he shall find subjects that will look as well on the walls of the academy as the welsh hills, or the valleys of switzerland. we are at a loss to express in words the romantic beauty of the situation of mortain, where we may pitch our tent, and make studies of rocks, which will tell us more in practice, than written volumes about these wondrous geological formations; and the clusters of ivy in the niches, the moss and lichen, the rich colour of the boulders, the trees in the valleys below us, the clear sky, and the sweet air that comes across the bay, make us linger here for the beauty of the scene alone; regardless almost of the ancient history of mortain, of the story of its pagan temples, of its thirteenth-century church, and almost unmindful of the 'abbaye de savigny,' eight miles off, a building which is worthy of a special visit. and we come away, perforce, in the evening-time from all this lovely landscape, from the pure air, from the cascades, the rocks, and the ferns, from everything agreeable to the senses, to the most literal, shameful, wallowing in the mire. we have spoken, so far, only of the scene; let add a word in very truth, about 'man and his dwelling-place.' how shall we describe it? we are at the _hôtel de la poste_, and we are housed like pigs; we (some of us) eat like them, and live even as the lower animals. we--'_messieurs et mesdames_,' lords and ladies of the creation--hide our heads in a kennel; our dirty rooms 'give' on to the odorous court-yard; we turn our backs upon the valley which the building almost overhangs; we can neither breathe pure air nor see the bright landscape. any details of the domestic arrangements and surroundings of the _hôtel de la poste_ at mortain would be unfit for these pages; suffice it that, we are in one of the second-rate old-fashioned inns of france, the style of which our travelled forefathers may well remember.[ ] we have more than once been censured for saying that the french people have little natural love for scenery, and a stilted, not to say morbid, theory of landscape; but whilst we stay in this inn, from which we might have had such splendid views, we become confirmed in the opinion (formed in the pyrenees), that the french people _do not care_, and that they think nothing of defiling nature's purest places. at this hotel we are in the position of the prisoners confined aloft in the tower at florence; the hills and valleys are before and around us, but we are not allowed to see them.[ ] on our road to vire, twenty-three miles distant, it is tempting to make a digression to the town of domfront (which the reader will see on the map, a few miles to the south-east); we should do so, to see its picturesque position, with the ancient castle on the heights, and the town, as at falaise, growing round its feet; also an old church at the foot of the hill, which is considered 'one of the best and purest specimens of norman work to be found anywhere.' but the route we have chosen for description, now turns northward, passing through a still beautiful land, studded with thatched cottages, and lighted up with the dazzling white helmets of the women who are busy in the fields, and in the farms and homesteads. as we approach the town of vire, the population has evidently been absorbed into the cloth and paper mills, for, excepting in the morning and the evening, there are very few people abroad; we see scarcely any one, save, at regular intervals on the road, the old cantonniers occupied in their business of making stone-pies,[ ] or a village curé at work in his garden; but we notice that the houses are neater and better built than those near mortain, where grass grows luxuriantly upon them, and the roofs are covered with coloured mosses. the situation of vire is one of extreme beauty (reminding us again of switzerland), with hills and valleys richly wooded, the trees being larger than any we have yet seen on our route. if we had approached vire from the west, by way of villedieu and st. sever, we should have had even finer views than by way of mortain; but villedieu is at present more deplorable than mortain in its domestic arrangements, and the inn is to be avoided by all cleanly people; however, with the completion of the railway from vire to granville, we are promised much better things. [illustration: clock tower at vire.] the chief architectural object of interest at vire is the old clock-tower of the thirteenth century, over the rue de calvados, with its high gateway, formerly called 'the gate of the champ de vire.' over this gateway (which we cannot see from the position where we have sketched the belfry) there is a statue of the virgin, with the inscription, '_marie protége la ville_.' this tower has been altered and repaired at several periods, and, like two others near it, is too much built up against and crowded by, what the french call '_maisons vulgaires_,' to be well seen. we have not spoken of the castle first, because there is little of it left besides the keep; and the part that remains seems no longer old. the bold promontory on which it stood is now neatly kept and 'tidied' with smooth slopes, straight walks, and double rows of trees, pleasant to walk upon, but more suggestive of the bois de boulogne than the approach to a ruin. it is from this promontory, or rather from what murray calls 'this dusty pleasure ground,' that we obtain our best view of the country westward, towards avranches; and from whence we can see the bold granite formation of the rocks in the neighbourhood. we may see where the manufacturers of cloth and paper have established their mills; and also where, in some cases, they have had to widen out the valleys, and to cut roads through the rocks to their works. all the streams turn waterwheels, and many of the surrounding rocks are disfigured with cloth 'tenters.' there are some curious half-timbered houses at vire, and some old streets tempting to sketch; including the house of basselin, the famous originator of 'vaux de vire'--or, as they are now called, _vaudevilles_. the inhabitants number about , they are for the most part engaged in the manufactories of the place, too busy apparently to modernise either their costume or their dwellings; but the railway is now bringing others to the town who will work these changes for them. happily for them and for us, the hills are of granite and their sides most precipitous, and the innovators make slow progress in modernisation. at the hotels everyone drinks cider, rather than _vin ordinaire_; and at night we are awoke with the clatter of sabots and the voice of the watchman. the ancient town of falaise, to which so many englishmen make a pilgrimage, as being the reputed birthplace of william the conqueror, can now be reached, either from caen, vire, or paris, by railway; but we who come from the west, will do well to keep to the old road; and (if we wish to preserve within us any of the associations connected with the place) should not have the sound of '_falaise_' first rung in our ears by railway porters. both the town and castle of falaise are situated on high ground; and the latter, being on the side of a precipitous eminence, may be seen for a long distance before we approach it by the road. at falaise, as at lisieux, the traveller who arrives in the town by railway, is generally surprised and disappointed, at first sight, with its modern aspect. 'the castle of falaise,' says m. leduc, 'consists of a large square norman keep of the tenth and eleventh centuries, standing at the steepest and highest part of a rocky eminence, with a lofty and exceedingly fine _circular_ tower, connected with it on the south-west by a passage; and round the whole, a long irregular line of outer wall following the sinuosities of the hill, fortified by circular towers and enclosing various detached buildings used by the garrison. this line of outer wall and the circular tower is of much later date than the keep, and the greater portion of them is not older than the fourteenth or fifteenth century, when the castle had to withstand attacks from the english. in the keep (it is said) william the conqueror was born, and they pretend to show the remains of the very room where this event took place, as well as the identical window from which his father "duke robert the magnificent," first saw arlette, the daughter of the falaise tanner.' here, under the shadow of 'talbot's tower,' we might prefer to muse historically, and gather up our memories of facts connected with the place; but we are treading again upon 'the footsteps of the conqueror,' and must pay for our indiscretion. from the moment we approach the precincts of the castle, we are pounced upon by the inevitable spider (in this instance, in the shape of a very rough and ignorant custodian) who is in hiding to receive his prey. before we have time for remonstrance, we have paid our money, we have ascended the smooth round tower (one hundred feet high, with walls fifteen feet thick) by a winding staircase, we have been taken out on to the modern zinc-covered roof, and shown the view therefrom; and the spots where the various sieges and battles took place, including the breach made by henry iv. after seven days' cannonade, a breach that two or three shots from an armstrong gun would have effected in these days. we are shewn, of course, 'the room where william the conqueror was born,' and from the windows of the castle keep we have just time to make a sketch of the beautiful val d'ante,[ ] and of the women, with their curiously-shaped baskets, washing in the stream; and to listen to the thrice-told tale of the tanner's daughter, and to the deeds of valour wrought on these heights--when the performance is declared to be over, and we find ourselves once more on the ramparts outside the castle. we are so full of historical associations at falaise--every nook and corner of the castle telling of its nine sieges--that we are glad to be able to examine the building thoroughly from without, and to remind ourselves of the method of defensive warfare in the fifteenth century. the whole of the precincts of the castle, the walls, ramparts, and the principal towers, are (at the time we write, august, ) strewn with mason's work, as if a new castle of falaise were being built; everything looks fresh and new, it is only here and there we discover anything old, the remnants of a carved window, and the like. but, as a frenchman observed to us, if it had not been for all this nineteenth-century work, the present generation would never have seen the castle of falaise. the work of restoration appears to be carried on in rather a different spirit from the ecclesiastical restorations at caen and bayeux; here the prevailing idea seems to be, 'prop up your antique _any how_' (with timber beams, and a zinc roof to talbot's tower, such as we might put over a cistern), so long as devotees will come and worship, with francs, at the shrine; whilst at bayeux, as we have seen, the old work is handled with reverence and fear, and the nineteenth-century mason puts out all his power to imitate, if not to excel, the work of the twelfth. the churches at falaise should not pass unnoticed; but we will not weary the reader with any detailed description. artists will especially delight in the view of a fourteenth-century church close to the castle, with its chancel with creepers growing over it, and peeping out between the stones; and historians will be interested in the laconic inscription on its walls, 'rebuilt in , a year of war, death, plague, and famine.' if such artists as brewer, or burgess, would only come here and give us drawings of these streets (of one especially, taking in the cathedral at the end, with its stone walls built over by shops, as at pont audemer), they would be very interesting to englishmen. antiquaries will regret to learn that in the year , the west end of a church is obliterated, as in the next illustration; that the shop of one 'm. guille, peruquier,' reposes against the window, and that two other, quite modern, buildings lean against its walls. an old norman arch is carved immediately above the window we have sketched, and completes the picture. [illustration] it is, of course, not very easy to sketch undisturbed in the streets of falaise; and both in the churches and in the castle the showman is perpetually treading on the traveller's heels. everywhere we turn, in the neighbourhood of the castle, we are reminded of historic deeds of valour, and of deadly fights in the middle ages; and every day that we remain in the town, we are reminded (by the crowds of farmers, horsedealers, and others, who are busy at the great fair held here twice a year) of our own, by comparison, very trifling business at falaise. we are making a drawing of the great rocks near the castle, and of the valley below, every step of which is made famous by the memory of the conqueror; when our studies are disturbed, not by tourists but by natives of the town; once by a farmer to see his good horses, which indeed he had, at the stables at the 'hotel of the beautiful star,' where there were at least fifty standing for sale; and once, by a small boy, who carries a tray full of little yellow books called '_la lanterne de falaise_,' with a picture on the cover of the castle tower, and a huge lantern slung from the battlements! we purchase a copy, to get rid of the last intruder, and find it to be a '_revue, satirique et humouristique_,' treating of divers matters, including '_faits atroces et chiens perdus_'! now without being accused of misanthropy, we may remark that there are times and places when an englishman would rather be 'let alone,' and that the precincts of falaise are certainly of them. these century-wide contrasts and concussions, jar so terribly sometimes, that we are half-inclined to ask with m. de tocqueville, whether we do not seem to be on the eve of a new byzantine era, in which 'little men shall discuss and ape the deeds which great men did in their forefathers' days.'[ ] the refrain in this nineteenth century is, 'still the showman, still the spectator,' until we become almost tired of the song. 'here some noble act was achieved--there some valiant man perished.' every nook and corner of the place tells the same story; until we are tempted to enquire 'what are _we_ doing (or are fit and capable of doing personally, on an emergency, in the matter of fighting,) to compare with the achievements of these norman men of all ranks of life?' but not only in normandy, it is the same wherever we go: as far as our own personal part in heroic actions is concerned, we live in an atmosphere of unreality; we read of great deeds rather than achieve them, we make shows of the works of our ancestors, we take pence (readily) over the graves of our kinsmen, and live, as it seems to us, rather unworthily, in the past. with our nineteenth-century inventions, we could, it is true, mow down these castle heights in half an hour, and we might well be proud of the achievement as a nation; but our warfare is at best but poor mercenary work, the heart of the nation--the life and courage of its people--are not in it.[ ] we civilians, are too much protected, and most of us do not know how to fight. like the athenians, we are supposed to be cultivating the arts of peace, but, as we endeavoured to show at caen, if judged by our monuments, we are making no great mark in our generation. perhaps this is a question rather wide of our subject, but let us at least contend for one thing, viz.:--that if the mission of the present generation is not to wield battle-axes, but rather to fight social battles, say for the amelioration of the unhappy part of the population; and if it is our fortune to be protected the while, by a staff of policemen, and by strong laws against crime--that we should not neglect, at the same time, to cultivate and preserve the personal valour that is in us, by the use of arms. it may be that the day is shortly coming (our engineers predict that we shall soon have hand-to-hand fighting again), when every individual amongst us will have to put his courage to the proof; and if this should ever happen, it will certainly not diminish our interest in the construction and arrangement of these mediæval castles, or in the battles that have been fought beneath their walls. chapter ix. _rouen._ at a corner of the market-place at rouen, there stood, but a few years ago, one of the most picturesque houses in all normandy, and with a story (if we are to believe the old chroniclers) as pathetic as any in history. it was from a door in this house that, in the year , the unfortunate joan of arc was led out to be 'burned as a sorceress' before the people of rouen. we need not dwell upon the story of the 'fair maid of orleans,' which every child has by heart, but (mindful of our picturesque mission) we should like to carry the reader in imagination to the same spot just four hundred years later, when an english artist, heedless of the crowd that collects around him, sits down in the street to sketch the lines of the old building, already tottering to ruin. faithfully and patiently does the artist draw the old gables, the unused doorway, the heavy awnings, the piles of wood, the market-women, and the grey perspective of the side street with its pointed roofs, curious archways and oil lantern swinging from house to house; and as faithfully (even to the mis-spelling of the word 'liquer,' on a board over the doorway) almost indeed, with the touch of the artist's pencil, has the engraver reproduced, by means of photography, the late samuel prout's drawing on the frontispiece of this volume.[ ] few artists have succeeded, as prout succeeded, in giving the character of the old buildings in normandy, and certainly no other drawings with which we are acquainted, admit of being photographed as his do, without losing effect. it is scarcely too much to say that in this engraving we can distinguish the different washes of colour, the greys and warmer tints, the broad touches of his pencil on the white caps of the women, and the very work of his hand in the bold, decisive shadows. it is pleasant to dwell for a moment on prout's work, for he has become identified with normandy through numerous sketches of buildings now pulled down; and they have an antiquarian as well as an artistic interest. they are 'mannered,' as we all know, but they have more _couleur locale_ than any of the drawings of pugin; and are valued (we speak of money value) at the present time, above the works of most water-colour painters of his time. but we must not dream about old rouen, we must rather tell the reader what it is like to-day, and how modern and prosaic is its aspect; how we arrive by express train, and are rattled through wide paved streets in an '_omnibus du chemin de fer_,' and are set down at a 'grand' hotel, where we find an englishman seated in the doorway reading 'bell's life.' rouen is busy and thriving, and has a fixed population of not less than , ; situated about half-way between paris and the port of havre, there is a constant flow of traffic passing and repassing, and its quays are lined with goods for exportation. in front of our window at the hôtel d'angleterre, from which we have a view for miles on both sides of the seine, the noise and bustle are almost as great as at lyons or marseilles. the rouen of to-day is given up to commerce, to the swinging of cranes, and to the screeching of locomotives on the quays; whilst the fine broad streets and lines of newly erected houses, shut out from our view the old city of which we have heard so much, and which many of us have come so far to see. as we approach rouen by the river, or even by railway, it is true that we see cathedral towers, but they are interspersed with smoking factory chimneys and suspension bridges; and although on our first drive through the town, we pass the magnificent portal of the cathedral and the old clock-tower in the '_rue de la grosse horloge_,' we observe that the cathedral has a cast-iron spire, and that the frescoes and carving round the clock-tower are built up against and pasted over with bills of concerts and theatres. the streets are full of busy merchants, trim shopkeepers, and the usual crowd of blouses that we see in every city in france. there are wide boulevards and trees round rouen; and if we look down upon the city from the heights of mont st. catherine (perhaps the best view that we can obtain anywhere) it may remind us, with its broad river laden with ships and its cathedral towers, of the superb view of lyons that we obtain from the heights near the cemetery: the view so well known to visitors to that city. the people of rouen who have spread out into the enormous suburb of st. sever, on the left bank of the seine,[ ] are busy by thousands in the manufactories,--the sound of the loom and the anvil comes up to us even here; and down by the banks of the river, away westward, as far as the eye can see, up spring clean bright houses of the wealthy manufacturers and traders of rouen,--rich, sleek, and portly gentlemen with the thinnest boots, who never even pass down the old streets if they can help it, but whom we shall find very pleasant and hospitable; and with whom we may sit down at a café under the trees and play at dominoes in the open street, in the middle of the day, without creating a scandal. but if rouen will not compare with lyons in size, or commercial importance, it surpasses it in antiquarian interest; and we have chosen our illustrations to depict it rather as it was, than as it is. we give a drawing of joan of arc's house rather than of a building in the 'rue imperiale;' and a view of the old market-place in front of the cathedral rather than of the trim toy-garden at the west end of the church of st. ouen; and we do this, not only because it is more picturesque, but because the modern aspect of rouen is familiar to the majority of our readers. but we must examine the old buildings whilst there is time, for (as in other towns of normandy) the work of demolition grows fast and furious; and the churches, the _palais de justice_, the courts of law, and the tower of the _grosse horloge_ will soon be all that is left to us. the narrow winding streets of gable-ended houses, with their strange histories, will soon be forgotten by all but the antiquary; for there is a ruthless law that no more half-timbered houses shall be built, and another that everything shall be in line. we are surrounded by old houses, but cannot easily find them, and when discovered they almost crumble at the touch--they fade away as if by magic; and there is a halo of mystery, we might almost say of sanctity, about them which is indescribable; it is as if the blossoms of an early age still clung to the old walls and garlanded with time-wreaths their tottering ruins. rouen is disappearing like a dissolving view--a few more slides in the magic lantern, a few more windows of plate-glass, a few more '_grandes rues_' and the picture of old rouen fades away. let us hasten to the _place de la pucelle_, and examine the carving on the houses, and on the _hôtel bourgthéroude_, before the great parisian conjuror waves his wand once more. but, hey presto! down they come, in a street hard by--even whilst we write, a great panel totters to the ground--heraldic shields, with a border of flowers and pomegranates, carved in oak; clusters of grapes and diaper patterns of rich design, emblems of old nobility--all in the dust; a hatchment half defaced, a dragon with the gold still about his collar, a bit of an eagle's wing, a halberd snapped in twain--all piled together in a heap of ruin! a few weeks only, and we pass the place again--all is in order, the 'improvement' has taken place; there is a pleasant wide _pavé_, and a manufactory for '_eau gazeuse_.' the cathedral church of nôtre dame (the west front of which we have seen in the illustration), and the church of st. ouen, the two most magnificent monuments in rouen, are so familiar to most readers that we can say little that is new respecting them. when we have given a short description, taken from the best authorities on the subject, and have pointed out to artistic readers that this west front with its surrounding houses, and the view of the towers of st. ouen from the garden, at the _east_ end, are two of the grandest architectural pictures to be found in normandy, we shall have nearly accomplished our task.[ ] [illustration: cathedral of 'notre dame' at rouen. "like a piece of rockwork, rough and encrusted with images, and ornamented from top to bottom."] 'the cathedral of nôtre dame occupies with its west front one side of a square, formerly a fruit and flower market. the vast proportions of this grand gothic façade, its elaborate and profuse decorations, and its stone screens of open tracery, impress one at first with wonder and admiration, diminished however but not destroyed, by a closer examination; which shows a confusion of ornament and a certain corruption of taste. 'the projecting central porch, and the whole of the upper part, is of the sixteenth century, the lateral ones being of an earlier period and chaster in style. above the central door is carved the genealogy of jesse; over the north-west door is the death of john the baptist, with the daughter of herodias dancing before herod; and above them, figures of virgin and saints. 'the north tower, called st. romain (the one on the left in our illustration), is older in date, part of it being of the twelfth century; the right-hand tower, which is more florid, being of the sixteenth.' the central spire in the background is really of _cast iron_, and stands out, it is fair to say, much more sharply and painfully against the sky, than in our illustration.[ ] we must not omit to mention the beautiful north door, called the 'portail des libraires,' which in prout's time was completely blocked up with old houses and wooden erections. 'on entering the doorway of the north porch (says _cassell_), the visitor will be struck with the size, loftiness, and rich colour of the interior, feet long and feet high. the 'clerestory' of the sixteenth century is full of painted glass. on each side of the nave there is a series of chapels, constructed in the fourteenth century, between the buttresses of the main walls; they are full of very fine stained glass, and contain good pictures and monuments. the transepts are remarkable for their magnificent rose-windows, and in the north transept there is a staircase of open-tracery work of exquisite workmanship. 'the choir, separated from the nave by a modern grecian screen, was built in the thirteenth century, the carving of the stalls is extremely curious. the elaborately carved screen in front of the sacristy was executed in the latter part of the fifteenth century, and its wrought-iron door must not be passed unnoticed.'[ ] the church of st. ouen 'surpasses the cathedral in size, purity of style, masterly execution, and splendid, but judicious decoration, and is inferior only in its historic monuments. it is one of the noblest and most perfect gothic edifices in the world.' thus it has been described again and again; suffice it for us to mention a few details of its construction. it is said that the abbey of st. ouen was orginally built in , in the reign of clothaire i., and then dedicated to st. peter. through various changes of construction and destruction, it holds a prominent part in the history of the time of the conqueror and the dukes of normandy; and it was not for a thousand years after its foundation that the present building was completed. 'during the troubles of the times of the huguenots in the sixteenth century, it suffered greatly, especially in , when the fanatics lighted bonfires inside, and burnt the organ, stalls, pulpit, and vestments.' again at the end of the eighteenth century, 'the building was exposed to the fury of the revolutionists, when it was used as a manufactory of arms; a forge being erected within it and the painted windows so blackened as to become indecipherable; and later still, 'in the time of napoleon i., a project was laid before him, by the municipality of rouen, for destroying the church altogether!' perhaps there is no monument that we could point to in europe which has a more eventful history, or which, after a lapse of thirteen hundred years, presents to the spectator, in the year , a grander spectacle. if we walk in the public gardens that surround it, and see its towers, from different points, through the trees, or, better still, ascend one of the towers and look down on its pinnacles, we shall never lose the memory of st. ouen. the beautiful proportions of its octagon tower, terminating with a crown of _fleurs de lis_, has well been called a 'model of grace and beauty;' whilst its interior, feet long and feet wide, unobstructed from one end to the other, with its light, graceful pillars, and the coloured light shed through the painted windows, have as fine an effect as that of any church in france; not excepting the cathedrals of amiens and chartres. we should not omit to mention the beautiful church of st. maclou at rouen, and several others that are being preserved and restored with the utmost care. the great delights of this city are its ecclesiastical monuments; for if rouen has become of late years (as in fact it has) a busy, modern town; if its old houses and streets are being swept away, its churches and monuments remain. and if, as we have said, the inhabitants are prone to imitate many english habits and customs, there is one custom of ours that they do not imitate--they do not 'religiously' close nearly every church in the land for six days out of the seven; their places of worship are not shut up like dungeons, they are open to the breath of life, and partake of the atmosphere of the 'work-a-day' world.[ ] in england we dust out our earthy little chapels on saturdays, and we complete the process with silken trains on sundays; we worship in an atmosphere more fit for the dead than the living, and in a few hours shut up the buildings again to the spiders and the flies! we have little more to say to the reader about the churches in normandy, and we should like to leave him best at the south-west corner of the square in front of the cathedral (close to the spot from which m. clerget has made his drawing), where he may take away with him an impression of the wealth and grandeur of the architecture of normandy, pleasant to dwell upon. if we do not examine too closely into 'principles,' or trouble our minds too much with 'styles' of architecture, the effect that we obtain here will be completely and artistically beautiful, and satisfying to the eye. it is not easy to point out any modern building that fulfils these conditions; where, for instance, can we see anything like the work that was bestowed on the lower portion of this façade? we may spend more money and effort, but we do not achieve anything which seems to the spectator more spontaneously beautiful (if we use the word aright); anything displaying more wealth of decoration, combined with grandeur of effect. severe, we might say austere, critics speak of the 'confusion of ornament,' and tell us that the over-elaboration of carving on the exterior of this cathedral is a sign of decadence, and that the principles on which the architects of caen and bayeux worked were more noble and worthy; whilst architects will tell us that gothic art was generally 'debased' at rouen,--debased from the time when people gave themselves up to the luxury of the renaissance, and 'pride took the place of enthusiasm and faith, in art.' we might, indeed, if we chose to make the comparison for a moment between christian and mahommedan art, see a higher principle at work in the construction of the mosques and palaces of the moors, where simplicity, refinement, and truth are noticeable in every line; we might see it in mauresque work, in the absence of grotesque images, or the imitation of living things in ornament; but, above all, in the severe simplicity and grandeur of their _exteriors_, and in the decoration, colour, and gilding of their interior courts alone,--carrying out, in short, the true meaning of the words that, the king's daughter should be--'all glorious within, her clothing of wrought gold.' * * * * * on one sunday morning at rouen we go with 'all the world' to be present at a musical mass at the cathedral, and to hear another great preacher from paris. it was a grander performance than the one we attended at caen; but the sermon was less eloquent, less refined, and was remarkable in quite a different way. it was a discourse, holding up to his hearers, as far as we could follow the rapid flow of his eloquence, the delight and glory of 'doing battle for right'--of fighting (to use the common phrase) the 'fight of faith.' but he was preaching to a congregation of shopkeepers, traders, and artisans, and his appeal to arms seemed to fall flatly on the trading mind; whilst the old incongruity between the building and the dress of the nineteenth century, was as remarkable as it is in westminster abbey; and the contrast between the unchivalrous aspect of the speaker, and the tone of his language, was more striking still.[ ] what priest or curé, in these days, stands forth in his presence or influence, as the ideal champion of a romantic faith, the ceremonials of which seem more and more alienated from the spirit of the nineteenth century--at least in the north of europe, where colour, imagination, and passion have less influence? what real sympathy has the kind, fat, fatherly figure before us with soldiers, saints, or martyrs?[ ] he preached for nearly an hour, with frequent pauses and strange changes in the inflexion of the voice. we will not attempt a repetition of his arguments, but must record one sentence in an extempore sermon of great versatility and power; a sentence that, if we understood it aright, was singularly liberal and broad in view. speaking of the rivalry that existed between the different sects of christians, and making pointed allusion to the colony of protestant huguenots established at beuzeval on the sea-shore, he ended with the words, 'better than all this rivalry and strife (far better than the common result amongst men, indifference) that, like ships becalmed at sea,--when a religious breeze stirs our hearts--we should raise aloft our fair white sails and come sailing into port together, lowering them in the haven of the one true church.' he made a pause several times in his discourse, during which he looked about him, and mopped his head with his handkerchief, and behaved, for the moment, much more as if he were in his dressing-room than in a public pulpit; but he held his audience with magic sway, his influence over the people was wonderful--wonderful to us when we listened to his imagery, and to the means used to stir their hearts.[ ] in the picturesque and moving times of the middle ages it must surely have needed less forcing and fewer formulæ to 'lift up the hearts of the people to the queen of heaven;' if it were only in the likeness of the black doll, which they worship at chartres to this day. but until we realise to ourselves more completely the lives of warriors in mediæval days, we shall never understand how chivalry and the worship of beauty entered into their hearts and lives, and was to them the highest and noblest of virtues; nor shall we comprehend their ready acceptance of the adoration of the virgin as the one true religion. in such a building as the cathedral at rouen, it is impossible to forget the people who once trod its pavement; memories that not all the modern paraphernalia and glitter can obliterate. if we visit the cathedral after vespers, when the candles in the lady-chapel look like glowworm-lights through the dark aisles, we are soon carried back in imagination to mediæval days. the floor of the nave is covered with kneeling figures of warriors, each with a red cross on his breast; the pavement resounds to the clash of arms; there is a low chorus of voices in prayer, a sound of stringed instruments, a silence--and then, an army of men rise up and march to war. there is a pause of six hundred years, and another procession passes through these aisles; the pavement resounds to less martial footsteps,--they are not warriors, they are 'cook's excursionists'! let us now leave the cathedral, and see something more of the town. it is a fine summer's afternoon, in the middle of the week, the air is soft and quiet; the busy population of rouen seem, with one consent, to rest from labour, and the goddess of leisure tells her beads. one, two (decrepit old men); three, four, five (nurses and children); six, seven, eight (chasseurs de vincennes or a 'noble zouave),' and so on, until the rosary is complete and there are no more seats.[ ] every day under our windows they come and wedge themselves close together on the long stone seats under the dusty trees, to rest; and thread themselves in rows one by one, as if some unseen hand were telling, with human beads, the mystery of the rosary. why do we speak of what is done every day in every city of france? because it is worth a moment's notice, that in the day-time of busy cities men can, if they choose, find time to rest. there are gardens open, and seats provided in the middle of the cities, so that the poor children need not play on dustheaps and under carriage-wheels. there is a small open square in the heart of rouen, laid out with rocks and trees, and a waterfall, which we should dearly like to shew to certain 'parish guardians.' the modern business-like aspect of rouen communicates itself even to religious matters, and before we have been here long, we think nothing of seeing piles of crucifixes, and 'virgins and children', put out in the street in boxes for sale, at a 'fabrique d'ornaments de l'église.' we, the people of rouen, do a great business in _chasublerie_, and the like; we drive hard bargains for images of the saviour in zinc and iron (they are catalogued for us, and placed in rows in the shop windows); we purchase _lachryma christi_ by the dozen; and, for a few sous, may become possessed of the whole paraphernalia of the holy manger. we have been cheated so often at rouen, that we are inclined to ask the question whether we, english people, really possess a higher working morality than the french. are we really more straightforward and honourable than they? are there bounds which they overstep and which we cannot pass? it has been our pride for centuries to be considered more noble and manly than many of our neighbours; is there any reason to fear that our moral influence is on the wane, in these days of universal interchange of thought, free-trade, and rapid intercommunication? in the course of our journey through normandy, we have not said much about modern paintings, but at rouen we are reminded that there are many french artists hard at work. the most prominent painters are those of the school of edouard frère, who depict scenes of cottage life, with the earnestness, if not always with the elevated sentiment of mason, walker, and other, younger, english painters. the works of many of these french artists are familiar to us in england, and we need not allude to them further; but there is an exhibition of water-colour drawings at rouen, about which we must say a word.[ ] these sketches of towns in normandy, and of pastoral scenes, have a curious family likeness, and a mannerism which the french may call '_chic_,' but which we are inclined to attribute to want of power and patient study. there is an old-fashioned formality in the composition of their landscapes, which does not seem to our eyes to belong to the world of to-day, and a decidedly amateurish treatment which is surprising. they repeat themselves and each other, without end, and evidently are thinking more about _beranger_ than the places of which he sang; they would seek (as some one expresses it) to 'reconcile literal facts with rapturous harmonies,' in short they attempt too much, and accomplish too little. in form and feature, these pictures remind us (like rouen itself) of a bygone time, when travelling on the continent was difficult and expensive, and views of foreign towns were not easy to obtain; when some distinguished amateur (distinguished, perhaps, more for his courage and industry than for his art) visited the continent at rare intervals, and brought home in triumph a few hazy sketches of a people that we had scarce heard of, and hardly believed in; and had them engraved and multiplied, for the art-loving amongst us, as the best treasures of the time. the modernised aspect of rouen is one that we (as lookers-on merely) shall never cease to regret, because it is the town of all others which should tell us most of the past; and it is, moreover, the one town in normandy which most english people find time to see. but if most of its individuality and character have vanished, its sanitary condition and its wealth, have, we must admit, improved greatly under the new regime. 'when i walk through the enormous streets and boulevards of new paris,' says a well-known writer, 'i feel appalled by the change, but unable to dispute with it mentally, for it bears the imprint of an idea which is becoming dominant over europe. for the moment the individuality of man as expressed in his dwelling (as in the house in our frontispiece) is gone--suppressed. the human creature no longer builds for himself, decorates for himself; no longer lets loose his fancy, his humour, his notions of the fitting and the comfortable. science and economy go hand in hand, and lay down his streets and erect his houses.' thus, although, from an artistic point of view, we shall never be reconciled to the changes that have come over normandy, we cannot ignore the consequent social advantages. mr. ruskin, speaking of the change in switzerland during his memory of it (thirty-five years) says:--'in that half of the permitted life of man i have seen strange evil brought upon every scene that i best loved, or tried to make beloved by others. the light which once flushed those pale summits with its rose at dawn and purple at sunset, is now umbered and faint; the air which once inlaid the clefts of all their golden crags with azure, is now defiled with languid coils of smoke, belched from worse than volcanic fires; their very glacier waves are ebbing, and their snows fading, as if hell had breathed on them; the waters that once sunk at their feet into crystalline rest, are now dimmed and foul, from deep to deep, and shore to shore.' but the clouds of smoke that defile the land, the shrieking of steam, and the perpetual, terrible grinding of iron against iron (sounds which our little children grow up not to heed) are part of a system which enables mr. ruskin, one day to address a crowd in the theatre of the british institution, and on the next--or the next but one--to utter this lament on the banks of lake leman. his remarks, with which so many will sympathise, lose point and consequence from the fact of his own rapid translation from one place to another, and from the advantages _we_ gain by his travelling on the wings of steam. and there is a certain consolation in the knowledge that in the days when the waters of geneva were of 'purest blue,' the accommodation for travellers at the old hostelries was less favourable to peace of mind. [illustration] chapter x. _the valley of the seine._ in the fruitful hills that border the river seine, and form part of the great watershed of lower normandy, nature has poured forth her blessings; and her daughters, who are here lightly sketched, dispense her bounties. it is a pleasant thing to pass homeward through this 'food-producing' land--to go leisurely from town to town, and see something more of country life in normandy--to see the laden orchards, the cattle upon the hills, and the sloping fields of corn. it is yet early in the autumn, but the variety of colour spread over the landscape is delightful to the eye; the rich brown of the buckwheat, the bright yellow mustard; the green pastures by rivers, and the poppies in the golden corn; the fields, divided by high hedges, and interspersed with mellowed trees; the orchards raining fruit that glitters in the sunshine as it falls; the purple heath, the luxuriant ferns. there is '_une recolte magnifique_' this year, and the people have but one thought--'the gathering in;' the country presents to us a picture--not like watteau's '_fêtes galantes_,' but rather that of an english harvest-home. we are in the midst of the cornfields near villers-sur-mer, and the hill-side is glorious; it is covered to the very summit with riches--the heavily-laden corn-stems wave their crests against a blue horizon, whilst, in a cleft of the hill, a long line of poppies winds downwards in one scarlet stream. they are set thickly in some places, and form a blaze of colour, inconceivably, painfully brilliant--a concentration of light as utterly beyond our power of imitation by the pencil, as genius is removed from ordinary minds. we could not paint it if we would, but we may see in it an allegory of plenty, and of peace (of that peace which france so urgently desires); we may see her blood-red banner of war laid down to garland the hill-side with its crimson folds, and her children laying their offerings at the feet of ceres and forgetting mars altogether. the national anthem becomes no longer a natural refrain--anything would sound more appropriate than 'partant pour la syrie' (there is no time for _that_ work)--to our little friend in fluttering blouse, who sits in the grass and 'minds' fifty head of cattle by moral force alone; we should rather sing:-- 'little boy blue, come blow me your horn, the orchards are laden, the cow 's in the corn!' * * * * * we cannot leave this pastoral scene, at least until the evening; when the sun goes down behind the sea--leaving a glow upon the hill-side and upon the crowd of gleaners who have just come up, and casts long shadows across the stubble and on the sheaves of corn; when the harvest moon shines out, and the picture is completed--the corn--sheaves lighted on one side by the western glow, on the other by the moon; like the famous shield over which knights did battle,--one side silver, the other gold. all this time we are within sight, and nearly within sound, of the 'happy hunting grounds' of trouville and deauville, but the country people are singularly unaffected by the proximity of those pretty towns, invented by dumas and peopled by his following.[ ] it is true that on the walls of a little village inn, there is something paraded about a 'trouville association, limited,' and a company for 'the passage of the simplon,' with twenty-franc shares; but these things do not seem to find much favour amongst the thrifty peasantry. they have, in their time, been tempted to unearth their treasures, and to invest in bubble companies like the rest of the world; but there is a reaction here, the normans evidently thinking, like the old colonnæ, that a hole in the bottom of the garden is about the safest place after all. and they have, it is true, some other temptations which come to them with a cheap press, such as '_la sureté financière_,' '_le moniteur des tirages financiers_,' '_le petit moniteur financier_,' &c., newspapers whose special business it is, to teach the people how to get rid of their savings, we are speaking, of course, of the comparatively uneducated agricultural population--the farmers, all through the district we have come, especially near vire and falaise, being rich _propriétaires_ and investing largely; and there are many other things in these half-penny french newspapers which find their way into these remote corners of france, which must make the curé sometimes regret that he had taught his flock to read. in a little paper which lies before us, the first article is entitled '_le miroir du diable_;' then follows a long account of a poisoning case in paris, and some songs from a _café chantant_, interspersed with illustrations of the broadest kind. but let us not be too critical; we have seen many things in france which would startle englishmen, but nothing, we venture to say, more harmful in its tendency, than the weekly broad-sheet of crime which is spread out over our own land (to the number, the proprietors boast, of at least a hundred thousand[ ]), wherein john and jane, who can only sign their names with a cross, read in hideous cartoons, suggestions of cruelty and crime more revolting than any the schoolmaster could have taught them. in these rich and prosperous provinces, the people (revolutionary and excitable as their ancestors were) certainly appear happy and contented; the most uneducated of them are quick-witted and ready in reply, they are not boorish or sullen, they have more readiness--at least in manner--than the germanic races, and are, as a rule, full of gaiety and humour. these people do not want war, they hate the conscription which takes away the flower of the flock; they regard with anything but pleasure the rather dictatorial '_moniteur_' that comes to them by post sometimes, whether they ask for it or not, and would much rather be 'let alone.'[ ] such is a picture of lower normandy, the land of plenty where we wander with so much pleasure in the summer months, putting up at wayside inns (where the hostess makes her 'note' on a slate and finds it hard work to make the amount come to more than five francs, for the night, for board and lodging for 'monsieur') and at farmhouses sometimes; chatting with the people in their rather troublesome patois, and making excursions with the local antiquary or curé, to some spot celebrated in history. they are pleasant days, when, if we will put up with a few inconveniences, and live principally out of doors, we may see and hear much that a railway traveller misses altogether. we shall not admire the system of farming, as a rule (each farmer holding only a few acres); and we shall find some of the cottages of the labourers very primitive, badly built, and unhealthy, although generally neat; we shall notice that the people are cruel, and careless of the sufferings of animals, and that no farm servant knows how to groom a horse. we shall see them clever in making cider, and prone to drink it; we shall see plenty of fine, strong, rather idle men and women in the fields carrying tremendous burdens, but hardly any children; they are almost as rare in the country as a lady, or a gentleman. indeed, in all our country wanderings the 'gentry' make little figure, and appear much less frequently on the scene than we are accustomed to in england. there are, of course, _propriétaires_ in this part of normandy who spend both their time and money in the country, and are spoken of with respect and affection by the people; but they are _raræ aves_, men of mark, like the founder of the protestant colony at beuzeval on the sea. nearly every sunday after harvest-time there will be a village wedding, where we may see the bride and bridegroom coming to take 'the first sacrament;' seated in a prominent place in front of the altar, and receiving the elements before the rest of the congregation, the bride placing a white favour on the basket which contains the consecrated bread, and afterwards coming from the church, the bride with a cap nearly a foot high, the bridegroom wearing a dress coat, with a tremendous bouquet, and a wedding-ring on his fore-finger; and, if we stand near the church porch, we may be deafened with a salute fired by the villagers in honour of the occasion, and overwhelmed by the eloquence of the 'best man,' who takes this opportunity of delivering a speech; and finally, the bells will ring out with such familiar tone that we can hardly realise that we are in france.[ ] these people are of the labouring class, but they have some money to 'commence life' with; the poorest girls seldom marry without a portion (indeed, so important is this considered amongst them that there are societies for providing portions for the unendowed), and they are, with few exceptions, provident and happy in married life. they are so in the country at least, in spite of all that has been said and written to the contrary. a lady who has had five-and-twenty years' acquaintance with french society, both in town and country, assures us that 'the stereotyped literary and dramatic view of french married life is wickedly false.' the corruption of morals, she says, which so generally prevails in paris, and which has been so systematically aggravated by the luxury and extravagance of the second empire, has emboldened writers to foist these false pictures of married life on the world. but we, as travellers, must not enter deeply into these questions; our business is, as usual, principally with their picturesque aspect. and there is plenty to see; a few miles from us there is the little town of pont l'evêque; and of course there is a fête going on. let us glance at the official programme for the day:-- 'at a.m., agricultural and horticultural meetings. from to , musical mass; several pieces to be performed by the band of the th regiment. at - / , meeting of the orphéonists and other musical societies. p.m., ordering and march of a procession, and review of sappers and miners. p.m., ascension of grotesque balloons. - / p.m., race of velocipedes. - / p.m., climbing poles and races in sacks. p.m., performance of music in the _place de l'eglise_; band of the th regiment. p.m., grand dinner in the college hall, with toasts, speeches, and concert. p.m., general illumination with chinese lanterns, &c. p.m., display of fireworks; procession with torches to the music of the military band.' n.b. every householder is requested to contribute to the gaiety by illuminating his own house--_by order of the maire._ how the rather obscure little town of pont l'evêque suddenly becomes important,--how it puts on (as only a french town knows how to do) an alluring and coquettish appearance; how the people promenade arm and arm, up the street and down the street, on the dry little _place_, and under the shrivelled-up trees; how they play at cards and dominoes in the middle of the road, and crowd to the canvas booths outside the town--would be a long task to tell. they crowd everywhere--to the menagerie of wild beasts, to see the 'pelican of the wilderness;' to the penny peepshows, where they fire six shots for a sou at a plaster cast of bismarck; to the lotteries for crockery and bonbons, and to all sorts of exhibitions 'gratis.' of the quantity of cider and absinthe consumed in one day, the holiday-makers may have rather a confused and careless recollection, as they are jogged home, thirteen deep in a long cart, with a neglected, footsore old horse, weighed down with his clumsy harness and his creaking load, and deafened by the jingling of his rusty bells. but if we happen to be in one of the larger towns during the time of the imperial fêtes (the th of august), or at a seaport on the occasion of the annual procession in honour of the virgin, we shall see a more striking ceremony still. the processions are very characteristic, with the long lines of fisherwomen in their scarlet and coloured dresses, and handkerchiefs tied round the head; the fishermen, old and weather-beaten, boys in semi-naval costume, neat and trim; and perhaps a hundred little children, dressed in blue and white. a dense mass of people crowding through the hot streets all day, impressive from their numbers, and from the quiet orderly method of their procession, headed and marshalled, of course, by the clergy and manoeuvred to the sound of bells. there is such a perpetual ringing of bells, and the trains run so frequently, that those who are not accustomed to such sights may become confused as to their true meaning. we learn, however, from the _affiches_ that it is all in honour of 'our lady of hope,' that the _externes_ from one school parade the streets to-day, wearing wreaths and carrying banners and crowns of flowers; that others bear aloft the 'cipher of mary,' the banner of the immaculate conception, baskets of roses, oriflammes, &c.; that twenty grown-up men parade the town with the 'banner of the sacred heart,' and that a party of young ladies, in white dresses fringed with gold, brave the heat and the dust, and crowd to do honour to the 'queen of angels.' a multitude with streamers and banners, a confusion of colour and gilding, passing to and from the churches all day; and at night, fire balloons, _feu d'artifice_, open theatres, and 'general joy.' of one more ceremony we must speak, differing in character, but equally characteristic and curious. we are in the country again, spending our days in sketching, or wandering amongst the hills; enjoying the 'perfect weather,' as we call it, and a little careless, perhaps, of the fact that the land is parched with thirst, that the springs are dried up, and that the peasants are beginning to despair of rain. we see a little white smoke curling through the branches of the trees, and hear in faint, uncertain cadence, the voices of men and children singing. presently there comes up the pathway between two lines of poplars, a long procession, headed by a priest, holding high in the air a glittering cross; there are old men with bowed heads, young men erect, with shaven crowns, and boys in scarlet and white robes, carrying silver censers; there is a clanking of silver chains, a tinkling of little bells, and an undertone of oft-repeated prayer. the effect is startling, and brilliant; the sunlight glances upon the white robes of the men, in alternate stripes of soft shadow and dazzling brightness, the wind plays round their feet as they march heavily along, in a whirl of dust which robs the leaves of their morning freshness; whilst the scarlet robes of the children light up the grove as with a furnace, and the rush of voices disturbs the air. on they come through the quiet country fields, hot and dusty with their long march, the foremost priest holding his head high, and doing his routine work manfully--never wearying of repeating the same words, or of opening and shutting the dark-bound volume in his hand; and the children, not yet quite weary of singing, and of swinging incense-burners--keeping close together two and two in line; the people following being less regular, less apparently enthusiastic, but walking close together in a long winding stream up the hill. what does it all mean? why, that these simple people want rain on the land, and that they have collected from all parts of the country to offer their prayers, and their money, to propitiate the deity. could we, but for one moment, as onlookers from some other sphere, see this line of creeping things on their earnest errand, the sight would seem a strange one. do these atoms on the earth's surface hope to change the order of the elements, to serve their own purposes? if rain were needed, would it not come? but we are in a land where we are taught, not only to pray for our wants, but to pay for their expression; so let us not question the motive of the procession, but follow it again in the evening, into the town, where it becomes lost in the crowded streets--so crowded that we cannot see more than the heads of the people; but the line is marked above them by a stream of sunset, which turns the dust-particles above their heads into a golden fringe. they make a halt in the square and sing the 'angelus,' and then enter the cathedral, where the priest offers up a prayer--a prayer which we would interpret--not for rain, if drought be best, but rather for help and strength to fight the battle of life in the noblest way. such scenes may still be witnessed in normandy (although, of course, becoming less primitive and characteristic every year) by those who are not compelled to hurry through the land. in the country districts the habits of the peasant class are the only ones that a traveller has any opportunity of observing; of the upper classes he will see nothing, and of their domestic life obtain no idea whatever. it is not to be accomplished, _en passant_, in normandy, any more than in vienna. in the inns, the company at the public table consists almost invariably of french commercial travellers, and the two english ladies whom we meet with everywhere, travelling together. there is hardly an hotel in normandy, excepting, of course, at the watering-places (of which we shall speak in the last chapter), that would be considered well appointed, according to modern notions of comfort and convenience. ladies travelling alone would certainly find themselves better accommodated in switzerland or in the pyrenees; excepting in the matter of expense, for normandy is still one of the cheapest parts of europe to travel in--the russians and americans not having yet come. we meet, as we have said, but few french people above the farming and commercial class; our fellow-travellers being generally 'unprotected' englishwomen who may be seen in summer-time at the various railway stations--fighting their way to the front in the battle of the '_bagages_,' and speaking french to the officials with a grammatical fervour, and energy, which is wonderful to contemplate[ ]--taking their places on the top of a diligence, amongst fowls and cheeses, with the heroic self sacrifice that would be required to mount a barricade; in short, placing themselves continually (and unnecessarily, it must be admitted) in positions inconsistent with english notions of propriety, and exposing themselves, for pleasure's sake, to more roughness and rudeness than is good for their sex. these things arise sometimes from necessity--on which we have not a word to say--but more frequently from a rigid determination to 'economize,' in a way that they would not dream of doing at home. we would certainly suggest that english ladies should not elect to travel by the diligences, and in out-of-the-way places, _unattended_; and that they had better not attempt to 'rough it' in normandy, if they are able (by staying at home) to avoid the concussion. to most men, this diligence travelling is charming--the seat on the _banquette_ on a fine summer's day is one of the most enjoyable places in life; it is cheap, and certainly not too rapid (five or six miles an hour being the average); and we can sit almost as comfortably in a corner of the banquette as in an easy-chair. in this beautiful country we should always either drive or walk, if we have time; the diligence is the most amusing and sometimes the slowest method of progress. nobody hurries--although we carry 'the mails' and have a letter-box in the side of the conveyance, where letters are posted as we go along, it is scarcely like travelling--the free and easy way in which people come and go on the journey is more like 'receiving company' than taking up passengers. as we jog along, to the jingling of bells and the creaking of rusty iron, the people that we overtake on the road keep accumulating on our vehicle one by one, as we approach a town, until we become encrusted with human things like a rock covered with limpets. there is no shaking them off, the driver does not care, and they certainly do not all pay. it is a pleasant family affair which we should all be sorry to see disturbed; and the roads are so good and even, that it does not matter much about the load. the neglect and cruelty to the horses, which we are obliged to witness, is certainly one drawback,[ ] and the dust and crowding on market days, are not always pleasant; but we can think of no other objections in fine weather, to this quiet method of seeing the country. much has been said in favour of 'a walking tour in normandy,' but we venture to question its thorough enjoyment when undertaken for long distances; and it can scarcely be called 'economical to walk,' unless the pedestrian's time is of no value to other people. let us be practical, and state the cost of travelling over the whole of the ground that we have mapped out. we may assume that the most determined pedestrian will not commence active operations until he reaches havre, or some other seaport town. from havre to pont audemer by steamboat; thence by road or railway to _all_ the towns on our route (visiting rouen by the seine, from honfleur), and so back to havre, will cost a 'knapsack-traveller' francs c., if he takes the banquette of the diligence and travels third class, by railway. thus it is a question of less than two pounds, for those who study economy, whilst at least a month's time is saved by taking the diligence. one argument for walking is, that you may leave the high roads at pleasure, and see more of the country and of the people; but the pedestrian has his day's work before him, and must spend the greater part of an august day on the dusty road, in order to reach his destination. there are districts, such as those round vire and mortain, which are exceptionally hilly, where he might walk from town to town; but he will not see the country as well, even there, as from the elevated position of a banquette. the finest parts of normandy are generally in the neighbourhood of towns which the traveller (who has driven to them) can explore on his arrival, without fatigue; _chacun à son gout_--these smooth, well-levelled roads are admirably adapted for velocipedes--but we confess to preferring the public conveyances, to any other method of travelling in france. let us conclude our remarks on this subject with an extract from the published diary of a pedestrian, who thus describes his journey from lisieux to caen, a distance of about twenty-six miles:-- 'it is nightfall,' he says, 'before i have walked more than half-way to caen; to the left of the road i see a number of lights indicative of a small town, but i perceive no road in that direction, and so am compelled to trudge on. i was dreadfully fatigued, for i had walked about lisieux before starting. in the faint light, i thought i saw a dog cross the road just before me, but soon perceived that it must be a spectral one, the result of excessive fatigue. at length i reach a lamp-post, with the light still burning, indicating that i am in the suburbs of caen. the road proceeds down a steep hill. i don't know how long it would seem to the visitor in the ordinary way, but to myself, prostrated by fatigue, it appeared on this night a long and weary tramp.'--'a walking tour in normandy!' chapter xi. _architecture and costume._ in the course of our little pilgrimage through normandy, it may have been thought that we dwelt with too much earnestness and enthusiasm on the architecture of the middle ages, as applicable to buildings in the nineteenth century. let us repeat our belief, that it is in its _adaptability_ to our wants, both practical and artistic, that its true value consists. mediæval architects in england are never tired of insisting upon this fact; although hitherto they must confess to a certain amount of failure, because, perhaps, they attempt too much. if one were to judge by what appears to be going on in nearly every town in england at the present time, we should say that there never was a time when architecture was so much considered. 'every town' (says a late writer, speaking of the extent of this movement), 'that shares the progress and character of the age, has a new town hall, a new exchange, new schools, and every institution for which an honest pretence can be found. a stranger, possessing an interest in the town, and with no claim upon it excepting that it shall please his eye, must be charmed with the profuse display of towers, turrets, pinnacles, and pointed roofs, windows of all sorts, niches, arcades, battlements, bosses, and everything else to be found in an architectural glossary. he may wonder why a lofty tower--sometimes several towers--should be necessary to the trying cases of assault and petty larceny, to the reading of newspapers, to the inspection of samples of wheat, or to the drilling of little boys in declensions and conjugations; but that is not his affair, and he has nothing to do with it, except to be thankful for a good sky-line, and a well-relieved, but yet harmonious, façade.' nevertheless, we live in certain hope of a more practical application of beauty and simplicity of form, to the wants and requirements of our own day; and we believe that it is possible to have both cheap and useful buildings, graceful in form, and harmonious in colour and design. but notwithstanding our admiration for the buildings of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, we are bound to confess that many of them, both churches and dwellings, fail too often in essentials. their dwellings are often deficient in light and ventilation, and are built with a lavish expenditure of materials; and their churches sometimes fail in carrying out the very object for which they were constructed, viz., the transmission of sound. still it is possible--as we have seen at caen and bayeux--to have noble, gothic interiors which do not 'drown the voice' of the preacher; and it is also possible--as we have seen in many towns in normandy--to build ornamental and healthy dwellings at a moderate cost. the extraordinary adaptability of gothic architecture over all other styles, is a subject on which the general public is very ignorant, and with which it has little sympathy. the mediæval architect is a sad and solitary man (who ever met a cheery one?), because his work is so little understood; yet if he would only meet the enemy of expediency and ugliness half-way, and condescend to teach us how to build not merely _economically_, but well at the same time, he would no longer be 'the waif and stray of an inartistic century.' shadows rise around us as we write--dim reproachful shadows of an age of unspeakable beauty in constructive art, and of (apparently) unapproachable excellence in design; and the question recurs to us again--can we ever hope to compete with thirteenth-century buildings whilst we lead nineteenth-century lives? it may not be in our generation, but the time will assuredly come when, as has been well remarked, 'the living vigour of humanity will break through the monotony of modern arrangements and assert itself in new forms--forms which may cause a new generation to feel less regret at being compelled to walk in straight lines.' here our thoughts, on the great question of architectural beauty and fitness, turn naturally to a new world. if, as we believe, there is a life and energy in the west which must sooner or later make its mark in the world, and perhaps take a lead for a while, amongst the nations, in the practical application of science and art; may it not rest with a generation of americans yet unborn, to create--out of such elements as the fast-fading gothic of the middle ages--a style of architecture that will equal it in beauty, and yet be more suitable to a modern era; a style that shall spring spontaneously from the wants and requirements of the age--an age that shall prize beauty of form as much as utility of design? do we dream dreams? is it quite beyond the limits of possibility that an art, that has been repeating itself for ages in europe--until the original designs are fading before our eyes, until the moulds have been used so often that they begin to lose their sharpness and significance--may not be succeeded by a new and living development which will be found worthy to take its place side by side with the creations of old classic time? is the idea altogether utopian--is there not room in the world for a 'new style' of architecture--shall we be always copying, imitating, restoring--harping for ever on old strings? it may be that we point to the wrong quarter of the globe, and we shall certainly be told that no good thing in art can come from the 'great dollar cities of the west,' from a people without monuments and without a history; but there are signs of intellectual energy, and a process of refinement and cultivation is going on, which it will be well for us of the old world not to ignore. their day may be not yet; before such a change can come, the nation must find rest--the pulse of this great, restless, thriving people must beat less quickly, they must know (as the greeks knew it) the meaning of the word 'repose.' it was a good sign, we thought, when felix darley, an american artist on a tour through europe (a ' dollar run' is, we believe, the correct expression), on arriving at liverpool, was content to go quietly down the wye, and visit our old abbeys and castles, such as tintern and kenilworth, instead of taking the express train for london; and it is to the many signs of culture and taste for art, which we meet with daily, in intercourse with travellers from the western continent, that we look with confidence to a great revolution in taste and manners.[ ] to these, then (whom we may be allowed to look upon as pioneers of a new and more artistic civilization), and to our many readers on the other side of the atlantic, we would draw attention to the towns in normandy, as worthy of examination, before they pass away from our eyes; towns where 'art is still religion,'--towns that were built before the age of utilitarianism, and when expediency was a thing unknown. to young america we say--'come and see the buildings of old france; there is nothing like them in the western world, neither the wealth of san francisco, nor the culture of its younger generation, can, at present, produce anything like them. they are waiting for you in the sunlight of this summer evening; the gables are leaning, the waters are sparkling, the shadows are deepening on the hills, and the colours on the banners that trail in the water, are 'red, white, and blue!' * * * * * a word or two here may not be out of place, on some of the modern architectural features of normandy. in some towns that we have passed through it would seem as if the old feeling for form and colour had at last revived, and that (although perhaps in rather a commonplace way) the builders of modern villas and seaside houses were emulating the works of their ancestors. prom our windows at houlgate (on the sea-coast, near trouville) we can see modern, half-timbered houses, set in a garden of shrubs and flowers, with gables prettily 'fringed,' graceful dormer windows, turrets and overhanging eaves; solid oak doors, and windows with carved balconies twined about with creepers, with lawns and shady walks surrounding--as different from the ordinary type of french country-house with its straight avenues and trimly cut trees, as they are remote in design from any ordinary english seaside residence; and (this is our point) they are not only ornamental and pleasing to the eye, but they are durable, dry, and healthy dwellings, and are _not costly to build_. here are sketches of four common examples of modern work, all of which are within a few yards of our own doors. no. is a good substantial brick-built house, close to the sea-shore, surrounded by shrubs and a small garden. the whole building is of a rich warm brown, set off by the darker tints of the woodwork; relieved by the bright shutters, the interior fittings, the flowers in the windows and the surrounding trees. no. is a common example of square open turret of dark oak, with slated roof; the chimney is of brick and terra-cotta; the frontage of the house is of parti-coloured brickwork with stone facings, &c. [illustration] no. is a round tower at a street corner (the turret forming a charming boudoir, with extensive view); it is built of red and white brick, the slates on the roof are rounded, and the ornamental woodwork is of dark oak--the lower story of this house is of stone. no. , which forms one end of a large house, is ornamented with light-coloured wooden galleries and carving under the eaves, contrasting charmingly with the blue slating of the roofs and the surface tiling of the frontage--smooth tiles are introduced exteriorly in diaper patterns, chiefly of the majolica colours, which the wind and rain keep ever bright and fresh-looking, and which no climate seems to affect. the ornamental woodwork on this house is especially noticeable.[ ] there may be nothing architecturally new in these modern 'chateaux' and 'chalets;' but it is as well to see what the french are doing, with a climate, in normandy, much like our own, and with the same interest as ourselves, in building commodious and durable houses. it is pleasant to see that even french people care no longer to dim their eyesight with bare white walls; that they have had enough of straight lines and shadeless windows; that, in short, they are beginning to appreciate the beauty of thirteenth-century work. [illustration] we have hitherto spoken principally of the architecture of normandy, but we might well go further in our study of old ways, and suggest that there were other matters in which we might take a hint from the middle ages. first, with respect to dress, let us imagine by way of illustration, that two gentlemen, clad in the easy and picturesque walking costume of the times of the huguenots 'fall to a wrestling;' they may be in fun or in earnest--it matters not--they simply divest themselves of their swords, and see, as in our illustration, with what perfect ease and liberty of limb they are able to go to work and bring every muscle of the body into play. next, by way of contrast, let us picture to ourselves what would happen to a man under the same circumstances, in the costume of the present day. if he commenced a wrestling match with no more preparation than above (_i.e._ by laying down his stick, or umbrella), it would befall him first to lose his hat, next to split his coat up the back, and to break his braces; he would lose considerably in power and balance from the restraining and unnatural shape of all his clothes, he would have no firmness of foothold--his toes being useless to him in fashionable boots. does the comparison seem far-fetched; and is it not well to make the contrast, if it may lead, however slightly, to a consideration of our own deformities? we believe that the time is coming when a great modification in the dress of our younger men will be adopted, if only for health and economy; it will come with the revival, or more general practice, of such games as singlestick, wrestling, and the like, and with an improved system of physical education. it sounds little better than a mockery to speak of deeds of valour and personal prowess, whilst we submit to confine our limbs in garments that cramp the frame and resist every healthy movement of the body. we must not go farther into the question in these pages, but we may ask--were there as many narrow-shouldered, weak-chested, delicate men, in the days when every gentleman knew how to use a sword?[ ] the extravagances and vagaries of modern costume (for which we can find no precedent in the comparative ignorance and barbarism of the middle ages) lead to the conviction that there must be a great change, if only as a question of health. travellers who have been in spain, notice with surprise that the men are wrapt literally 'up to their eyes,' in their cloaks, whilst the women walk abroad in the bitter wind with only a lace veil over their heads and shoulders; but the disproportionate amount of clothing that modern society compels men and women to wear in the same room seems equally absurd.[ ] and yet there must be some extraordinary fascination in the prevailing dress, that induces nearly every european nation to give up its proper costume and to be (as the saying is) 'like other people.' there is an old adage that you cannot touch pitch without being defiled, and with the people of whom we have been speaking, it certainly has its application. what is the normandy peasant's pride on high days and holidays in the year , but to put on a 'frock coat' and a _chapeau noir;_ to throw away the costume that his fathers wore, to bid farewell to colour, character, and freedom of limb, to don the livery of a high civilization, and to become (to our poor understanding) anything but the 'noblest work of god.' again, in the little matter of writing, may we not learn something by looking back three or four hundred years--were not our ancestors a little more practical than ourselves? did the monks of the middle ages find it necessary, in order to express a single word on paper or parchment, to make the pen (as we do) travel over a distance of eight or ten inches?[ ] here are two words, [illustration: excellentis] one written by a lady, educated in the 'pot-hook-and-hanger' school, and another, the autograph of william of malmesbury, an historian of the twelfth century. is the modern method of writing much more legible than the old--is it more easily or quickly written; and might not we adopt some method of writing, by which to express our meaning in a letter, at less length than thirty feet? we might add something about our misuse of words (as compared with the habit of 'calling a spade a spade' in the writings of the old chroniclers), about our unnecessary complications, and the number of words required to express an idea in these days; and suggest another curious consideration, as to how such prolixity affects our thoughts and actions.[ ] is it of no moment to be able to express our thoughts quickly and easily? does it help the bavarian peasant-boy to comprehend the fact of the sun's rising over his native hills, that ten consonants, in the poetic word morgenlandisch have to travel through his mind? these things may be considered by many of slight importance, and that if they are wrong, they are not very easily remedied; but in architecture and costume we have the remedy in our own hands. why--it may be asked in conclusion--do we cling to costume, and prize so much the old custom of distinctive dress? because it bears upon its forehead the mark of truth; because, humble or noble, it is at least, what it appears to be; because it gives a silent but clear assurance (in these days so sadly needed) that a man's position in life is what he makes it appear to be; that, in short, there is nothing behind the scenes, nothing to be discovered or hunted out. it is the relic of a really 'good old time,' when a uniform or a badge of office was a mark of honour, when the _bourgeoisie_ were proud of their simple estate, and domestic service was indeed what its name implies. we cling to costume and regret its disappearance, when (to use a familiar illustration) we compare the french _bonne_ in a white cap, with her english contemporary with a chignon and the airs of 'my lady.' but distinctive costumes, like the old buildings, are disappearing everywhere, and with them even the traditions seem to be dying out. queen matilda (we are soon to be told) _never worked the bayeux tapestry_, and joan of arc _was not burnt at rouen_! the old world banners are being torn down one by one--facts which were landmarks in history are proved to be fiction by the master of the rolls; we close the page almost in despair, and with the words coming to our lips, 'there is _nothing true_ under the sun.' chapter xii. _the watering places of normandy._ 'trouville est une double extrait de paris--la vie est une fête, et le costume une mascarade.'--_conty._ the watering-places of normandy are so well known to english people that there is little that is new to be said respecting them; at the same time any description of this country would not be considered complete without some mention of the sea-coast. the principal bathing places on the north coast are the following, commencing from the east:--dieppe, fÉcamp, Étretat, trouville and deauville, villers-sur-mer, houlgate, cabourg, and cherbourg. we will say a few words about trouville and Étretat (as representative places) and conclude with some statistics, in an appendix, which may be useful to travellers. life at trouville is the gayest of the gay: it is not so much to bathe that we come here, as because on this fine sandy shore near the mouth of the seine, the world of fashion and delight has made its summer home; because here we can combine the refinements, pleasures, and 'distractions' of paris with northern breezes, and indulge without restraint in those rampant follies that only a frenchman, or a frenchwoman, understands. it is a pretty, graceful, and rational idea, no doubt, to combine the ball room with the sanatorium, and the opera with any amount of ozone; and we may well be thankful to dumas for inventing a seaside resort at once so pleasant and so gay. of the daily life at trouville and deauville there is literally nothing new to be told; they are the best, the most fashionable, and the most extravagant of french watering-places; and there is the usual round of bathing in the early morning, breakfast at half-past ten, donkey-riding, velocipede racing, and driving in the country until the afternoon, promenade concerts and in-door games at four, dinner at six or seven (table-d'hôte, if you please, where new comers are stared at with that solid, stony stare, of which only the politest nation in the world, is capable)--casino afterwards, with pleasant, mixed society, concert again and '_la danse_.' of the fashion and extravagance at trouville a moralist might feel inclined to say much, but we are here for a summer holiday, and we _must_ be gay both in manner and attire. it is our business to be delighted with the varied scene of summer costume, and with all the bizarre combinations of colour that the beautiful parisians try upon us; but it is impossible altogether to ignore the aspect of anxiety which the majority of people bring with them from paris. they come 'possessed,' (the demon is in those huge boxes, which have caused the death of so many poor _facteurs_, and which the railway pours out upon us, daily); they bring their burden of extravagance with them, they take it down to the beach, they plunge into the water with it, and come up burdened as before. _dress_ is the one thing needful at trouville--in the water, or on the sands. look at that old french gentleman, with the cross of the legion of honour on his breast; he is neat and clean, his dress is, in all respects, perfection; and it is difficult to say whether it is the make of his boots, the fit of his gloves, or his hat, which is most on his mind--they furnish him with food for much thought, and sometimes trouble him not a little. of the ladies' attire what shall we say? it is all described in the last number of '_le follet_,' and we will not attempt to compete with that authority; we will rather quote two lines from the letter of a young english lady, who thus writes home to quiet friends,--'we are all delighted with trouville; we have to make _five toilettes daily_, the gentlemen are so particular.' of the bathing at trouville, a book might be written on the costumes alone--on the suits of motley, the harlequins, the mephistopheles, the spiders, the 'grasshoppers green,' and the other eccentric _costumes de bain_--culminating in a lady's dress trimmed with death's heads, and a gentleman's, of an indescribable colour, after the pattern of a trail of seaweed. strange, costly creatures--popping in and out of little wooden houses, seated, solitary on artificial rocks, or pacing up and down within the limits prescribed by the keeper of the show--tell us, 'monsieur l'administrateur,' something about their habits; stick some labels into the sand with their latin names, tell us how they manage to feather their nests, whether they 'ruminate' over their food--and we shall have added to our store of knowledge at the seaside! it is all admirably managed ('administered' is the word), as everything of the kind is in france. in order to bathe, as the french understand it, you must study costume, and to make a good appearance in the water you must move about with the dexterity and grace required in a ball room; you must remember that you are present at a _bal de mer_, and that you are not in a tub. there are water velocipedes, canoes for ladies, and floats for the unskilful; fresh water for the head before bathing, and tubs of hot water afterwards for the feet, on the sands; an appreciating and admiring audience on the shore; a lounge across the sands and through the 'Établissement,' in costumes more scanty than those of neapolitan fish girls! yes, youth and beauty come to trouville-by-the-sea; french beauty of the dresden china pattern, side by side and hand in hand, with the young english girl of the heavy clapham type (which elderly frenchmen adore)--all in the water together, in the prettiest dresses, 'sweetly trimmed' and daintily conceived; all joining hands, men and women having a 'merry go round' in the water--some swimming, some diving, shouting, and disporting themselves, and 'playing fantastic tricks before high heaven,'--to the admiration of a crowded beach. '_honi soit qui mal y pense_,' when english ladies join the party, and write home that 'it is delightful, that there is a refreshing disregard for what people may think at french watering-places, and a charming absence of self-consciousness that disarms criticism'! what does quiet paterfamilias think about his mermaid daughter, and of that touch about the 'absence of self-consciousness;' and would anything induce _him_ to clothe himself in a light-green skin, to put on a pair of 'human fins,' or to perch himself on the rocks before a crowd of ladies on the beach, within a few yards of him? yes, it _is_ delightful--the prettiest sight and the brightest life imaginable; but is it quite the thing, we may ask, for english girls to take their tone (ever so little) from the casino, and from the '_guides conty;_' which they do as surely, as the caterpillar takes its colour from the leaf on which it feeds? but the system of bathing in france is so sensible and good compared with our own; the facilities for learning to swim, the accommodation for bathers, and the accessories, are so superior to anything we know of in england, that we hardly like to hint at any drawbacks. we need not all go to trouville (some of us cannot afford it), but we may live at most of these bathing places at less cost, and with more comfort and amusement than at home. they do manage some things better in france: at the seaside here the men dress in suits of flannel, and wear light canvas shoes habitually; the women swim, and take their children with them into the water,--floating them with gourds, which accustoms them to the water, and to the use of their limbs. at the hotels and restaurants, they provide cheap and appetizing little dinners; there is plenty of ice in hot weather, and cooling drinks are to be had everywhere: in short, in these matters the practical common sense of the french people strikes us anew, every time we set foot on their shores. why it should be so, we cannot answer; but as long as it is so, our countrymen and countrywomen may well crowd to french watering-places. the situation of trouville is thus described by blanchard jerrold, who knows the district better than most englishmen:--'even the shore has been subdued to comfortable human uses; rocks have been picked out of the sand, until a carpet as smooth as paris asphalte has been obtained for the fastidious feet of noble dames, who are the finishing bits of life and colour in the exquisite scene. even the ribbed sand is not smooth enough; a boarded way has been fixed from the casino to the mussel banks, whither the dandy resorts to play at mussel gathering, in a nautical dress that costs a sailor's income. the great and rich have planted their louis xiii. chateaux, their 'maisons mauresques' and 'pavillons à la renaissance,' so closely over the available slopes, round about the immense and gaudily-appointed casino, and the hotel of the black rocks, that it has been found necessary to protect them with masonry of more than roman strength. from these works of startling force, and boldness of design, the view is a glorious one indeed. to the right stretches the white line of havre, pointed with its electric _phare_; to the left, the shore swells and dimples, and the hills, in gentle curves, rise beyond. deauville is below, and beyond--a flat, formal place of fashion, where ladies exhibit the genius of worth to one another, and to the astonished fishermen. imagine a splendid court playing at seaside life; imagine such a place as watteau would have designed, with inhabitants as elegantly rustic as his, and you imagine a trouville. it is the village of the millionaire--the stage whereon the duchess plays the hoyden, and the princess seeks the exquisite relief of being natural for an hour or two. no wonder every inch of the rock is disputed; there are so many now in the world who have sipped all the pleasures the city has to give. masters of the art of entering a drawing-room, the parisians crowd seaward to get the sure foot of the mussel-gatherer upon the slimy granite of a bluff norman headland; they bring their taste with them, and they get heartiness in the bracing air. the _salon_ of the casino, at the height of the season, is said to show at once the most animated and diverting assemblage of somebodies to be seen in the world.' deauville, separated only by the river touques, is a place of greater pretension even than trouville. it is, however, quite in its infancy; it was planned for a handsome and extensive watering-place, but the death of the duc de morny has stopped its growth,--large tracts of land, in what should be the town, still lying waste. it is quiet compared with trouville, select and 'aristocratic,' and boasts the handsomest casino in france; it is built for the most part upon a sandy plain, but the houses are so tastefully designed, and so much has been made of the site, that (from some points of view) it presents, with its background of hills, a singularly picturesque appearance. no matter how small or uninteresting the locality, if it is to be fashionable, _il n'y aura point de difficulté_. if there are no natural attractions, the ingenious and enterprising speculator will provide them; if there are no trees, he will bring them,--no rocks, he will manufacture them,--no river, he will cut a winding canal,--no town, he will build one,--no casino, he will erect a wooden shed on the sands! but of all the bathing-places on the north coast of normandy the little fishing-village of Étretat will commend itself most to english people, for its bold coast and bracing air. situated about seventeen miles north-east of havre, shut in on either side by rocks which form a natural arch over the sea, the little bay of Étretat--with its brilliant summer crowd of idlers and its little group of fishermen who stand by it in all weathers--is one of the quaintest of the nooks and corners of france. there is a homelike snugness and retirement about the position of Étretat, and a mystery about the caves and caverns--extending for long distances under its cliffs--which form an attraction that we shall find nowhere else. since paris has found it out, and taken it by storm as it were, the little fishermen's village has been turned into a gay _parterre_; its shingly beach lined with chairs _à volonté_, and its shores smoothed and levelled for delicate feet. the _casino_ and the _Établissement_ are all that can be desired; whilst pretty châlets and villas are scattered upon the hills that surround the town. there is scarcely any 'town' to speak of; a small straggling village, with the remains of a norman church, once close to the sea (built on the spot where the people once watched the great flotilla of william the conqueror drift eastward to st. valery), and on the shore, old worn-out boats, thatched and turned into fishermen's huts and bathing retreats. Étretat has its peculiar customs; the old fisher-women, who assume the more profitable occupation of washerwomen during the summer, go down to the shore as the tide is ebbing, and catch the spring water on its way to the sea; scooping out the stones, and making natural washing-tubs of fresh water close to the sea--a work of ten minutes or so, which is all washed away by the next tide. at Étretat almost everybody swims and wears a costume of blue serge, trimmed with scarlet, or other bright colour; and everybody sits in the afternoon in the gay little bay, purchases shell ornaments and useless souvenirs, sips coffee or ices, and listens to the band. for a very little place, without a railway, and with only two good hotels, Étretat is wonderfully lively and attractive; and the drives in the neighbourhood add to its natural attractions. the show is nearly over for the season, at Étretat, by the time we leave it; the puppets are being packed up for paris, and even the boxes that contained them will soon be carted away to more sheltered places. it is late in september, and the last few bathers are making the most of their time, and wandering about on the sands in their most brilliant attire; but their time is nearly over, Étretat will soon be given up to the fishermen again--like the bears in the high pyrenees, that wait at the street corners of the mountain towns, and scramble for the best places after the visitors have left, the natives of Étretat are already preparing to return to their winter quarters. it is the finest weather of the year, and the setting sun is brilliant upon the shore; a fishing-boat glides into the bay, and a little fisher-boy steps out upon the sands. he comes down towards us, facing the western sun, with such a glory of light about his head, such a halo of fresh youth, and health, as we have not seen once this summer, in the 'great world.' his feet are bare, and leave their tiny impress on the sand--a thousand times more expressive than any parisian boot; his little bronzed hands are crystallized with the salt air; his dark-brown curls are flecked with sea-foam, and flutter in the evening breeze; his face is radiant--a reflection of the sun, a mystery of life and beauty half revealed. after all we have seen and heard around us, it is like turning, with a thankful sense of rest, from the contemplation of some tricky effect of colour, to a painting by titian or velasquez; it is, in an artistic sense, transition from darkness to light--from the glare of the lamp to the glory of the true day. appendix to normandy picturesque. sketch of route, showing the distances, fares, &c., to and from the principal places in normandy. travelling expenses over the whole of this route (including the journey from london to havre, or dieppe, and back) do not amount to more than l. s. first class, and need not exceed l. s. (see p. ). hotel expenses average about s. a day. thus it is possible to accomplish month's tour for £ , and one of two months for £ . there are _no good hotels_ in normandy (excepting at the seaside) according to modern ideas of comfort and convenience. caen, avranches, and rouen may be mentioned as the best places at which to stay, _en route_. havre to pont audemer.--steamboat direct.--fare frs. or viâ honfleur or trouville, by boat and diligence. dieppe to pont audemer.--railway (viâ rouen and glosmontfort) miles. fare, first class, frs. c. ( s.) pont audemer (pop. ). hotels: _pôt d'Étain_ (old-fashioned in style, but no longer in prices); _lion d'or_. pont audemer to lisieux.--diligence. distance, miles.--or by ry. miles; fare, frs. c. ( s.) fare.[ ] lisieux (pop. , ). hotels: _de france_, (on a quiet boulevard, with garden); _d'espagne_, &c. lisieux to caen.--railway, miles. fare, frs. c. ( s. d.) caen (pop. , ). hotels: _d'angleterre_, (well-managed, central, and bustling); _d'espagne_, &c. caen to bayeux.--railway, miles. fare, frs. c. ( s. d.) bayeux (pop. , ). hotels: _du luxembourg, grand hotel_, &c. bayeux to st. lo.--railway miles. fare, frs. ( s.) [bayeux to cherbourg. rly. miles. fare, frs. s. ( s. d.)] [for hotels, &c., see app., p. iv.] st. lo (pop. , ). hotel: _du soleil levant_ (quiet and commercial.) st. lo to coutances.--diligence, miles. coutances (pop. ). hotels: _de france, du dauphin, &c._ (indifferent). coutances to granville.--diligence, miles. granville (pop. , ). hotels: _du nord_ (large and bustling, crowded with english from the channel islands); _trois couronnes, &c._ (see p. .) granville to avranches.--diligence, miles. avranches (pop. ). hotels: _d'angleterre, de bretagne, &c._ (accustomed to english people.) [excursion to mont st. michel and back in one day; carriage, frs, ( s. d.). distance, miles; or by pont orson (the best route), miles.] avranches to vire.--diligence, miles (viâ mortain). vire (pop. ). hotel: _du cheval blanc_. [mortain to domfront. diligence, miles. (pop. .) _hotel de la poste_.] vire to falaise.--diligence, miles [or by rly. miles. fare, frs. ( s. d.)] falaise (pop. ). hotels: _de normandie, &c._ (all commercial.) falaise to rouen.--rly. miles (viâ mezidon and serquiny). fare, frs. c. ( s. d.) [at serquiny turn off to evreux, miles. fare from serquiny, frs. c. ( s. d.) hotel: _grand cerf_.] rouen (pop. , ). hotels: _d'angleterre, d'albion, &c._ (none first-rate, generally full of english people.) rouen to havre by the seine; or by rly. _list of the_ watering-places of normandy, _from east to west, with a few notes for visitors_. dieppe (pop. , ).--busy seaport town--fashionable and expensive during the season--good accommodation facing the sea--pretty rides and drives in the neighbourhood--shingly beach, bracing air. hotels: _royal, des bains, de londres, &c. ry. to paris._ fécamp ( , ).--a dull uninteresting town, inns second-rate and dear, in summer--situated on a river, the town reaching for nearly a mile inland. hotels: _de la plage, des bains, chariot d'or. ry. to paris._ Étretat ( ).--romantic situation--bracing air--rocky coast--shingly beach--only two good hotels--a few villas and apartments--no town--very amusing for a time. hotels: _blanquet, hauville, dil. to fécamp, and havre._ havre ( , ).--large and important seaport on the right bank of the seine--harbour, docks, warehouses, fine modern buildings, streets, and squares--picturesque old houses and fishing-boats on the quay--bathing not equal to dieppe or trouville. hotels: _de l'europe, de l'amirauté, &c., and frascatî's on the sea-shore. ry. to paris; steamboats to trouville, &c._ honfleur ( , ).--opposite havre, on the seine--old and picturesque town--pleasant walks--english society--sea-bathing, "_mais quels bains_," says conty, "_bains impossible!_" living is not dear for residents. hotels: _du cheval blanc, de la paix, &c. ry. to paris_. trouville ( or ).--fashionable and very dear at the best hotels--ample accommodation to suit all purses--good sands--splendid casino--handsome villas, and plenty of apartments. less bracing than dieppe or Étretat. hotels: _roches-noires, paris, bras d'or, &c. ry. to paris._ deauville.--a scattered assemblage of villas and picturesque houses--very exclusive and select, and dull for a stranger--grand casino--quite a modern town--separated from trouville by the river touques. hotels: _grand, du casino, &c. ry. to paris._ villers-sur-mer.--a pretty village, six miles from trouville--crowded during the season--beautiful neighbourhood--good apartments, but expensive--inns moderate. hotels: _du bras d'or, casino, &c. ry. to paris._ houlgate.--one large hotel surrounded by pretty and well-built châlets to be let furnished; also many private villas in gardens--beautiful situation--good sands--small casino--becoming fashionable and dear--accommodation limited. _dil. to trouville, miles_. beuzeval.--a continuation of houlgate, westward; lower, near the mouth of the dives--one second-rate hotel close to the sands--quiet and reasonable--sea recedes half-a-mile (no boating at houlgate or beuzeval)--beautiful neighbourhood--a few villas and apartments--no Établissement. _dil. to trouville or caen_. cabourg.--a small, but increasing, town in a fine open situation on the left bank of the dives--good accommodation and moderate--not as well known as it deserves to be. hotels: _de la plage, casino, &c. dil. do. do_. [then follow nine or ten minor sea-bathing places, situated north of caen and bayeux, in the following order:--lies, luc, lasgrune, st, aubin, coutances, aromanches, auxelles, vierville, and grandcamp; where accommodation is more or less limited, and board and lodging need not cost more than seven or eight francs a-day in the season. they are generally spoken of in french guide-books as, '_bien tristes sans ressources;_' 'fit only for fathers of families'! st. aubin, about twelve miles from caen, is one of the best.] cherbourg ( , ).--large, fortified town--bold coast--good bathing--splendid views from the heights--wide streets and squares--docks and harbours--hotels--good and dear. hotels: _l'univers, l'amirauté, &c. ry. to paris_. granville.--see pp. and following; also appendix, p. ii. * * * * * the average charge at seaside hotels in normandy, during the season (if taken by the week) is or francs a-day, for sleeping accommodation and the two public meals; nearly everything else being charged for 'extra.' at trouville, deauville, and dieppe, or francs is considered 'moderate.' furnished houses and apartments can be had nearly everywhere, and at all prices. the sum of _l._ or _l_. a week is sometimes paid at trouville, or deauville, for a furnished house. conty's guide-book, '_les côtes de normandie_,' should be recommended for its very practical information on these matters, but not for its illustrations. _london, may, ._ footnotes: [ ] we have not put cherbourg, domfront, or evreaux, as a matter of course, on our list, although they should be included in a tour, especially the two latter towns, for their archæological interest. [ ] the same remark applies to mantes, familiar to us from its historical associations, and by its graceful towers, which so many have seen from the railway in going to paris. "all the world goes by mantes, but very few stop there," writes a traveller. "the tourist, on his way to paris, generally has a ticket which allows him to stop at rouen but not at mantes. people very anxious to stop at mantes, and to muse, so to speak, amongst its embers, have had great searchings of heart how to get there, and have not accomplished their object until after some years of reflection." [ ] trouville and deauville-sur-mer. [ ] the architecture of rouen, which is better known to our countrymen than that of any other town in normandy, is later than that of caen or bayeux. notwithstanding the magnificence of its cathedral, we venture to say that there is nothing in all rouen to compare with the norman romanesque of the latter towns. [ ] 'i am not enthusiastic about gutters and gables, and object to a population composed exclusively of old women,' wrote the author of 'miss carew;' but she could not have seen pont audemer. [ ] the brightness and cleanliness of the peasant and market-women, is a pleasant feature to notice in normandy. [ ] it is worthy of note that the very variety and irregularity that attracts us so much in these buildings does not meet with universal approval in the french schools. in the _'grammaire des arts du dessin_,' m. charles blanc lays down as an axiom, that "sublimity in architecture belongs to three essential conditions--simplicity of surface, straightness, and continuity of line." nevertheless we find many modern french houses built in the style of the th and th century; especially in lower normandy. [ ] there is a great change in the aspect of pont audemer during the last year or two; streets of new houses having sprung up, hiding some of the best old work from view; and one whole street of wooden houses having been lately taken down. [ ] there is one peculiarity about the position of pont audemer which is charming to an artist; the streets are ended by hills and green slopes, clothed to their summits with trees, which are often in sunshine, whilst the town is in shadow. [ ] we, human creatures, little know what high revel is held at four o'clock on a summer's morning, by the birds of the air and the beasts of the field; when their tormentors are asleep. [ ] the approach to lisieux from the railway station is singularly uninteresting; a new town of common red brick houses, of the coventry or birmingham pattern, having lately sprung up in this quarter. [ ] there is something not inappropriate, in the printed letters in present use in france, to the 'haussmann' style of street architecture; some inscriptions over warehouses and shops could scarcely indeed be improved. we might point as an illustration of our meaning to the successful introduction of the word nord, several times repeated, on the façade of the terminus of the great northern railway at paris. [ ] we lately saw an english crest, bearing the motto "courage without fear;" a piece of tautology, surely of modern manufacturer? [ ] the contrast between the present and former states of society might be typified by the general substitution of the screw for the nail in building; both answering the purpose of the modern builder, but the former preferred, because _removable_ at pleasure. it is a restless age, in which advertisements of 'families removed' are pasted on the walls of a man's house without appearing to excite his indignation. [ ] the 'renaissance' work at the east end of this church is considered by herr lübke to be 'the masterpiece of the epoch.' 'it is to be found,' he says, 'at one extremity of a building, the other end of which is occupied by the loveliest steeple and tower in the world.' [ ] it is remarkable that with all their care for this building, the authorities should permit apple-stalls and wooden sheds to be built up against the tower. [ ] an architect, speaking of the albert memorial, now approaching completion, says:--'in ten years the spire and all its elaborate tracery will have become obsolete and effaced for all artistic purposes. the atmosphere of london will have performed its inevitable function. every 'scroll work' and 'pinnacle' will be a mere clot of soot, and the bronze gilt virtues will represent nothing but swarthy denizens of the lower regions; the plumage of the angels will be converted into a sort of black-and-white check-work. 'all this fated transformation we see with the mind's eye as plainly as we see with those of the body, the similar change which has been effected in the gothic tracery of some of our latest churches.' [ ] the old woman is well known at caen, and her encounter with the '_garçon anglais_' it matter of history amongst her friends in the town. [ ] it was lately found necessary to repair the south door; but the restoration of the carved work has been effected with the utmost skill and care: indeed we could hardly point to a more successful instance of 'restoring' in france. [ ] we might point, as a notable exception, to the memorial window to brunel, the engineer, in westminster abbey; especially for its appropriateness and harmony with the building. [ ] the _raconteurs_ of the middle ages used to travel on foot about europe, reciting, or repeating, the last new work or conversation of celebrated men--a useful and lucrative profession in days before printing was invented. [ ] in the british museum there is a book containing a facsimile of the whole of this tapestry (printed in colours, for the society of antiquaries), where the reader may see it almost as well as at bayeux; just as, at the crystal palace, we may examine the modelling of ghiberti's gates, with greater facility than by standing in the windy streets of florence. [ ] the sketch of the pulpit (made on the spot by the author) is erroneously stated in the list of illustrations to be from a photograph. [ ] at the cathedral at coutances the service is held under the great tower, and the effect is most melodious from above. [ ] in an article in the _pall mall gazette_, on the 'woman of the future,' the writer argues that:--'as beauty is more or less a matter of health, too much can never be said against the abuse of it. quite naturally the fragile type of beauty has become the standard of the present day, and men admire in real lift the lily-cheeked, small-waisted, diaphanous-looking creatures idealized by living artists. when we become accustomed to a nobler kind of beauty we shall attain to a loftier ideal. men will seek nobility rather than prettiness, strength rather than weakness, physical perfection rather than physical degeneracy, in the women they select as mothers of their children. artists will rejoice and sculptors will cease to despair when this happy consummation is reached--let none regard it as chimerical or utopian.' [ ] the railway from paris to granville is nearly finished; and another line is in progress to connect cherbourg, coutances, granville, and st. malo. [ ] if this were the place to enlarge upon the general question of bringing children abroad to be educated, we might suggest, at the outset, that there were certain english qualities, such as manliness and self-reliance; and certain english sports, such as cricket, hunting and the like, which have less opportunity of fair development in boys educated abroad. and as to girls--who knows the impression left for life on young hearts, by the dead walls and silent trees of a french _pension_? [ ] it is well that sportsmen do not always make a good bag, for another drawback to the pleasures of sport in france is the 'heavy octroi duty which a successful shot has to pay upon every head of game which he takes back to town.' for a pheasant (according to the latest accounts) he has to pay ' f. c. to f.; for a hare, f. c. to f.; for a rabbit, c. to f. c.; for a partridge, c. to f. c. the pound; and for every other species of feathered game, c. the kilogramme.' [ ] the island, in this illustration, appears, after engraving, to be about two miles nearer the spectator, and to be less covered with houses, than it really is. [ ] during the last few years the prisoners have all been removed from mont st. michael. [ ] the sands are so shifting and variable, that it is impossible to cross with safety, excepting by well-known routes, and at certain times of the tide; many lives, even of the fishermen and women, have been lost on these sands. [ ] it a irresistible, here, not to compare in our minds, with these twelfth-century relics of magnificence and festivity, certain emblazoned 'civic banquets,' and the gay 'halls by the sea,' with which the child (old or young) of the nineteenth century is enraptured--the former being the realities of a chivalrous epoch; the latter, masquerades or money speculations, of a more advanced century. the comparison may be considered unjust, but it is one that suggests itself again and again, as typical of a curiously altered state of society and manners. [ ] the latest, and perhaps the most complete, description of mont st michael, will be found in the 'people's magazine' for august, . [ ] french artists flock together in the valleys of the seine and the somme, like english landscape painters at the junction of the greta and the tees--mortain and vire not being yet fashionable. it is hard, indeed, to get english artists out of a groove; to those who, like ourselves, have had to examine the pictures at our annual exhibitions, year by year, somewhat closely, the streams in wales are as familiar on canvas, as 'finding the body of harold.' [ ] we speak of mortain as we found it a few years ago; its sanitory arrangements have, we understand, been improved, but people are not yet enthusiastic about mortain as a residence. [ ] notwithstanding this apparent indifference to landscape, we remember finding at a country inn, the walls covered with one of troyon's pictures (a hundred times repeated in paper-hanging); a pretty pastoral scene which messrs. christie would have catalogued as 'a landscape with cattle.' [ ] the neatness and precision with which they make their piles of stones at the roadside will be remembered by many a traveller in this part of normandy. they accomplish it by putting the stones into a shape (as if making a jelly), and removing the boards when full; and, as there are no french boys, the loose pile remains undisturbed for months. [ ] submitting to the exigencies of publishing expediency, we have been unable to have this drawing reproduced on wood; although we were anxious to draw attention to the bold forms of rocks which crown these heights, and to the line old trees which surround the castle. [ ] there are' deeds of valour' (according to the _affiches_) to be witnessed in these days at falaise; we once saw a woman here, in a circus, turning somersaults on horseback before a crowd of spectators. the people of falaise cannot be accused of being behind the age; one gentleman advertises as his _specialité_,' the cure of injuries caused by velocipedes'! [ ] our peaceful proclivities may be noticed in small things; the fierce and warlike devices, such as an eagle's head, a lion _rampant_, and the like, which were originally designed to stimulate the warrior in battle, now serve to adorn the panel of a carriage, or a sheet of note-paper. [ ] it is rather a curious fact that prout, notwithstanding his love for historic scenes, seems to have had little sympathy with the poor 'maid of orleans.' in a letter which accompanied the presentation of this drawing, the following passage occurs:--'i beg your acceptance of what is miserable, though perhaps not uninteresting, as it is part of the house in which joan of arc was confined at rouen, and before which the english, _very wisely_, burnt her for a witch!' mr. prout evidently differed in opinion from pierre cauchon, bishop of bauvais, who presided at the tribunal which condemned joan of arc to death; for he founded a lady chapel at lisieux, 'in expiation of his false judgment of an innocent woman.' [ ] it is curious to note that the wealth of cities nearly always flow westward,--converting, as in london, the market-gardens of the poor into the 'palace gardens' of the rich; and, with steady advance, sweeps away our landmarks,--turning the gravel pits of western london into the decorum of a ladbroke-square. [ ] it is no new remark that more than one englishman of artistic taste has returned to rouen after visiting the buildings of paris, having found nothing equal in grandeur to this cathedral, and the church of st. ouen. [ ] the original spire was made of wood, and much more picturesque; our artist evidently could not bring himself to copy with literal truth this disfiguring element to the building. [ ] for a detailed description of the monuments in this cathedral, and of the church of st. ouen, we cannot do better than refer the reader to the very accurate account in murray's 'handbook;' and also to cassell's 'normandy,' from which we have made the above extracts. [ ] we must record an exception to this rule, in the case of the church at dives, which a kept closely locked, under the care of an old woman. [ ] just as the words of our baptismal service, enrolling a young child into the 'church militant,' lose half their effect when addressed to men whose ideas of manliness and fighting fall very short of their true meaning. it has a strange sound (to say the least that could be said) to hear quiet town-bred godfathers promise that they will 'take care' that a child shall 'fight under the banner' of the cross, and 'continue christ's faithful soldier and servant unto his life's end;' and it is almost as strange to hear the good bishop heber's warlike imagery--'his blood-red banner streams afar; who follows in his train?' &c., &c.--in the mouths of little children. [ ] the incongruity strikes one more when we see him afterwards in the town, marching along with a flat-footed shambling tread, holding an umbrella in front of him in his clenched fist (as all french priests hold it),--a figure as unromantic-looking as ungraceful. [ ] he could not be called naturally gifted, even in the matter of speaking; but he had been well taught from his youth up, both the manner and the method of fixing the attention of his hearers. [ ] on the quay at the front of the hotel d'angleterre, the public seats under the trees are crowded with people in the afternoon, especially of the poor and working classes. [ ] there seem to be few living french artists of genius, who devote themselves to landscape painting; when we have mentioned the names of troyon, lambinet, lamorinière and auguste bonheur, we have almost exhausted the list. [ ] it is unfortunately different in the case of the inhabitants of the neighbourhood of fécamp and Étretat, who are certainly not improved, either in manners or morals, by the fashionable invasion of their province. [ ] the london 'illustrated police news.' [ ] the people in this part of normandy are becoming less political, and more conservative, every day (a conservatism which, in their case, may be taken as a sign of prosperity, and of a certain unwillingness to be disturbed in their business); they are content with a paternal government--at a distance; they wish for peace and order, and have no objection to be taken care of. they are so willing to be led that, as a frenchman expressed it to us, 'they would almost prefer, if they could, to have an omnipotent postmaster-general to inspect all letters, and see whether they were creditable to the sender and fitting to be received'! [ ] in the matter of bells, the same voices now ring half over europe--the music is the same at bruges as at birmingham; church bells being made wholesale, to the same pattern and in the same mould, another link in the chain of old associations, is broken. [ ] we are tempted to remark, in passing, on the curious want of manner in speaking french that we notice amongst english people abroad; arising, probably, from their method of learning it. french people have often expressed to us their astonishment at this defect, amongst so many educated english women; a defect which, according to the same authority, is less prominent amongst travelled englishmen in the same position in life. we will not venture to give an opinion upon the latter point; but most of us have yet to learn that there are two french languages--one for writing and one for speaking; and that the latter is almost made up of _manner_, and depends upon the modulation of the voice. [ ] it is worthy of note that, in a cruel country like france, the 'blinkers' to the horses (which we are doing away with in england) are a most merciful provision against the driver's brutality; and a security to the traveller, against his habitual carelessness. [ ] we confess to a lively sympathy with the growth of artistic taste in america; a sympathy not diminished by the knowledge that every english work of credit on these subjects is eagerly bought and read by the people. [ ] the carving may be machine-made, and the slate and fringes to the roofs cut by steam; but we must remember that these houses are only 'run up to let,' as it is called, some of them costing not more than _l._ or l. [ ] it is interesting to note how the changes in the modern systems of warfare seem to be tending (both in attack and defence) to a more practical and picturesque state of things. thus in attack, the top boots and loose costume of the engineers and sappers figure more conspicuously in these days, than the smooth broad-cloth of the troops of the line; and in defence (thanks to captain moncreiff's system), we are promised guns that shall be concealed in the long grass of our southern downs, whilst stone and brick fortifications need no longer desolate the heights. [ ] in one of the west-end clubs a fresco has lately been exhibited as a suggestion to the members, shewing the easy and graceful costume of the fifteenth century. [ ] if the words in an ordinary letter in a lady's handwriting, were measured, it would be found that the point of the pen had passed over a distance of twenty or thirty feet. [ ] we are becoming so accustomed to the deliberate misuse of words, that when a person (in london) informs us that he is going 'to dine at the pallis,' we understand him at once to mean that he if going to spend the day at the great glass bazaar at sydenham. [ ] the fares by diligence are not inserted because they are liable to variation; but the traveller may safely calculate them, at not more than d. a mile for the best places, all _railway fares_ stated are _first class_. _books by the same author. 'artists and arabs.' 'travelling in spain.' 'the pyrenees.'_ _published by sampson low and co., crown buildings, fleet street, london._ _crown vo._, s. d. artists and arabs; or, sketching in sunshine. "let us sit down here quietly for one day and paint a camel's head, not flinching from the work, but mastering the wonderful texture and shagginess of his thick coat or mane, its massive beauty, and its infinite gradations of colour. "such a sitter no portrait painter ever had in england. feed him up first, get a boy to keep the flies from him, and he will remain almost immoveable through the day. he will put on a sad expression in the morning which will not change; he will give no trouble whatever, he will but sit still and croak."--chap. iv., '_our models_.' with numerous illustrations. opinions of the press on "artists and arabs." _'"artists and arabs" is a fanciful name for a clever book, of which the figures are oriental, and the sceneries algerian. it is full of air and light, and its style is laden, so to speak, with a sense of unutterable freedom and enjoyment; a book which would remind us, not of the article on algeria in a gazetteer, but of turner's picture of a sunrise on the african coast.'_--athenæum. _'the lesson which mr. blackburn sets himself to impress upon his readers, is certainly in accordance with common sense. the first need of the painter is an educated eye, and to obtain this he must consent to undergo systematic training. he is in the position of a man who is learning a language merely from his books, with nothing to recall its accents in the daily life around him. if he will listen to mr. blackburn he may get rid of all these uncongenial surroundings.'_--saturday review. _'this it a particularly pretty boor, containing many exquisite illustrations and vignettes. mr. blackburn's style is occasionally essentially poetical, while his descriptions of mountain and valley, of sea and sky, of sunshine and storm, are vivid and picturesque.'_--examiner. _'mr. blackburn is an artist in words, and can paint a picture in a paragraph. he delights in the beauty of form and colour, in the perfume of flowers, in the freedom of the desert, in the brilliant glow and delicious warmth of a southern atmosphere.'_--spectator. _'this is a genuine book, full of character and trustworthiness. the woodcuts, with which it is liberally embellished, are excellent, and bear upon them the stamp of truth to the scenes and incidents they are intended to represent. mr. blackburn's views of art are singularly unsophisticated and manly.'_--leader. _'interesting as are mr. blackburn's ascriptions of algiers, we almost prefer those of the country beyond it. his sketches of the little arab village, called the bouzareah, and of the storm that overtook him there, are in the best style of descriptive writing.'_--london review. _'mr. blackburn is an artist and a lover of nature, and he pretends to nothing more in these gay and pleasing pages.'_--daily news. _'since the days of eöthen, we have not met with so lively, racy, gossiping, and intellectual a book as this.'_--news of the world. _'the reader feels, that in perusing the pages of "artists and arabs," he has had a glimpse of sunshine more intense than any ever seen in cloudy england.'_--the queen. _'the narrative is told with a commendable simplicity and absence of self display, or self boasting; and the illustrations are worthy the fame of a reputable british artist.'_--press. _'the sparkling picturesqueness of the style of this book is combined with sound sense, and strong argument, when the author pleads the claims and the beauties of realism in art; and though addressed to artists, the volume is one of that most attractive which hat been set before the general reader of late.'_--contemporary review. _&c. &c. &c._ * * * * * second edition, crown vo., six shillings. travelling in spain in the present day. with numerous illustration's by the late john phillip, r.a., e. lundgren, walter severn, and the author. also, a new map of spain, and an appendix of routes. opinions of the press on "travelling in spain." _'this pleasant volume, dedicated to the right hon. e. horsman, m.p., by his late private secretary, admirably fulfils its author's design, which was "to record simply and easily, the observations of ordinary english travelers visiting the principal cities of spain." the travellers whose adventures are here recorded were, however, something more than ordinary observers. some artists being of the party, have given graceful evidence of their observations in some spiritedly sketches of spanish scenes and spanish life. there are no less than nineteen of these illustrations, some by john phillip, r.a.; and the ornaments at the beginning and close of each chapter are fac-similes of embroideries brought from granada. the whole volume, in its getting up and appearance, is most attractive; and the descriptions of spanish men and women are singularly interesting._ _'at the end there is an_ appendix of routes, &c., _which will be invaluable to all intending travellers in spain.'_--sun. _'mr. blackburn's charming volume is on a different principle from that of irving and cayley. he does not aspire to present spain as it affected him,--but spain as it is. his travelling party consisted of two ladies and two gentlemen--an arrangement fatal to romance. to go out on a serenading adventure in wicked madrid is quite impossible for mr. horsman's ex-private secretary, having in charge two english gentlemen. so mr. blackburn wisely did not go in for adventures, but preferred to describe in straightforward fashion what he saw, so as to guide others who may feel disposed for spanish travel--and he describes capitally. he saw a couple of bull-fights, one at madrid and one at seville, and brings them before his readers in a very vigorous style. he has admirably succeeded in sketching the special character in each of the cities that he visited. the book is illustrated by several well-known hands.'_--press. _'a delightful book is mr. blackburn's volume upon "travelling in spain." its artistic appearance is a credit to the publishers as well as to the author. the pictures are of the best, and so is the text, which gives a very clear and practical account of spanish travel, that is unaffectedly lively, and full of shrewd and accurate notes upon spanish character.'_--examiner. _'mr. blackburn sketches the aspect of the streets with considerable humour, and with a correctness which will be admitted by all who have basked in the sunshine of the puerta del sol.'_--pall mall gazette. _'the writer has genuine humour, and a light and graceful style, which carries the reader through the notes with increasing relish.'_--public opinion. _'extremely readable,--a lively picture of spain as it is.'_--london review. _'a truthful and pleasant record of the adventures of a party of ladies and gentlemen--an accomplished and artistic little company of friends.'_--era. _'this unpretending but practical volume is very readable.'_--standard. _'not only to be admired, but read.'_--illustrated london news. _'a lively and interesting sketch of a journey through spain.'_--builder. _'very useful as well as entertaining.'_--observer. _'a most amusing book, profusely illustrated.'_--john bull. _'the dullest of books--a thing of shreds and patches.'_--morning star. _royal vo._ (_cloth_ _s._, _or morocco_ _s._) * * * * * the pyrenees _with one hundred illustrations by_ gustave dorÉ. opinions of the press on "the pyrenees." _'this handsome volume will confirm the opinion of those who hold that m. doré's real strength lies in landscape. mr. blackburn's share in the work is pleasant and readable, and is really what it pretends to be, a description of summer life at french watering-places. it is a_ bonâ fide _record of his own experiences, told without either that abominable smartness, or that dismal book-making, which are the characteristics of too many illustrated books.'_--pall mall gazette. _'the author of this volume has spared no pains in his endeavour to present a work which shall be worthy of public approbation. he has secured three elements favourable to a large success,--a popular and fascinating subject, exquisite illustrative sketches from an artist of celebrity, and letter-press dictated by an excellent judgment, neither tedious by its prolixity, nor curtailed to the omission of any circumstance worth recording.'_--press. _'mr. blackburn has accomplished his task with the ease and pleasantness to be expected of the author of "travelling in spain." he writes graphically, sometimes with humour, always like a gentleman, and without a trace or tinge of false sentiment; in short, this is as acceptable a book as we have seen far many a day.'_--atheneum. _'a general, but painstaking account, by a cultivated englishman, of the general impression, step by step, which an ordinary englishman, travelling for his pleasure, would derive from a visit to the watering-places of the pyrenees.'_--spectator. '_mr. blackburn has an eye for the beautiful in nature, and a faculty for expressing pleasantly what is worth describing; moreover, his pictures of men and manners are both amusing and life-like.'_--art journal. _'readers of this book will gain therefrom a great deal of information should they feel disposed to make a summer pilgrimage over the romantic ground so well described by the author.'_--era. _'one of the most exquisite books of the present year is mr. henry blackburn's volume, "the pyrenees;" it is brightly, amusingly, and intelligently written.'_--daily news. _'few persons will be able to turn over the leaves of the pretty book before us, without a longing desire for a nearer acquaintance with the scenes which it depicts.'_--guardian. _'a pleasant account of travel and summer life in the pyrenees.'_--examiner. _'the author has illustrated m. gustavo doré's engravings very successfully.'_-the times. _'this is a noble volume, not unworthy of the stately pyrenees.'_--illustrated london news. _'a singularly attractive book, well written, and beautifully illustrated.'_--contemporary review. london: sampson low, son, and marston. proofreaders europe, http://dp.rastko.net. this file was produced from images generously made available by the bibliotheque nationale de france (bnf/gallica) at http://gallica.bnf.fr. account of a tour in normandy volume ii by dawson turner letters from normandy, addressed to the rev. james layton, b.a. of catfield, norfolk. undertaken chiefly for the purpose of investigating the architectural antiquities of the duchy, with observations on its history, on the country, and on its inhabitants. illustrated with numerous engravings. contents. letter xiv. ducler--st. georges de bocherville--m. langlois letter xv. abbey of jumieges--its history--architectural details--tombs of agnes sorel and of the enervez letter xvi. gournay--castle of neufmarché--castle and church of gisors letter xvii. andelys--fountain of saint clotilda--la grande maison--château gaillard--ecouis letter xviii. evreux--cathedral--abbey of st. taurinus--ancient history letter xix. vicinity of evreux--château de navarre--cocherel--pont-audemer-- montfort-sur-risle--harfleur--bourg-achard--french wedding letter xx. moulineaux--castle of robert the devil--bourg-theroude--abbey of bec--brionne letter xxi. bernay--broglie--orbec--lisieux--cathedral--ecclesiastical history letter xxii. site and ruins of the capital of the lexovii--history of lisieux--monasteries of the diocese--ordericus vitalis--m. dubois--letter from the princess borghese letter xxiii. french police--ride from lisieux to caen--cider--general appearance and trade of caen--english resident there letter xxiv. historians of caen--towers and fortifications--château de la gendarmerie--castle--churches of st. stephen, st. nicholas, st. peter, st. john, and st. michel de vaucelles letter xxv. royal abbeys of the holy trinity and st. stephen--funeral of the conqueror, exhumation of his remains, and destruction of his monument letter xxvi. palace of the conqueror--heraldic tiles--portraits of william and matilda--museum--public library--university--academy--eminent men--history of caen letter xxvii. vieux--la maladerie--chesnut timber--caen stone--history of bayeux--tapestry letter xxviii. cathedral of bayeux--canon of cambremer--cope of st. regnobert--odo letter xxix. church and castle of creully--falaise--castle--churches--fair of guibray letter xxx. rock and chapel of st. adrien--pont-de-l'arche--priory of the two lovers--abbey of bonport--louviers--gaillon--vernon appendix i. appendix ii. index. list of plates. plate sculpture upon a capital in the chapter-house at st. georges plate m. langlois plate musicians, from the chapter-house at st. georges plate distant view of the abbey of st. jumieges plate ancient trefoil-headed arches in ditto plate distant of the castle of gisors plate banded pillar in the church of ditto plate distant view of château gaillard plate gothic puteal, at evreux plate leaden font at bourg-achard plate ancient tomb in the cathedral at lisieux plate head-dress of females, as caen plate tower in the _château de calix_, at ditto plate tower and spire of st. peter's church, at ditto plate sculpture upon a capital in ditto plate tower of st. john's church, at caen plate monastery of st. stephen, at ditto plate fireplace in the conqueror's palace, at ditto plate profile of m. lamouroux plate figure from the bayeux tapestry plate sculpture at bayeux plate ornaments in the spandrils of the arches in bayeux cathedral plate castle of falaise plate elevation of the west front of _la délivrande_ plate font at magneville letters from normandy. letter xiv. ducler--st. georges de bocherville--m. langlois. (_ducler, july_, .) you will look in vain for ducler in the _livre des postes_; yet this little town, which is out of the common road of the traveller, becomes an interesting station to the antiquary, it being situated nearly mid-way between two of the most important remains of ancient ecclesiastical architecture in normandy--the abbeys of st. georges de bocherville and of jumieges.--the accommodation afforded by the inns at bocherville and jumieges, is but a poor substitute for the hospitality of the suppressed abbeys; and, as even the antiquary must eat and perhaps sleep, he who visits either st. george or the holy virgin, will do well to take his _fricandeau_ and his bed, at the place whence i am writing. at a period when the right bank of the seine from harfleur to rouen displayed an almost uninterrupted line or monastic buildings, ducler also boasted of a convent[ ], which must have been of some importance, as early as the middle of the seventh century.--king childeric iind, granted the forest of jumieges to the convent of the same name and that of st. vandrille; and st. ouen was directed by the monarch to divide the endowment between the two foundations. his award did not give satisfaction to st. philibert, the abbot of jumieges, who maintained that his house had not received a fair allotment. the proposition was stoutly resisted by st. lambert, abbot of st. vandrille; and the dispute was at length settled by the saints withdrawing their claims, and ceding the surplus land to the abbey of ducler. st. denys was the patron of this abbey; and to him also the present parochial church is dedicated: it is of norman architecture; the tower is surrounded by a row of fantastic corbels; and a considerable quantity of painted glass yet remains in the windows. the village itself (for it is nothing more than a village, though honored by french geographers with the name of a _bourg_), consists of a single row of houses, placed immediately under the steep chalk cliff which borders the seine. the face of the cliff is also indented by excavations, in which the poorer inhabitants dwell, almost like the troglodytes of old. the situation of ducler, and that of the two neighboring abbeys, is delightful in summer and in fine weather. in winter it must be cold and cheerless; for, besides being close to a river of so great breadth, it looks upon a flat marshy shore, whence exhalations copiously arise. the view from our chamber window this morning presented volumes of mist rolling on with the stream. the tide was setting in fast downwards; and the water glided along in silent rapidity, involved in clouds. the village of bocherville, or, as it is more commonly called, of st. georges, the place borrowing its name from the patron saint of the abbey, lies, at the distance of about two leagues from rouen. the road is exceedingly pleasing. every turning presents a fresh view of the river; while, on looking back, the city itself is added to the landscape; and, as we approach, the abbey-church is seen towering upon the eminence which it commands. the church of st. georges de bocherville, called in old charters _de baucherville_, and in latin _de balcheri_ or _baucheri villa_, was built by ralph de tancarville, the preceptor of the conqueror in his youth, and his chamberlain in his maturer age. the descendants of the founder were long the patrons and advocates of the monastery. the tancarvilles, names illustrious in norman, no less than in english, story, continued during many centuries to regard it as under their particular protection: they enriched it with their donations whilst alive, and they selected it as the spot to contain their remains when they should be no more. the following portion of the charter, which puts us in possession of the indisputable æra of the erection of the church, is preserved by mabillon[ ]. it is the conqueror who speaks.--"radulfus, meus magister, aulæque et cameræ princeps, instinctu divino tactus, ecclesiam supradicti martyris georgii, quæ erat parva, re-edificare a fundamentis inchoavit, et ex proprio in modum crucis consummavit." the monarch and his queen condescended to gratify a faithful and favorite servant, by endowing his establishment. the corpse of the sovereign himself was also brought hither from st. gervais, by the monks and clergy, in solemn procession, before it was carried to caen[ ] for interment. ralph de tancarville, however, was not fortunate in the selection of the inmates whom he planted in his monastery. his son, in the reign of henry ist, dismissed the canons for whom it was first founded, and replaced them by a colony of monks from st. evroul. ordericus vitalis, himself of the fraternity of st. evroul, commemorates and of course praises the fact. such changes are of frequent occurrence in ecclesiastical history; and the apprehension of being rejected from an opulent and well-endowed establishment, may occasionally have contributed, by the warning example, to correct the irregularities of other communities. a century later, the abbot of st. georges was compelled to appeal to the pope, in consequence of an attempt on the part of his brethren at st. evroul, to degrade his convent into a mere cell, dependent upon theirs.--the chronicle of the abbey is barren of events of general interest; nor do its thirty-one abbots appear to have been men of whom there was much more to be said, than that they arrived at their dignity on such a year, and quitted it on such another. of the monks, we are told that, in the fifteenth century, though their number was only eight, the dignitaries included, the daily task allotted them was greater than would in any of the most rigid establishments, in latter days, have been imposed upon forty brethren in a week! inconsiderable as is the abbey, in an historical point of view, the church of st. georges de bocherville is of singular importance, inasmuch as it is one of the land-marks of norman architecture. william, in his charter, simply styles himself _dux normannorum_; it therefore was granted a few years before the conquest. the building has suffered little, either from the hands of the destroyers, or of those who do still more mischief, the repairers; and it is certainly at once the most genuine and the most magnificent specimen of the circular style, now existing in upper normandy.--the west front is wholly of the time of the founder, with the exception of the upper portion of the towers that flank it on either side. in these are windows of nearly the earliest pointed style; and they are probably of the same date as the chapter-house, which was built in the latter part of the twelfth century. the effect of the front is imposing: its general simplicity contrasts well with the rich ornaments of the arched door-way, which is divided into five systems of mouldings, all highly wrought, and presenting almost every pattern commonly found in norman buildings. a label encircles the whole, the inner edge of which is indented into obtuse pyramids, erroneously called lozenges. the capitals of the columns supporting the arch are curiously sculptured: upon the second to the left, on entering, are adam and eve, in the act of eating the forbidden fruit; upon the opposite one, is represented the flight into egypt. normandy does not contain, i believe, a richer arch; but very many indeed are to be seen in england, even in our village churches, superior in decoration, though not, perhaps, in size; for this at st. georges is on a very large scale: on each side of it is a smaller blank arch, with a single moulding and a single pillar. two tiers of circular-headed windows of equal size fill up the front.--the rest of the exterior may be said to be precisely as it was left by the original builders, excepting only the insertion of a pointed window near the central tower. the inside is at least equally free from modern alterations or improvements. no other change whatever is to be traced in it than such as were required to repair the injuries done it during the religious wars; and these were wholly confined to a portion of the roof, and of the upper part of the wall on the south side of the nave. the groined roof, though posterior to the original date of the building, is perhaps of the thirteenth century. the nave itself terminates towards the east in a semi-circular apsis, according to the custom of the times; and there, as well as at the opposite extremity of the building, it has a double tier of windows, and has columns more massy than those in the body of the church. the aisles end in straight lines; but, within, a recess is made in the thickness of the wall, for the purpose of admitting an altar. both the transepts are divided within the church, at a short distance from their extremities, into two stories, by a vaulted roof of the same height as the triforium.--m. le prevost, who has very kindly communicated to me the principal part of these details, has observed the same to be the case in some other contemporary buildings in normandy. on the eastern side of each transept is a small chapel, ending, like the choir, in a semi-circular apsis, which rises no higher than the top of the basement story. a cable moulding runs round the walls of the whole church within.--you and i, in our own country, have often joined in admiring the massy grandeur of norman architecture, exemplified in the nave of norwich cathedral: at st. georges i was still more impressed by the noble effect of semi-circular arcades, seen as they are here on a still larger scale, and in their primitive state, uninterrupted and undebased by subsequent additions. on closer examination, the barbarous style of the sculpture forces itself upon the eye. towards the western end of the building the capitals are comparatively plain: they become more elaborate on approaching the choir. some of them are imitations or modifications (and it may even be said beautiful ones) of the grecian model; but in general they are strangely grotesque. many represent quadrupeds, or dragons, or birds, and commonly with two bodies, and a single head attached to any part rather than the neck. on others is seen "the human form divine," here praying, there fighting; here devouring, there in the act of being devoured; not uncommonly too the men, if men they must be called, are disfigured by enormous heads with great flapping ears, or loll out an endless length of tongue.--one is almost led to conceive that schedel, the compiler of the _nuremberg chronicle_, had a set of norman capitals before his eyes, when he published his inimitable series of monsters. his "homines cynocephali," and others with "aures tam magnas ut totum corpus contegant," and those again whose under lips serve them as coverlids, may all find their prototypes, or nearly so, in the carvings of st. georges. the most curious sculptures, however, in the church, are two square bas-reliefs, opposite to one another, upon the spandrils of the arches, in the walls that divide the extremities of the transepts into different stories[ ]. they are cut out of the solid stone, in the same manner as the subjects on the block of a wood-engraving: one of these tablets represents a prelate holding a crosier in his left hand, while the two fore-fingers of the right are elevated in the act of giving the blessing; the other contains two knights on horseback, jousting at a tournament. they are armed with lance and buckler, and each of them has his head covered with a pointed helmet, which terminates below in a nasal, like the figures upon the bayeux tapestry.--this coincidence is interesting, as deciding a point of some moment towards establishing the antiquity of that celebrated relic, by setting it beyond a doubt that such helmets were used anterior to the conquest; for it is certain that these basso-relievos are coeval with the building which contains them. this church affords admirable subjects for the pencil. it should be drawn in every part: all is entire; all original; the corbel-stones that support the cornice on the exterior are perfect, as well along the choir and nave, as upon the square central steeple: each of the sides of this latter is ornamented with a double tier of circular arches. the buttresses to the church are, like those of the chapel of st. julien, shallow and unbroken; and they are ranged, as there, between the windows. at the east end alone they take the shape of small semi-cylindrical columns of disproportionate length. [illustration: sculpture upon a capital in the chapter-house at st. georges] the monastic buildings, which were probably erected about the year , now serve as a manufactory. between them and the church is situated the chapter-house, which was built towards the end of the twelfth century, at a period when the pointed architecture had already begun to take place of the circular style. its date is supplied in the _gallia christiana_, where we read, that victor, the second abbot, "obiit longævus dierum, idibus martii, seu xviii calendas aprilis, ante annum ; sepultusque est sub tabulâ marmoreâ in capitulo quod erexerat." we found it in a most ruinous and dilapidated state, yet extremely curious; indeed not less so than the church. its front to the west exhibits a row of three semi-circular arches, with an ornament on the archivolt altogether different from what i recollect to have seen elsewhere[ ]. the inside corresponds in profuse decoration with this entrance; but the arches in it are all pointed. an entablature of beautiful workmanship is carried round the whole building, which is now used as a mill: it was crowded with dirty children belonging to the manufactory; and the confusion which prevailed, was far from being favorable to the quiet lucubrations of an antiquary. in no part of the church is the sculpture equally curious; and it is very interesting to observe the progress which this branch of the art had made in so short a time. two or three of the capitals to the arches in front, seem to include one continued action, taken apparently from the history of joshua. another capital, of which i send you a sketch from the pencil of m. le prevost, is a great curiosity. the group which it contains, is nearly a duplicate of the supposed statue of william the conqueror at caen. in all probability it represents some legendary story, though the subject is not satisfactorily ascertained. against the pillars that support these arches, were affixed whole-length figures, or cariatides, in alto-relievo. three of them still remain, though much mutilated; two women and a man. they hold in their hands labels, with inscriptions that fall down to their feet in front. one of the females has her hair disposed in long braided tresses, which reach on either side to her girdle. in this respect, as well as in the style of the sculpture and costume, there is a resemblance between these statues and those on the portals at st. denys and at chartres, as well as those formerly on that of st. germain des prés, at paris, all which are figured by montfaucon in his _monumens de la monarchie française_, and are supposed by him to be of the times of the merovingian or carlovingian dynasty; but subsequent writers have referred them to the eleventh or twelfth century. [illustration: m. langlois] it was in this chapter-house that m. langlois[ ] found, among a heap of stones, a most interesting capital, that had formerly been attached to a double column. by his kindness, i inclose you two drawings of it. one of them shews it in its entire form as a capital; the other exhibits the bas-relief carved upon it[ ]. [illustration: bas-relief on capital] the various injuries sustained by the building, render it impossible to ascertain the spot which this capital originally occupied; but m. le prevost supposes that it belonged to some gate of the cloister, which is now destroyed. a more curious series of musical instruments is, perhaps, no where to be found; and it is a subject upon which authors in general are peculiarly unsatisfactory. i am told that, in an old french romance, the names of upwards of twenty are enumerated, whose forms and nature are quite unknown at the present day; while, on the other hand, we are all of us aware that painting and sculpture supply figures of many, for which it would be extremely difficult or impossible to find names[ ]. [illustration: musicians, from the chapter-house at st. georges] the chapter-house, previously to the revolution, contained a tomb-stone[ ], uninscribed and exhibiting only a sculptured sword, under which it was supposed that either ralph de tancarville himself, the founder of the abbey, or his grandson, william, lay interred. it is of the latter that the records of the monastery tell, how, on the fifth day after he girded himself with the military belt, he came to the church, and deposited his sword upon the altar, and subsequently redeemed it by various donations, and by confirming to the monks their right to the several benefices in his domain, which had been ceded to them by his grandfather.--here then, i quit you: in a few days i shall have paid my devotions at the shrine of jumieges:--meanwhile, in the language of the writers of the elder day, i close this sheet with. explicit feliciter stus. georgius de bochervilla; deo gratias. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : _histoire de la haute normandie_, ii. p. . vol. ii.] [footnote : _ann. benedict._ iii. p. , .--this charter was not among the archives of the monastery; but i am informed by m. le prevost, that several are still in existence, most of them granted by the family of the founder, but some by kings of england. one of the latter is by richard coeur de lion, and his seal of red wax still remains appended to it, in fine preservation. the seal, on one side, represents the king seated upon his throne, with a pointed beard, having his crown on his head, and a sword in one hand, and sceptre in the other: on the other side, he is on horseback, with his head covered with a cylindrical helmet, surmounted with a very remarkable crest, in the form of a fan: on his shield are plainly distinguishable the three lions of england.--from among the charters granted by the tancarville family, m. le prevost has sent me copies of two which have never yet been printed; but which appear to deserve insertion here. one is from lucy, daughter of william de tancarville, and grand-daughter of ralph, the chamberlain.--"notum sit ricardo de vernon and willelmo camerario de tancarvilla, et veteribus et juvenibus, quòd lucia, filia willelmi, camerarii de tancarvilla, pro animâ suâ et pro animabus antecessorum suorum, ad ecclesiam sti. georgii de bauchervilla dedit molendinum de waldinivilla, quod est subter aliud molendinum et molendinum de waldinval, liberè et quietè, et insupèr ecclesiam de seonvilla, salvâ elemosinâ roberti sacerdotis in vitâ suâ, si dignus est habendi eam. et post mortem willelmi capellani sui de sancto flocello, ad ecclesiam suprà dictam dedit decimam de vavassoribus de seolvilla, quam dedit in elemosinâ habendam willelmo capellano totâ vitâ bene et in pace et securè, et decimas de custodiis totius terre sue que est in constantino.--ego lucia do hanc elemosinam pro animâ meâ et pro antecessoribus ad ecclesiam sanctii georgii; et qui auferet ab eâ et auferetur ab eo regnum dei. amen.--testibus, ricardo de haia et matille uxore suâ et nigello de chetilivilla et hominibus de sancto flocello."--to this is added, in a smaller hand-writing, probably the lady's own autograph, the following sentence:--"et precor vos quòd ecclesia sancti georgii non decrescatur in tempore vestro pro dei amore et meo de elemosinis patris mei neque de meis."--there is still farther subjoined, in a different hand-writing, and in a much paler ink:--"hæc omnia ricardus de vernon libenter concessit."--the other charter was granted by william the younger, and details a curious custom occasionally observed in the middle ages, in making donations:-- "universis sancte ecclesie fidelibus. willelmus junior camerarius in domino salutem. notum sit presentibus et futuris, quod ego willelmus junior camerarius quinto die post susceptum militie cingulum veni apud sanctum georgium, ibique cum honorificâ processione suscepérunt me abbas ludovicus et monachi cum magno gaudio letantes; et ibi obtuli gladium meum super altare sti. georgii, et tunc consilio et admonitione sociorum meorum nobilium virorum qui mecum venerant, scilicet roberti des is, dapiferi mei, et rogerii de calli, et johannis de lunda, et aliorum plurium, redemi gladium meum per dona et confirmationem plurium ecclesiarum, quas ipso die concessi eisdem meo dono, et, sicut avus meus, fundator illius monasterii dederat, confirmavi; scilicet ecclesiam de abetot et ecclesiam de espretot cum decimâ, et ecclesiam sancti romani cum duabus partibus decime, et similitèr ecclesiam de tibermaisnil: confirmavi etiam dona militum meorum et amicorum quæ dederunt ipso die abbatie in perpetuam elemosynam, rogerius de calli dedit xx sot. annuatìm; robertus de mortùomari x sot.; robertus des is x solidos; johannes de lunda, cognatus meus x sot.; andreas de bosemuneel x solidos, vel decimam de una carrucatura terre ... humfridus de willerio x solid.; willelmus de bodevilla x acras terre; garinus de mois v solid.; adam de mirevilla x solid.; robert. de fuschennis x solid.; lesra de drumara i acram terre."] [footnote : the following are the words of ordericus vitalis, upon the subject: "religiosi tandem viri, clerici et monachi, collectis viribus et intimis sensibus, processionem ordinaverunt: honestè induti, crucibus et thuribus, ad sanctum georgium processerunt, et animam regis, secundum morem sanctæ christianitatis deo commendaverunt."--_duchesne, scriptores normanni_, p. .] [footnote : see _cotman's architectural antiquities of normandy_, t. . f. a. and b.] [footnote : see _cotman's architectural antiquities of normandy_, t. . last figure.] [footnote : my readers will join with me, i trust, in thanks to m. langlois, for his drawings; and will not be sorry to see, accompanying his sketch of the bas-relief, a spirited one of himself. normandy does not contain a more ardent admirer of her antiquities, or one to whom she is more indebted for investigating, drawing, and publishing them. but, to the disgrace of rouen, his labors are not rewarded. all the obstacles, however opposed by the "durum, pauperies, opprobium," have not been able to check his independent mind: he holds on his course in the illustration of the true norman remains; and to any antiquary who visits this country, i can promise a great pleasure in the examination of his port-folio.] [footnote : its size at top is fourteen inches and a half, by six inches and two-thirds.] [footnote : this difficulty, in the present instance, has yielded to the extensive researches of mr. douce, who has afforded assistance to me, which, perhaps, no other antiquary could have bestowed. he has unravelled all the mysteries of minstrelsy with his usual ability; and i give the information in his own words, only observing that the numbers begin from the left.--"no. was called the _violl_, corresponding with our _viol de gamba_. as this was a larger violin, though the sculptor has not duly expressed its comparative bulk, i conceive it was either used as a tenor or base, being perfectly satisfied, in spite of certain doubts on the subject, that counterpoint was known in the middle ages.--no. is the largest instrument of the kind that i have ever seen, and it seems correctly given, from one part of it resting on the figure, no. , to support it. twiss mentions one that he saw sculptured on the cathedral, at toro, five feet long. the proper name of it is the _rote_, so called from the internal wheel or cylinder, turned by a winch, which caused the _bourdon_, whilst the performer stopped the notes on the strings with his fingers. this instrument has been very ignorantly termed a _vielle_, and yet continues to be so called in france. it is the modern savoyard _hurdy-gurdy_, as we still more improperly term it; for the hurdy-gurdy is quite a different instrument. in later times, the _rote_ appears to have lost its rank in concert, and was called the _beggar's lyre_.--no. is evidently the _syrinx_, or _pan's pipe_, which has been revived with so much success in the streets of london.--twiss shewed me one forty years ago, that he got in the south of france, where they were then very common.--no. is an instrument for which i can find no name, nor can i immediately call to memory any other representation of it. it has some resemblance to the old welsh fiddle or _crowth_; but, as a bow is wanting, it must have been played with the fingers; and i think the performer's left hand in the sculpture does seem to be stopping the strings on the upper part, or neck, a portion of which has been probably broken off.--i suspect it to be the old _mandore_, whence the more modern _mandolin_. the rotundity of the sounding-board may warrant this conjecture.--no. was called the _psalterion_, and is of very great antiquity, (i mean as to the middle ages).--its form was very diversified, and frequently triangular. it was played with a _plectrum_, which the performer holds in his right hand.--no. is the _dulcimer_, which is very common in sculpture. this instrument appears, as in the present case, to have been sometimes played with the fingers only, and sometimes with a _plectrum_.--no. is the real _vielle_, or _violin_, of very common occurrence, and very ancient.--no. is a female tumbler, or _tomllesterre_, as chaucer calls them. this profession, so far as we can depend on ancient representation, appears to have exclusively belonged to women.--no. . a _harp_ played with a _plectrum_, and, perhaps, also with the left hand occasionally.--no. . the figure before the suspended _bells_ has had a hammer in each hand with which to strike them, and the opposite, and last, person, who plays in concert with him, has probably had a harp, as is the case in an ancient manuscript psalter illumination that i have, prefixed to the psalm _exaltate deo_.--i have seen these bells suspended (in illumination to the above psalm) to a very elegant gothic frame, ascending like the upper part of a modern harp."] [footnote : _gallia christiana_, xi. p. .] [illustration: distant view of the abbey of st. jumieges] letter xv. abbey of jumieges--its history--architectural details--tombs of agnes sorel and of the enervez. (_ducler, july_, ) the country between ducler and jumieges is of much the same character with that through which we had already travelled from rouen; the road sometimes coasting the seine, and sometimes passing through a well-wooded country, pleasantly intermingled with corn-fields. in its general appearance, this district bears a near resemblance to an english landscape; more so, indeed, than in any other part of normandy, where the features of the scenery are upon a larger scale. the lofty towers of the abbey of jumieges are conspicuous from afar: the stone of which they are built is peculiarly white; and at a distance scarcely any signs of decay or dilapidation are visible. on a nearer approach, however, the vandalism of the modern french appears in full activity. for the pitiful value of the materials, this noble edifice is doomed to destruction. the arched roof is beaten in; and the choir is nearly levelled with the ground. two cart-loads of wrought stones were carried away, while we were there; and the workmen were busily employed in its demolition. the greater part, too, of the mischief, appears recent: the fractures of the walls are fresh and sharp; and the fresco-paintings are unchanged.--had the proud, abbatial structure but been allowed to have existed as the parochial church of the village, the edifice might have stood for ages; but the french are miserably deficient in proper feeling; and neither the historical recollections connected with jumieges, nor its importance as a monument of architectural antiquity, could redeem it from their tasteless selfishness. in a few years, its very ruins will have perished; and not a wreck will remain of this ancient sanctuary of religion and of learning. it was in the year or , that st. philibert, second abbot of rebais, in the diocese of meaux, founded this monastery. he selected the site upon which the present building stands, a delightful situation, in a peninsula on the right bank of the seine. this peninsula, and the territory extending from ducler to caudebec, had been granted to him for this purpose by clovis iind, or, more properly speaking, by bathilda, his queen; for the whole administration of affairs was in reality under her guidance, though the reins of state were nominally held by her feeble husband. the territory[ ] had previously borne the name of jumieges, or, in latin, gemeticum, a term whose origin has puzzled etymologists. those who hold it disgraceful to be ever at a loss on points of this nature, and who prefer displaying a learned to an unlearned ignorance, derive gemeticum, either from _gemitus_, because, "pro suis offensis illìc gemunt, qui in flammis ultricibus non erunt gemituri;" or from _gemma_, conformably to the following distich,-- "gemmeticum siquidem a gemmâ dixere priores; quòd reliquis gemmæ, præcelleret instar eoæ." the ground upon which the abbey was erected was previously occupied by an ancient encampment. the author of the life of st. philibert, who mentions this circumstance, has also preserved a description of the original church. these authentic accounts of edifices of remote date, which frequently occur in hagiology, are of great value in the history of the arts[ ].--the bounty of the queen was well employed by the saint; and the cruciform church, with chapels, and altars, and shrines, and oratories, on either side, and with its high altar hallowed by relics, and decked out with gold and silver and precious stones, shews how faithfully the catholics, in their religious edifices of the present day, have adhered to the models of the early, if not the primitive, ages of the church. writers of the same period record two facts in relation to jumieges, which are of some interest as points of natural history.--vines were then commonly cultivated in this place and neighborhood;--and fishes of so great a size, that we cannot but suppose they must have been whales, frequently came up the seine, and were caught under the walls of the monastery.--the growth of the vine is abundantly proved: it is not only related by various monkish historians, one of whom, an anonymous writer, quoted by mabillon, in the _acta sanctorum ordinis sancti benedicti_, says, speaking of jumieges, "hinc vinearum abundant botryones, qui in turgentibus gemmis lucentes rutilant in falernis;" but even a charter of so late a date as the year , expressly terms a large tract of land belonging to the convent, the vineyard[ ].--the existence of the english monastic vineyards has been much controverted, but not conclusively. whether these instances of the northern growth of the vine, as a wine-making plant, do or do not bear upon the question of the supposed refrigeration of our climate by the increase of the polar ice, must be left to the determination of others.--the whale-fishery of jumieges rests upon the single authority of the _gesta sancti philiberti_: the author admits, indeed, that it is a strange thing, "et a sæculo inauditum;" but still he speaks of it as a fact that has fallen under his own knowledge, that the monks, by means of hooks, nets, and boats, catch sea-fish[ ], fifty feet in length, which at once supply their table with food, and their lamps with oil. the number of holy men who originally accompanied st. philibert to his new abbey, was only seventy; but they increased with surprising rapidity; insomuch, that his successor, st. aicadras, who received the pastoral staff, after a lapse of little more than thirty years from the foundation of jumieges, found himself at the head of nine hundred monks, besides fifteen hundred attendants and dependants of various denominations. during all these early ages, the monastery of jumieges continued to be accounted one of the most celebrated religious houses in france. its abbots are repeatedly mentioned in history, as enjoying the confidence of sovereigns, and as charged with important missions. in their number, was hugh, grandson of pépin le bref, or, according to other writers, of charlemagne. here also, tassilo, duke of bavaria, and his son, theodo, were compelled to immure themselves, after the emperor had deposed them; whilst anstruda, daughter of tassilo, was doomed to share his imperial bed. an æra of misfortune began with the arrival of the normans. it was in may, in the year , that these dreadful invaders first penetrated as far as rouen, marking their track by devastation. on their retreat, which almost immediately succeeded, they set fire to jumieges, as well as to the capital. in their second invasion, under ironside and hastings, the "fury of the normans" was poured out upon neustria; and, during their inroad, they levelled jumieges with the ground[ ]. but the monks saved themselves: they dispersed: one fled as far as st. gall; others found shelter in the royal abbey of st. denis; the greater part re-assembled in a domain of their own, called haspres, in flanders, whither they carried with them the bodies of st. aicadrus and st. hugh: there too they resided till the conversion of their enemies to christianity. the victorious fleet of rollo first sailed in triumph up the seine, in the year . according to three monkish historians, dudo of st. quintin, william of jumieges, and matthew of westminster, the chieftain venerated the sanctity of jumieges, and deposited in the chapel of st. vast, the corpse of the holy virgin, hameltruda, whom he had brought from britain. they also tell us that, on the sixth day after his baptism, he made a donation of some lands to this monastery.--the details, however, of the circumstances connected with the first, diminish its credibility; and jumieges, then desolate, could scarcely contain a community capable of accepting the donation. but under the reign of the son and successor of rollo, the abbey of jumieges once more rose from its ashes. baldwin and gundwin, two of the monks who had fled to haspres, returned to explore the ruins of the abbey: they determined to seclude themselves amidst its fire-scathed walls, and to devote their lives to piety and toil.--in pursuing the deer, the duke chanced to wander to jumieges, and he there beheld the monks employed in clearing the ground. he listened with patience to their narration; but when they invited him to partake of their humble fare, barley-bread and water, he turned from them with disdain. it chanced, however, that immediately afterwards, he encountered in the forest a boar of enormous size. the beast unhorsed him, and he was in danger of death. the peril he regarded as a judgment from heaven; and, as an expiation for his folly, he rebuilt the monastery. so thoroughly, however, had the normans _demonachised_ neustria, that william longa spatha was compelled to people the abbey with a colony from poitou; and thence came twelve monks, headed by abbot martin, whom the duke installed in his office in the year . william himself also desired to take refuge from the fatigues of government in the retirement of the monastery; and though dissuaded by abbot martin, who reminded him that richard, his infant, son still needed his care, he did not renounce his intention:--but his life and his reign were soon ended by treachery. this second æra of the prosperity of jumieges was extremely short; for the prefect, whom louis d'outremer, king of france, placed in command at rouen, when he seized upon the young duke richard, pulled down the walls of this and of all the other monasteries on the banks of the seine, to assist towards the reparation and embellishment of the seat of his government. but from that time forward the tide of monastic affairs flowed in one even course of prosperity; though the present abbatial church was not begun till the time of abbot robert, the second of that name, who was elected in . by him the first stone of the foundation was laid, three years after his advancement to the dignity; but he held his office only till , when edward the confessor invited him to england, and immediately afterwards promoted him to the bishopric of london.--godfrey, his successor at jumieges, was a man conversant with architecture, and earnest in the promotion of learning. in purchasing books and in causing them to be transcribed, he spared neither pains nor expence. the records of the monastery contain a curious precept, in which he directs that prayers should be offered up annually upon a certain day, "pro illis qui dederunt et fecerunt libros."--the inmates of jumieges continued, however, to increase in number; and the revenues of the abbey would not have been adequate to defray the expences of the new building, had not abbot robert, who, in , had been translated to the see of canterbury, supplied the deficiency by his munificence, and, as long as he continued to be an english prelate, remitted the surplus of his revenues to the norman abbey. he held his archiepiscopal dignity only one year, at the expiration of which he was banished from england: he then retired to jumieges, where he died the following spring, and was buried in the choir of the church which he had begun to raise. at his death, the church had neither nave nor windows; and the whole edifice was not completed till november, in the year . in the following july the dedication took place. maurilius, archbishop of rouen, officiated, in great pomp, assisted by all the prelates of the duchy; and william, then just returned from the conquest of england, honored the ceremony with his presence. i have dwelt upon the early history of this monastery, because normandy scarcely furnishes another of greater interest. in the _neustria pia_, jumieges fills nearly seventy closely-printed folio pages of that curious and entertaining, though credulous, work.--what remains to be told of its annals is little more than a series of dates touching the erection of different parts of the building: these, however, are worth preserving, so long as any portion of the noble church is permitted to have existence, and so long as drawings and engravings continue to perpetuate the remembrance of its details. the choir and extremities of the transept, all of pointed architecture, are supposed to have been rebuilt in .--the lady-chapel was an addition of the year .--the abbey suffered materially during the wars between england and france, in the reigns of our henry ivth and henry vth: its situation exposed it to be repeatedly pillaged by the contending parties; and, were it not that the massy norman architecture sufficiently indicates the true date, and that we know our neighbors' habit of applying large words to small matters, we might even infer that it was then destroyed as effectually as it had been by ironside: the expression, "lamentabilitèr desolata, diffracta et annihilata," could scarcely convey any meaning short of utter ruin, except to the ears of one who had been told that a religious edifice was actually _abimé_ during the revolution, though he saw it at the same moment standing before him, and apparently uninjured.--the arched roof of the choir received a complete repair in : that of the nave, which was also in a very bad state, underwent the same process in ; at the same time, the slender columns that support the cornice were replaced with new ones, and the symbols of the evangelists were inserted in the upper part of the walls. these reparations are managed with a singular perception of propriety; and though the manner of the sculpture in the symbolic figures, is not that of a gothic artist, yet they are most appropriate, and harmonize admirably with the building. [illustration: symbols of the evangelists] you must excuse me that, now i am upon this subject, i venture to "travel somewhat out of the record," for the sake of proposing to you a difficulty which has long puzzled me:--the connection which catholic divines find between st. luke's bull and the word zecharias;--for it appears, by the following distich from the rhenish testament, that some such cause leads them to regard this symbol as peculiarly appropriate to the third evangelist:-- "effigies vituli, luca, tibi convenit; extat zacariæ in scriptis mentio prima tuis."-- [illustration: figures of effigies] an antiquary might be perplexed by these figures, the drawings whereof i now send you. he would find it impossible to suppose the exquisitely-sculptured images and the slender shafts with richly-wrought capitals, of the same date as the solid simple piers and arches all around; and yet the stone is so entirely the same, and the workmanship is so well united, that it would require an experienced eye to trace the junction. in the middle of the sixteenth century, the central tower was also found to need reparation; and the church, upon this occasion, sustained a lasting injury, in the loss of its original spire, which was of lead, and of great height and beauty. it was taken down, under pretence of its insecurity; but in reality the monks only wished to get the metal. this happened in , under gabriel le veneur, bishop of evreux, the then abbot. five years afterwards the ravages of the huguenots succeeded: the injury done to jumieges by these sectaries, was estimated at eighty thousand francs; and the library and records of the convent perished in the devastation. the western front of the church still remains almost perfect; and it is most singular. it consists, of three distinct parts; the central division being nearly of equal width to the other two conjointly, and projecting considerably beyond them. the character of the whole is simplicity: the circular door-way is comparatively small, and entirely without ornament, except a pillar on each side; the six circular-headed windows over the entrance, disposed in a double row, are equally plain. immediately above the upper tier of windows, is a projecting chequered cornice; and, still higher, where the gable assumes a triangular form, are three lancet-shaped apertures, so extremely narrow, that they resemble the loop-holes of a dungeon rather than the windows of a church. in each of the lateral compartments was likewise originally a door-way, and above it a single window, all of the same norman style, but all now blocked up. these compartments are surmounted with short towers, capped with conical spires. the towers appear from their style and masonry to be nearly coeval with the lower part of the building, though not altogether so: the southern is somewhat the most modern. they are, however, so entirely dissimilar in plan from the rest of the front, that we cannot readily admit that they are a portion of the original design. nor are they even like to each other. both of them are square at their bases, and preserve this form to a sufficient height to admit of two tiers of narrow windows, separated from each other by little more than a simple string-course. above these windows both become octagon, and continue so to the top; but in a very different manner. the northern one has obtuse angles, imperfectly defined; the southern has four projecting buttresses and four windows, alternating with each other. the form of the windows and their arrangement, afford farther marks of distinction. the octagon part is in both turrets longer than the square, but, like it, divided into two stories. the central tower of the church, which was large and square, is now reduced to a fragment: three of its sides are gone; the western remains sufficiently perfect to shew what the whole was when entire. it contained a double tier of arches, the lower consisting of two, which were large and simple, the upper of three, divided by central shafts and masonry, so that each formed a double window. all of them were circular-headed, but so far differed from the architecture of the nave, that they had side-pillars with capitals. the church[ ] was entered by a long narrow porch.--the nave is a fine specimen of norman architecture, but is remarkable in that style for one striking peculiarity, that the eight wide circular arches on either side, which separate it from the aisles, are alternately supported by round pillars and square piers; the latter having semi-cylindrical columns applied to each of their sides. the capitals are ornamented with rude volutes. the arches in the triforium are of nearly the same width as those below, but considerably less in height. there is no archivolt or moulding or ornament. above these there is only one row of windows, which, like all the rest, are semi-circular headed; but they have neither angular pillars, nor mouldings, nor mullions. these windows are rather narrow externally, but within the opening enlarges considerably. the windows in the upper and lower tiers stand singly: in the intermediate row they are disposed by threes, the central one separated from the other two by a single column.--the inside of the nave is striking from its simplicity: it is wholly of the eleventh century, except the reparations already mentioned, which were made in .--the choir and lady-chapel are nearly demolished; and only some fragments of them are now standing: they were of pointed architecture, and posterior to the nave by at least two centuries. a smaller church, dedicated to st. peter, stood near the principal one, with which it was connected by means of a corridor of pointed arches. there are other instances of two churches being erected within the precincts of one abbey, as at bury st. edmund's. st. peter's was a building at least of equal antiquity with the great church. but it had undergone such alterations in the year , during the prelacy of the twenty-seventh abbot, william gemblet, that little of the original structure remained. he demolished nearly the whole of the nave, for the sake of adding uniformity to the cloisters of the monastery.--m. le prevost, however, is of opinion, that the ruins of jumieges contain nothing more interesting to an antiquary than the west end of the portion of building, which subsequently served as the nave. it is a mass of flint-work; and he considers it as having belonged to the church that existed before the incursion of the normans. the cloisters, which stood to the south-west of st. peter's, are now almost wholly destroyed.--to the west of them is a large hall or gallery, known by the name of _la salle des chevaliers_. it is entered by two porches, one towards the north-west, the other towards the south-west[ ], both full of architectural beauty and curiosity. i know of no authority for their date; but, from the great variety and richness of their ornaments, and the elegant taste displayed in the arrangement of these, i should suppose them to have been erected during the latter half of the twelfth century: one of the arches is unquestionably pointed, though the cusp of the arch is very obtuse. the slight sketch which accompanies this letter, represents a fragment of the inner door-way of the south-west porch, and may enable you to form your own judgment upon the subject. [illustration: sketch of fragment of inner door-way] the stones immediately over the entrance are joggled into each other, the key-stone having a joggle on either side.--i have not observed this peculiarity in any other specimen of norman masonry.--between these porches apartments, along the interior of which runs a cornice, supported by grotesque corbels, and under it a row of windows, now principally blocked up, disposed in triplets, a trefoil-headed window being placed between two that are semi-circular, as seen in the accompanying drawing. the date of the origin of the trefoil-headed arch has been much disputed: these perhaps are some of the earliest, and they are unquestionably coeval with the building. [illustration: ancient trefoil-headed arches in abbey of jumieges] the stupid and disgraceful barbarism, which is now employing itself in the ruins of jumieges, has long since annihilated the invaluable monuments which it contained.--in the lady-chapel of the conventual church was buried the heart of the celebrated agnes sorel, mistress of charles viith, who died at mesnil, about a league from this abbey, during the time when her royal lover was residing here.--her death was generally attributed to poison; nor did the people hesitate in whispering that the fatal potion was administered by order of the queen. her son, the profligate tyrant louis xith, detested his father's concubine; and once, forgetting his dignity and his manhood, he struck the _dame de beauté_.--the statue placed upon the mausoleum represented agnes kneeling and offering her heart to the virgin; but this effigy had been removed before the late troubles: a heart of white marble, which was at the foot of the tomb, had also disappeared. according to the annals of the abbey, they were destroyed by the huguenots. the tomb itself, with various brasses inlaid upon it, remained undisturbed till the period of the revolution, when the whole memorial was removed, and even her remains were not suffered to rest in peace. the slab of black marble which covered them, and which bore upon its edges the french inscription to her memory, is still in existence; though it has changed its place and destination. the barbarians who pillaged the convent sold it with the rest of the plunder; and it now serves as a threshold to a house near the mont aux malades, at rouen[ ]. the inscription, which is cut in very elegant gothic characters, is as follows: a part of it is, however, at present hidden by its position:--"cy gist agnes surelle, noble damoiselle, en son vivant dame de roqueferriere, de beaulté, d'yssouldun, et de vernon sur seine, piteuse entre toutes gens, qui de ses biens donnoit largement aux gens d'église et aux pauvres; qui trespassa le neuvieme jour de fevrier, l'an de grace .--priez dieu pour elle."--it is justly to be regretted, that some pains are not taken for the preservation of this relic, which even now would be an ornament to the cathedral.--the manor-house at mesnil, where the fair lady died, still retains its chimneys of the fifteenth century; and ancient paintings are discernible on the walls. the monument in the church of st. peter, generally known by the name of _le tombeau des énervez_, was of still greater singularity. it was an altar-tomb, raised about two feet above the pavement; and on the slabs were carved whole-length figures, in alto-relievo, of two boys, each about sixteen years of age, in rich attire, and ornamented with diadems, broaches, and girdles, all copiously studded with precious stones. various traditions concerning this monument are recorded by authors, and particularly at great length by father du plessis[ ].--the nameless princes, for such the splendor of their garb denotes them to have been, were considered, according to a tradition which prevailed from very early times, as the sons of clovis and bathilda, who, in the absence of their father, were guilty of revolt, and were punished by being hamstrung; for this is the meaning of the word _énervez_.--according to this tradition, the monks, in the thirteenth century, caused the monument to be ornamented with golden fleurs-de-lys, and added the following epitaph:-- "hic in honore dei requiescit stirps clodovei, patris bellica gens, bella salutis agens. ad votum matris bathildis poenituere, scelere pro proprio, proque labore patris."-- three other lines, preserved by yepez, in his chronicle, refer to the same tale, but accuse the princes of a crime of deeper die than mere rebellion against parental authority:-- "conjugis est ultus probrum; nam in vincula tradit crudeles natos, pius impietate, simulque et duras pater, o clodovee, piusque maritus." mabillon supposed the tomb to have been erected for tassilo and his son; but i do not know how this conjecture is to be reconciled to the appearance of the statues, both representing persons of equal age. an examination of the grave at the time of the destruction of the abbey, might have afforded some interesting results; though, had any discovery been made, it would have been but a poor reward for the desolation which facilitated the research. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : immediately on the opposite side of the seine, are extensive turf-bogs, which are of rare occurrence in this part of france; and in them grows the _andromeda polifolia_, a plant that seems hitherto to have been discovered no where else in the kingdom.] [footnote : the following particulars relative to the territory of jumieges, as well as the church, are curious: they are copied from an extract from the life of st. philibert, as given in the _neustria pia_, p. .--"congruè sanè locus ille _gemmeticus_ est dictus, quippe qui instar gemmarum multivario sit decore conspicuus. videas illic arborum comas sylvestrium, multigenos arborum fructus, solum fertile, prata virentia, hortorum flores suaveolentes, bortis gravidas vîtes, humum undique cinctam aquis, pascua pecorum uberrima, loca venationi apta, avium cantu circumsonantia. sequana fluvius illic cernitur late ambiens: et deindè suo pergeus cursu, uno duntaxat commeantibus aditu relicto. ibi mare increscens nunc eructat: nunc in sinum suum revolutum, navium fert compendia, commercia plurimorum. nihil illic deest; quicquid vehiculis pedestribus, et equestribus plaustris, et ratibus subministratur, abunde suppetit. illic castrum condidere antiqui; ibi stant, in acie, illustria castra dei: ibi præ desiderio paradisi suspirantes gemunt, quibus postea opus non erit, in flammis ultricibus, nihil profuturos edere gemitus. ibi denique almus sacerdos, philibertus, multiplici est laude et prædicatione efferendus: qui instar patriarchæ jacob, in animabus septuaginta, demigravit in hanc eremum, addito grege septemplici, propter septiformem gratiam spiritus sancti. ibi enim eius prudentia construxit mÅ�nia quadrata, turrita mole surgentia; claustra excipiendis adventantibus mirè opportuna. in his domus alma fulget; habitatoribus digna. ab euro surgit ecclesia, crucis effigie, cujus verticem obtinet beatissima virgo maria; altare est ante faciem lectuli, cum dente sanctiss, patris _philiberti_, pictum gemmarum luminibus, auro argentoque comptum: ab utroque latere, _joannis_ et _columbani_ aræ dant gloriam deo; adherent verò a boreâ, _dyonisii_ martyris, et _germani_ confessoris, ædiculæ; in dextrâ domus parte, sacellum nobile extat _s. petri_; a latere habens _s. martini_ oratorium. ad austrum est s. viri cellula, et petris habens margines; saxis cinguntur claustra camerata: is decor cunctorum animos oblectans, eum inundantibus aquis, geminus vergit ad austrum. habet autem ipsa domus in longum pedes ducentos nonaginta, in latum quinquaginta: singulis legere volentibus lucem transmittunt fenestræ vitreæ: subtus habet geminas ædes, alteras condendis vinis, alteras cibis apparandis accommodatas."] [footnote : allusions to the cultivation of the vine at jumieges, as then commonly practised, may be found in many other public documents of the fifteenth century: but we may come yet nearer our own time; for we know that, in the year , there was still a vineyard in the hamlet of conihoult, a dependence upon jumieges, and that the wine called _vin de conihoult_, is expressly mentioned among the articles of which the charitable donations of the monastery consisted.--we are told, too, that at least eighteen or twenty acres, belonging to the grounds of the abbey itself, were used as a vineyard as late as .--at present, i believe, vines are scarcely any where to be seen in normandy, much north of gaillon.] [footnote : in a charter belonging to the monastery, granted by henry iind, in , (see _neustria pia_, p. ) he gives the convent, "integritatem aquæ ex parte terræ monachorum, et _graspais_, si fortè capiatur."--the word _graspais_ is explained by ducange to be a corruption of _crassus piscis_. noel (in his _essais sur le département de la seine inférieure_, ii, p. ) supposes that it refers particularly to porpoises, which he says are still found in such abundance in the seine, nearer its mouth, that the river sometimes appears quite black with them.] [footnote : the following account of the destruction of the monastery is extracted from william of jumieges. (see _duchesne's scriptores normanni_, p. )--"dehinc sequanica ora aggrediuntur, et apud _gemmeticum_ classica statione obsidionein componunt.... in quo quamplurima multitudo episcoporum, seu clericorum, vel nobilium laïcorum, spretis secularibus pompis, collecta, christo regi militatura, propria colla saluberrimo iugo subegit. cuius loci monachi, sive incolæ, paganorum adventum comperientes, fugâ lapsi quædam suarum rerum sub terra occulentes, quædam secum asportantes, deo juvante evaserunt. pagani locum vacuum reperientes, monasterium sanctæ mariæ sanctíque petri, et cuncta ædificia igne iniecto adurunt, in solitudinem omnia redigentes. hac itaque patrata eversione, locus, qui tauto honoris splendore diu viguerat, exturbatis omnibus ac subuersis domibus, cÅ�pit esse cubile ferarum et volucrum: maceriis in sua soliditate in sublime porrectis, arbustisque densissimis; et arborum virgultis per triginta fermè annorum curricula ubique a terra productis."] [footnote : the following are the proportions of the building, in french feet:-- length of the church.................. ditto of the nave..................... width of ditto......................... length of choir........................ - / width of ditto......................... length of lady-chapel.................. width of ditto......................... height of central tower............... ditto of western towers............... ] [footnote : mr. cotman has figured this porch, (_architectural antiquities of normandy_, t. ) but has, by mistake, called it "_an arch on the west front of the abbey church_."] [footnote : see a paper by m. le prevost in the _précis analitique des travaux de l'académie de rouen_, , p. .] [footnote : _histoire de la haute normandie_, ii, p. .] letter xvi. gournay--castle of neufmarchÉ--castle and church of gisors. (_gisors, july_, ) we are now approaching the western frontiers.--gournay, gisors, and andelys, the objects of our present excursion, are disposed nearly in a line between the capitals of france and normandy; and whenever war broke out between the two states, they experienced all the glory, and all the afflictions of warfare. this district was in fact a kind of debatable land; and hence arose the numerous strong holds, by which the country was once defended, and whose ruins now adorn the landscape. the tract known by modern topographers, under the names of the _arrondissemens_ of gournay and of andelys, constituted one of the general divisions of ancient normandy, the _pays de bray_. it was a tract celebrated beyond every other in france, and, from time immemorial, for the excellence of the products of its dairies. the butter of bray is an indispensable requisite at every fashionable table at paris; and the _fromage de neufchâtel_ is one of the only two french cheeses which are honored with a place in the bill of fare at véry's at grignon's, or at beauvilliers'. the females of the district frequently passed us on the road, carrying their milk and eggs to the provincial metropolis. accustomed as we are to the norman costume, we still thought that the many-colored attire and long lappetted cap, of the good wife, of bray, in conjunction with her steed and its trappings, was a most picturesque addition to the surrounding scenery. the large pannier on either side of the saddle leaves little room for the lady, except on the hinder parts of the poor beast; and there she sits, perfectly free and _dégagée_, without either pillion or stirrup, showing no small portion of her leg, and occasionally waving a little whip, ornamented in the handle with tufts of red worsted.--we had scarcely quitted the suburbs of rouen before we found ourselves in darnétal, a place that has risen considerably in importance, since the revolution, from the activity of its numerous manufacturers. its population is composed entirely of individuals of this description, to whose pursuits its situation upon the banks of the robec and aubette is peculiarly favorable: the greater part of the goods manufactured here are coarse cloths and flannels. before the revolution, the town belonged to the family of montmorenci.--the rest of the ride offered no object of interest. the road, like all the main post-roads, is certainly wide and straight; but the french seem to think that, if these two points are but obtained, all the rest may be regarded as matter of supererogation. hence, very little attention is paid to the surface of the highways: even on those that are most frequented, it is thought enough to keep the centre, which is paved, in decent repair: the ruts by the side are frequently so deep as to be dangerous; and in most cases the cross roads are absolutely impassable to carriages of every description, except the common carts of the country.--there is nothing in which england has a more decided superiority over france than in the facility of communication between its different towns; and there is also nothing which more decidedly marks a superiority of civilization. english travellers, who usually roll on the beaten track to and from the capital, return home full of praises of the french roads; but were they to attempt excursions among the country-towns and villages, their opinion would be wofully altered.--the forest of feuillée extends about four leagues on each side of the road, between rouen and gournay. it adds little to the pleasantness of the ride: the trees are planted with regularity, and the side-branches are trimmed away almost to the very tops. those therefore who expect overhanging branches, or the green-wood shade, in a french forest, will be sadly disappointed. on the contrary, when the wind blows across the road, and the sun shines down it, such a forest only adds to the heat and closeness of the way. the country around gournay is characterized by fertility and abundance; yet, in early times, the rich valley in which it is situated, was a dreary morass, which separated the caletes from the bellovacences. a causeway crossed the marshes, and formed the only road of communication between these tribes; and gournay arose as an intermediate station. therefore, even prior to the norman æra, the town was, from its situation, a strong hold of note; and under the norman dukes, gournay necessarily became of still greater consequence, as the principal fortress on the french frontier; but the annexation of the duchy to the crown of france, destroyed this unlucky pre-eminence; and, at present, it is only known as a great staple mart for cheese and butter. nor is it advantageously situated for trade; as there is no navigable river or means of water-carriage in its vicinity. the inhabitants therefore look forward with some anxiety to the completion of the projected canal from dieppe. gournay is a small, clean, and airy place. the last two circumstances are no trifling recommendation to those who have just escaped from the dirt and closeness of rouen. its streets are completely those of a country town: the intermixture of wood and clay in the houses gives them a mean aspect, and there are scarcely two to be found alike, either in size, shape, color, or materials.--the records of gournay begin in the reign of rollo. that prince gave the town, together with the norman portion of the pays de bray, to eudes[ ], a nobleman of his own nation, to be held as a fief of the duchy, under the usual military tenure. in one of the earliest rolls of norman chieftains[ ], the lord of gournay is bound, in case of war, to supply the duke with twelve soldiers from among his vassals, and to arm his dependants for the defence of his portion of the marches. hugh, the son of eudes de gournay, erected a castle in the vicinity of the church of st. hildebert, and the whole town was surrounded with a triple wall and double fosse. the place was inaccessible to an invading enemy, when these fosses were filled with the waters of the epte; but philip augustus caused the protecting element to become his most powerful auxiliary. willelmus brito relates his siege with minuteness in his _philippiad_, an heroic poem, devoted to the acts and deeds of the french monarch.--after advancing through lions and mortemer, philip encamped before gournay, thus described by the historical bard;-- "non procul hinc vicum populosâ genta superbum, divitiis plenum variis, famâque celebrem, rure situm piano, munitum triplice muro, deliciosa nimis speciosaque vallis habebat. nomine gornacum, situ inexpugnabilis ipso, etsi nullus ei defensor ab intus adesset; cui multisque aliis præerat gornacius hugo. fossæ cujus erant amplæ nimis atque profundae quas sic epta suo repleret flumine, posset nullus ut ad muros per eas accessus haberi. arte tamen sibi rex tali pessundedit ipsum. haud procul a muris stagnum pergrande tumebat, cujus aquam, pelagi stagnantis more, refusam urget stare lacu sinuoso terreus agger, quadris compactus saxis et cespite multo. hunc rex obrumpi medium facit, effluit inde diluvium immensum, subitâque voragine tota vallis abit maris in speciem, ruit impete vasto eluvies damnosa satis, damnosa colonis. * * * * * municipes fugiunt ne submergantur, et omnis se populus villâ viduat, vacuamque relinquit. * * * * * armis villa potens, muris munita virisque, arte capi nullâ metuens aut viribus ullis, diluvio capitur inopino............... * * * * * rex ubi gornacum sic in sua jura redegit, indigenas omnes revocans ad propria, pacem indicit populis libertatemque priorem; deinde re-ædificat muros............. in , after the death of philip of valois, gournay was again separated from france, and given as a dower to blanche of navarre, the widow of that prince, who held it forty-eight years, when, after her death, it reverted to the crown. at the commencement of the following century, the town fell, with the rest of the kingdom, into the possession of the english; and once more, upon the demise of our sovereign, henry vth, formed part of the dower of the widowed queen. on her decease, it devolved upon her son; but a period of eleven years had scarcely elapsed, when the laws of conquest united it for a third time to the crown of france, in .--from that period to the revolution, it was constantly in the possession of different noble families of the kingdom. the name of hugo de gournay is enrolled amongst those who followed the conqueror into england, and who held lands _in capite_ from him in this country[ ]. hugo was a man of eminent valor, and his services were requited by the grant of many large possessions; but, after all his military actions, he sought repose in the abbey of bec, which had been enriched by his piety. his son, girald, who married the sister of william, earl warren, accompanied robert, duke of normandy, into the holy land; and the grandson of girald was in the number of those who followed richard coeur-de-lion in a similar expedition, and was appointed his commissioner, to receive the english share of the spoil, after the capture of acre. he was also among the barons who rose against king john. their descendants settled in very early times in our own county, where their possessions were extensive and valuable. it was in gournay that the unfortunate arthur, heir to the throne of england, received the order of knighthood, together with the earldoms of brittany, poitou, and angers, from philip augustus, immediately previously to entering upon the expedition, which ultimately ended with his death; and, according to tradition, it was on this occasion that the town adopted for its arms the sable shield, charged with a knight in armor, argent[ ]. gournay has now no other remains of antiquity, except the collegiate church of st. hildebert[ ], which was founded towards the conclusion of the eleventh century, though it was scarcely completed at the end of the thirteenth. hence the discrepancy of style observable in the architecture of its different parts. the west front, in which the windows are all pointed, was probably one of the last portions completed. the interior is principally of semi-circular architecture, with piers unusually massy, and capitals no less fanciful and extraordinary than those already noticed at st. georges. here, however, we have fewer monsters. the ornaments consist chiefly of foliage, and wreaths, and knots, and chequered work, and imitations of members of the antique capital. some of the pillars, instead of ending in regular capitals, are surmounted by a narrow projecting rim, carved with undulating lines. it has been supposed that this ornament, which is quite peculiar to the church of st. hildebert, is a kind of hieroglyphical representation of water.--perhaps, it is the chamber of sagittarius; or, perhaps, it is a _fess wavy_, to which the same signification has been assigned by heralds.--if this interpretation be correct, the symbol is allusive to the ancient situation of the town, built in the midst of a marsh, intersected by two streams, the epte and the st. aubin. while we were on the point of setting out from gournay, we had the pleasure of meeting mr. cotman, who landed a few days since at dieppe, and purposes remaining in normandy, to complete a series of drawings which he began last year, towards the illustration of the architectural antiquities of the duchy. he has joined our party, and we are likely to have the advantage of his society for some little time. the village of neufmarché, about a league from gournay, on the right bank of the epte, still retains a small part of its castle, built by henry ist, to command the passage of the river, and to serve as a barrier against the incursions of the french. its situation is good, upon an artificial hill, surrounded by a fosse; and the principal entrance is still tolerably entire. but the rest is merely a shapeless heap of ruins: the interior is wholly under the plough; and the fragments of denudated walls preserve small remains of the coating of large square stones, which formerly embellished and protected them. neufmarché, in the days of norman sovereignty, was one of the strong holds of the duchy. the chroniclers[ ] speak of the village as being defended by a fortress, in the reign of william the conqueror. the church, too, with its semi-circular architecture, attests the antiquity of the station. long before we reached gisors, we had a view of the keep of the castle, rising majestically above the town, which is indeed at present "une assez maussade petite ville, qui n'a guère qu'une rue." from its position and general outline, the castle, at first view, resembles the remains of launceston, in cornwall. it recalled to my mind the impressions of surprise, mixed with something approaching to awe, which seized me, when the first object that met my eyes in the morning (for it was late and dark when i reached launceston) was the noble keep, towering immediately above my chamber windows, and so near, that it appeared as if i had only to open them and step into it. i do not mean to draw a parallel between the castles of launceston and gisors, and still less am i about to inquire into the relationship between the norman and the cornish fortresses. the lapse of twenty years has materially weakened my recollection of the latter, nor would this be a seasonable opportunity for such a disquisition: but the subject deserves investigation, the result of which may tend to establish the common origin of both, and to dissipate the day-dreams of borlase, who longed to dignify the castellated ruins of the cornish peninsula, by ascribing them to the roman conquerors of britain. gisors itself existed before the tenth century; but its chief celebrity was due to william rufus, who, anxious to strengthen his frontiers against the power of the kings of france, caused robert of bellême to erect this castle, in . thus then we have a certain date; and there is no reason to believe, but that the whole of what is left us is really of the same æra, or of the following reign, in which it is known that the works were greatly augmented; for henry ist was completely a castle-builder. he was a prince who spared no pains in strengthening and defending the natural frontiers of his province, as the fortresses of verneuil, tillières, nonancourt, anet, ivry, château-sur-epte, gisors, and many others, abundantly testify. all these were either actually built, or materially strengthened by him.--this at gisors, important from its strength and from its situation, was the source of frequent dissentions between the sovereigns of england and france, as well as the frequent witness of their plighted faith, and the scene of their festivities.--in , a well-known interview took place here, between henry ist and pope calixtus iind, who had travelled to france for the purpose of healing the schisms in the church, and who, after having accomplished that task, was desirous not to quit the kingdom till he had completed the work of pacification, by reconciling henry to louis le gros, and to his brother, robert. the speech of our sovereign upon this occasion, as recorded by ordericus vitalis[ ], is a valuable document to the english historian: it sets forth, at considerable length, his various causes of grievance, whether real, imaginary, or invented, against the legal heir to our throne.--after a lapse of thirty-nine years, louis le jeune succeeded in annexing gisors to the crown of france; but he resigned it to our henry iind, only three years subsequently, as a part of the marriage portion of his daughter, margaret. it then remained with our countrymen till the conquest of the duchy by philip augustus; previously to which event, that sovereign and henry met, in the year , under an elm near gisors, on the road to trie, upon receiving the news of the capture of jerusalem by the sultan saladin[ ]. the monarchs, actuated by religious zeal, took up the cross, and mutually pledged themselves to suspend for a while their respective differences, and direct their united efforts against the common foe of the christian faith, legends also tell that, during the conference, a miraculous cross appeared in the air, as if in ratification of the compact; and hence the inhabitants derive the armoria bearing of the town; _gules_, a cross engrailed _or_[ ]. in , philip embellished gisors with new buildings; and he retired hither the following year, after the battle of courcelles, a conflict, which began by his endeavor to surprise richard coeur-de-lion, but which ended with his total defeat. he had well nigh lost his life during the flight, by his horse plunging with him, all armed as he was, into the epte.--he took refuge in gisors; and the _golden gate_ of the town commemorated his gratitude. with eastern magnificence, he caused the entire portal to be covered with gold; and the statue of the virgin, which surmounted it, received the same splendor. during the wars between france and england, in the fifteenth century, gisors was repeatedly won and lost by the contending parties. in later and more peaceable times, it has been only known as the provincial capital of the bailiwick of gisors, and of the norman portion of the vexin. the castle consists of a double ballium, the inner occupying the top of a high artificial mound, in whose centre stands the keep. the whole of the fortress is of the most solid masonry. previously to the discovery of cannon, it could scarcely be regarded otherwise than as impregnable, for the site which it occupies is admirably adapted for defence; and the walls were as strong as art could make them.--the outer walls were of great extent: they were defended by two covered ways, and flanked by several towers, of various shapes.--in the inclosed sketch, you will observe a circular tower, which is perhaps more perfect than any of the rest. the two entrances which led to the inner wards, were defended by more massy towers, strengthened with portcullises and draw-bridges. [illustration: distant of the castle of gisors] the conical mound is almost inaccessible, on account of its steepness. the summit is inclosed by a circular wall of considerable height, pierced with loop-holes, and strengthened at regular intervals with buttresses, most of which are small and shallow, and resemble such as are found in the norman churches. those, however, which flank the entrance of the keep, are of a different character: they project so boldly, that they may rather be considered as bastions or solid turrets.--the dungeon rises high above all the rest, a lofty octagon tower, with a turret on one side of the same shape, intended to receive the winding staircase, which still remains, but in so shattered a state, that we could not venture to ascend it. the shell of the keep itself is nearly perfect, and is also varied in its outline with projecting piers.--within the inner ballium, we discovered the remains of the castle-chapel. more than half, indeed, of the building is destroyed, but the east end is standing, and is tolerably entire. the roof is vaulted and groined: the groins spring from short pillars, whose capitals are beautifully sculptured with foliage; the architecture of the whole is semi-circular; but i should apprehend it to be posterior to any part of the fortress.--the inside of the castle serves at this time for a market-hall: the fosse, now dry and planted with trees, forms a delightful walk round the whole. [illustration: banded pillar in the church of gisors] we were much disappointed by the church of gisors; in the illustration of the details of which, millin is very diffuse. the building is of considerable magnitude; its proportions are not unpleasing, and it contains much elaborate sculpture; but the labor has been ill bestowed, having been lavished without any attention to consistency. it is throughout a jumble of roman and gothic, except that the exterior of the north transept is wholly gothic. some of the little figures which decorate it are very gracefully carved, especially in the drapery. a pillar in the south aisle, entwined by spiral fillets, is of great singularity and beauty. the dolphin is introduced in each pannel, and the heraldic form of this fish harmonizes with the gentle curve of the field upon which it is sculptured. a crown of fleurs-de-lys surrounds the columns at mid-height. these symbols, as i believe i observed on a former occasion, are often employed as ornaments by the french architects. the church, which is dedicated to the twin saints, st. gervais and st. protais, is the work of different æras, but principally of the latter half of the sixteenth century, a time when, as a frenchman told me, "l'on commença à bâtir dans le beau style romain."--the man who made the observation was of the lower order of society, one of the _swinish multitude_, who, in england, never dream about styles in architecture. i mention the circumstance, for the sake of pointing out the difference that exists in these matters between the two countries. here, every man, gentle or simple, educated or uneducated, thinks himself qualified and bound to deliver his opinion on objects connected with the fine arts; and though such opinions are of necessity commonly crude, and sometimes absurd, they, on the other hand, frequently display a degree of feeling, and occasionally of knowledge, that surprises you. it may be true indeed, as dr. johnson said, with some illiberality, of our brethren across the tweed, that though "every man may have a mouthful, no one has a belly full;" but it still marks a degree of national refinement, that any attention whatever is bestowed upon such subjects. this smattering of knowledge, accompanied with the constant readiness to communicate it, is also agreeable to a stranger. except in a few instances at rouen, i never failed to find civility and attention among the french. to the ladies of our nation they are uniformly polite though occasionally their compliments may appear of somewhat a questionable complexion; as it happened to a female friend of mine to be told, while drawing the church of st, ouen, "qu'elle avait de l'esprit comme quatre diables." * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : _histoire de la haute normandie_, i, p. .] [footnote : _duchesne, scriptores normanni_, p. .] [footnote : _duchesne, scriptores normanni_, p. .] [footnote : _histoire de la haute normandie_, i. p. .] [footnote : see _cotman's architectural antiquities of normandy, plates_ - .] [footnote : _ordericus vitalis_, in _duchesne's scriptores normanni_, p. , , .] [footnote : _duchesne, scriptores normanni_, p. .] [footnote : some writers say that the real cause of their meeting was to settle a difference of long standing.--hoveden, as quoted in the _concilia normannica_, i. p. , tells us, that henry was upon the point of sailing for england, when tidings were brought him that philip had collected a great force, with which he threatened to lay normandy waste, unless the british monarch surrendered to him gisors with its dependencies, or caused his son richard, count of poitou, to marry alice, sister of the french king;--"quod cùm regi angliæ constaret, reversus est in normanniam; et, accepte colloquio inter ipsum et regem franciæ inter gisortium et trie, xii. kalendas februarii, die s. agnetis v. et martyris, convenerunt illuc cum archiepiscopis, et episcopis et comitibus, et baronibus regnoram suorum. cui colloquio interfuit archiepiscopus tyri, qui repletus spiritu sapientiæ et intellectus, miro modo prædicavit verbum domini coram regibus et principibus. et convertit corda eorum ad crucem capiendam; et qui priùs hostes erant, illo prædicante, et deo co-operante, facti sunt amici in illa die, et de manu ejus crucem receperunt: et in eadem hora apparuit super eos signum crucis in cÅ�lo. quo viso miraculo, plures catervatim ruebant ad susceptionem crucis. prædicti verò reges in susceptionem crucis, ad cognoscendum gentem suam, signum sibi et suis providerunt. rex namque franciæ et gens sua receperunt cruces rubeas et rex angliæ cum gente sua suscepit cruces virides: et sic unusqnisque ad providendum sibi et itineri suo necessaria, reversus est in regionem suam."] [footnote : in , an addition was made to this coat of a chief _azure_, charged with three fleurs-de-lys, _or_, by the command of henry iind of france, to commemorate his public entry into gisors.] letter xvii. andelys--fountain of saint clotilda--la grande maison--chÂteau gaillard--ecouis. (_ecouis, july_, ) our evening journey from gisors to andelys, was not without its inconveniences.--the road, if road it may be called, was sometimes merely a narrow ravine or trench, so closely bordered by trees and underwood, that our vehicle could scarcely force its way; and sometimes our jaded horses labored along a waggon-way which wound amidst an expanse of corn-fields. our postilion had earnestly requested us to postpone our departure till the following morning; and he swore and cursed most valiantly during the whole of his ride. on our arrival, however, at andelys, a few kind words from my companions served to mitigate his ire; and as their eloquence may have been assisted by a few extra sous, presented to him at the same time, his nut-brown countenance brightened up, and all was tranquillity. andelys is a town, whose antiquity is not to be questioned: it had existence in the time of the venerable bede, by whom it is expressly mentioned, under its latin appellation, _andilegum_[ ]. the derivation of this name has afforded employment to etymologists. the syllable _and_ enters, as it is said, into the composition of the names of sundry places, reported to be founded by franks, and saxons, and germans; and therefore it is agreed that a teutonic origin must be assigned to andelys. but, as to the import of this same syllable, they are all of them wholly at a loss.--the history of andelys is brief and unimportant, considering its antiquity and situation. it was captured by louis le gros in the war which he undertook against henry ist, in favour of clito, heir of the unfortunate duke robert; and his son, louis le jeune, in , burned andelys to the ground, thus revenging the outrages committed by the anglo-normans in france: in , it was the subject of the exchange which i have already mentioned, between richard coeur-de-lion and walter, archbishop of rouen; and only a few years afterwards it passed by capitulation into the possession of philip augustus, when the murder of arthur of brittany afforded the french sovereign a plausible pretext for dispossessing our worthless monarch of his norman territory. what andelys wants, however, in secular interest, it makes up in sanctity. saint clotilda founded a very celebrated monastery here, which was afterwards destroyed by the normans.--if we now send our ripening daughters to france, to be schooled and accomplished, the practice prevailed equally amongst our anglo-saxon ancestors; and we learn from bede, that andelys was then one of the most fashionable establishments[ ]. however, we must not forget that the fair elfleda, and the rosy Ælfgiva, were so taught in the convent, as to be fitted only for the embraces of a celestial husband--a mode of matrimony which has most fortunately become obsolete in our days of increasing knowledge and civilization. after the destruction of the monastery by the normans, it was never rebuilt; yet its sanctity is not wholly lost. at the behest of clotilda, the waters of the fountain of andelys were changed into wine for the relief of the weary labourer, and the tutelary saint is still worshipped by the faithful. it was our good fortune to arrive at andelys on the vigil of the festival of saint clotilda. the following morning, at early dawn, the tolling bell announced the returning holiday; and then we saw the procession advance, priests and acolytes bearing crosses and consecrated banners and burning tapers, followed by a joyous crowd of votaries and pilgrims. we had wished to approach the holy well; but the throng thickened around it, and we were forced to desist. we could not witness the rites, whatever they were, which were performed at the fountain; and long after they had concluded, it was still surrounded by groups of women, some idling and staring, some asking charity and whining, and some conducting their little ones to the salutary-fountain. many are the infirmities and ailments which are relieved through the intercession of saint clotilda, after the patient has been plunged in the gelid spring. a parisian sceptic might incline to ascribe a portion of their cures to cold-bathing and ablution; but, at andelys, no one ever thought of diminishing the veneration, inspired by the christian queen of the founder of the monarchy. several children were pointed out to us, heretical strangers, as living proofs of the continuance of miracles in the catholic church. they had been cured on the preceding anniversary; for it is only on saint clotilda's day that her benign influence is shed upon the spring. andelys possesses a valuable specimen of ancient domestic architecture. the _great house_[ ] is a most sumptuous mansion, evidently of the age of francis ist; but i could gain no account of its former occupants or history. i must again borrow from my friend's vocabulary, and say, that it is built in the "burgundian style." in its general outline and character, it resembles the house in the _place de la pucelle_, at rouen. its walls, indeed, are not covered with the same profusion of sculpture; yet, perhaps, its simplicity is accompanied by greater elegance.--the windows are disposed in three divisions, formed by slender buttresses, which run up to the roof. they are square-headed, and divided by a mullion and transom.--the portal is in the centre: it is formed by a tudor arch, enriched with deep mouldings, and surmounted by a lofty ogee, ending with a crocketed pinnacle, which transfixes the cornice immediately above, as well as the sill of the window, and then unites with the mullion of the latter.--the roof takes a very high pitch.--a figured cornice, upon which it rests, is boldly sculptured with foliage.--the chimneys are ornamented by angular buttresses.--all these portions of the building assimilate more or less to our gothic architecture of the sixteenth century; but a most magnificent oriel window, which fills the whole of the space between the centre and left-hand divisions, is a specimen of pointed architecture in its best and purest style. the arches are lofty and acute. each angle is formed by a double buttress, and the tabernacles affixed to these are filled with statues. the basement of the oriel, which projects from the flat wall of the house, after the fashion of a bartizan, is divided into compartments, studded with medallions, and intermixed with tracery of great variety and beauty. on either side of the bay, there are flying buttresses of elaborate sculpture, spreading along the wall.--as, comparatively speaking, good models of ancient domestic architecture are very rare, i would particularly recommend this at andelys to the notice of every architect, whom chance may conduct to normandy.--this building, like too many others of the same class in our own counties of norfolk and suffolk, is degraded from its station. the _great house_ is used merely as a granary, though, by a very small expence, it might be put into habitable repair. the stone retains its clear and polished surface; and the massy timbers are undecayed.--the inside corresponds with the exterior, in decorations and grandeur: the chimney-pieces are large and elaborate, and there is abundance of sculpture on the ceilings and other parts which admit of ornament. the french, in speaking of andelys, commonly use the plural number, and say, _les andelys_, there being a smaller town of the same name, within the distance of a mile: hence, the larger, all inconsiderable as it is, and though it scarcely contains two thousand inhabitants, is dignified by the appellation of _le grand andelys_. as the french seldom neglect the memory of their eminent men, i was rather disappointed at not finding any tribute to the glory of poussin, nor any object which could recal his name.--the great master of the french school was born at andelys, in , of poor but noble parents. the talents of the painter of the _deluge_ overcame all obstacles. young poussin, with barely a sufficiency to buy his daily bread, found means of making his abilities known in the metropolis to such advantage, as enabled him to proceed to rome, where the patronage of the cavaliere marino smoothed his way to that splendid career, which terminated only with his life.--and yet i doubt if the example of poussin has, on the whole, been favorable to the progress of french art. horace walpole, in his summary of the excellencies and defects of great painters, observed with much justice, that "titian wanted to have seen the antique; poussin to have seen titian." the observation referred principally to the defective coloring, which is admitted to exist in the greater part of the works of the painter of andelys. but poussin, considered as a model for imitation, and especially as a model for the student, is liable to a more serious objection.--he was a total stranger to real nature:--classical taste, indeed, and knowledge, and grace, and beauty, pervade all his works; but it is a taste, and a knowledge, and a grace, and a beauty, formed solely upon the contemplation of the antique. horace's adage, that "decipit exemplar vitiis imitabile," has been remarkably verified in the case of poussin; and i am mistaken, if the example set by him, which has been rigorously followed in the french school, even down to the present day, has not contributed more than any thing else to that statuary style in forms, and that coldness in coloring, which every one, who is not born in france, regrets to see in the works of the best of their artists.--the learned adrian turnebus was also a native of andelys; and the church is distinguished as the burial-place of corneille. [illustration: distant view of château gaillard] i doubt, however, whether we should have travelled hither, had we not been attracted by the celebrity of the castle, called _château gaillard_, erected by richard coeur-de-lion, in the immediate vicinity of le petit andelys.--our guide, a sturdy old dame, remonstrated strongly against our walking so far to look at a mere heap of stones, nothing comparable to the fine statue of clotilda, of which, if we would but have a little patience, we might still procure a sight.--our expectations respecting the castle were more than answered. considered as to its dimensions and its situation, it is by far the finest castellated ruin i ever saw. conway, indeed, has more beauty; but château gaillard is infinitely superior in dignity. its ruins crown the summit of a lofty rock, abruptly rising from the very edge of the seine, whose sinuous course here shapes the adjoining land into a narrow peninsula. the chalky cliffs on each side of the castle, are broken into hills of romantic shape, which add to the impressive wildness of the scene. the inclosed sketch will give you an idea, though a very faint one, of the general appearance of the castle at a distance. towards the river, the steepness of the cliff renders the fortress unassailable: a double fosse of great depth, defended by a strong wall, originally afforded almost equal protection on the opposite side. the circular keep is of extraordinary strength; and in its construction it differs wholly from any of our english dungeon-towers.--it may be described as a cylinder, placed upon a truncated cone. the massy perpendicular buttresses, which are ranged round the upper wall, from which they project considerably, lose themselves at their bases in the cone from which they arise. the building, therefore, appears to be divided into two stories. the wall of the second story is upwards of twelve feet in thickness. the base of the conical portion is perhaps twice as thick.--it seldom happens that the military buildings of the middle ages have such a _talus_ or slope, on the exterior face, agreeing with the principles of modern fortification, and it is difficult to guess why the architect of château gaillard thought fit to vary from the established model of his age. the masonry is regular and good. the pointed windows are evidently insertions of a period long subsequent to the original erection. the inner, ballium is surrounded by a high circular wall, which consists of an uninterrupted line of bastions, some semi-circular and others square.--the whole of this part of the castle remains nearly perfect. there are also traces of extensive foundations in various, directions, and of great out-works. château gaillard was in fact a citadel, supported by numerous smaller fortresses, all of them communicating with the strong central hold, and disposed so as to secure every defensible post in the neighborhood. the wall of the outer ballium, which was built of a compact white and grey stone, is in most places standing, though in ruins. the original facing only remains in those parts which are too elevated to admit of its being removed with ease.--beneath the castle, the cliff is excavated into a series of subterraneous caverns, not intended for mere passages or vaults, as at arques and in most other places, but forming spacious crypts, supported by pillars roughly hewn out of the living rock, and still retaining every mark of the workman's chisel. it will afford some satisfaction to the antiquary to find, that the present appearance of the castle corresponds in every important particular with the description given by willelmus brito, who beheld it within a few years after its erection, and in all its pride. every feature which he enumerates yet exists, unaltered and unobliterated:-- "huic natura loco satis insuperabile per se munimeu dederat, tamen insuperabiliorem arte quidem multa richardus fecerat illum. duplicibus muris extrema clausit, et altas circuitum docuit per totum surgere turres, a se distantes spatiis altrinsecus æquis; eruderans utrumque latus, ne scandere quisquam ad muros possit, vel ab ima repere valle. hinc ex transverso medium per planitiei erigitur murus, multoque labore cavari cogitur ipse silex, fossaque patere profunda, faucibus et latis aperiri vallis ad instar; sic ut quam subito fiat munitio duplex quæ fuit una modo muro geminata sequestro. ut si forte pati partem contingeret istam altera municipes, queat, et se tuta tueri. inde rotundavit rupem, quæ celsior omni planitie summum se tollit in aera sursum; et muris sepsit, extremas desuper oras castigansque jugi scrupulosa cacumina, totum complanat medium, multæque capacia turbæ plurima cum domibus habitacula fabricat intus. umboni parcens soli, quo condidit arcem. hic situs iste decor, munitio talis honorem gaillardæ rupis per totum prædicat orbem." the keep cannot be ascended without difficulty. we ventured to scale it; and we were fully repaid for our labor by the prospect which we gained. the seine, full of green willowy islands, flows beneath the rock in large lazy windings: the peninsula below is flat, fertile, and well wooded: on the opposite shores, the fantastic chalky cliffs rise boldly, crowned with dark forests. i have already once had occasion to allude to the memorable strife occasioned by the erection of château gaillard, which its royal founder is reported to have so named by way of mockery. in possession of this fortress, it seemed that he might laugh to scorn the attacks of his feudal liege lord.--the date of the commencement of the building is supposed to have been about the year , immediately subsequent to the treaty of louviers, by which, richard ceded to philip augustus the military line of the epte, and nearly the whole of the norman vexin. by an express article of the treaty, neither party was allowed to repair the fortifications of andelys; and philip was in possession of gisors, as well as of every other post that might have afforded security to the normans. thus the frontiers of the duchy became defenceless; but richard, like other politicians, determined to evade the spirit of the treaty, adhering nevertheless to its letter, by the erection of this mighty bulwark.--the building arose with the activity of fear. richard died in , yet the castle must have been completely habitable in his life-time, for not a few of his charters are dated from château gaillard, which he terms "his beautiful castle of the rock."--three years only had elapsed from the decease of this monarch, when philip augustus, after having reduced another castle, erected at the same time upon an island opposite the lesser andelys, encamped before château gaillard, and commenced a siege, which from its length, its horrors, and the valor shewn on either side, has ever since been memorable in history.--its details are given at great length by father daniel; and du moulin briefly enumerates a few of the stratagems to which the french king was obliged to have recourse; for, as the reverend author observes, "to have attempted to carry the place by force, would have been to have exposed the army to certain destruction; while to have tried to scale the walls, would have required the aid of dædalus, with the certainty of a fall, as fatal as that of icarus;" and without the poor consolation of ".... vitreo daturus nomina ponto."-- the castle, commanded by roger de lacy, defied the utmost efforts of philip for six successive months.--so great was its size; that more than two thousand two hundred persons, who did not form a part of the garrison, were known to quit the fortress in the course of the siege, compelled to throw themselves upon the mercy of the besiegers. but they found none; and the greater part of these unfortunate wretches, alternately suppliants to either host, perished from hunger, or from the weapons of the contending parties. at length the fortress yielded to a sudden assault. of the warriors, to whose valor it had been entrusted, only thirty-six remained alive. john, ill requiting their fidelity, had already abandoned them to their fate. margaret of burgundy, the queen of louis xth, and blanche, the consort of his brother, charles le bel, were both immured in château gaillard, in . the scandalous chronicle of those times will explain the causes of their imprisonment. margaret was strangled by order of her husband. blanche, after seven years' captivity, was transferred to the convent of maubuisson, near pontoise, where she continued a recluse till her death--in , david bruce, compelled to flee from the superior power of the third edward, found an asylum in château gaillard; and here, for a time, maintained the pageantry of a court.--twenty-four years subsequently, when charles the bad, king of navarre, was sent as a captive from rouen to paris, he was confined here, during one night, by order of the dauphin, who had made him his prisoner by treachery, whilst partaking of a banquet.--in the following century château gaillard braved the victorious arms of henry vth; nor was it taken till after a siege of sixteen months. the garrison only consisted of one hundred and twenty men; yet this scanty troop would not have yielded, had not the ropes, by which they drew up their water-buckets[ ], been worn out and destroyed.--during the same reign, it was again taken and lost by the french, into whose hands it finally fell in , when charles viith commanded the siege in person. even then, however it stood a long siege; and it was almost the last of the strong-holds of normandy, which held out for the successors of the ancient dukes. after the re-union of the duchy, it was not destroyed, or suffered to fall into decay, like the greater number of the norman fortresses: during the religious wars, it still continued to be a formidable military post, as well as a royal palace; and it was honored by the residence of henry ivth, whose father, anthony of bourbon, died here in .--its importance ceased in the following reign.--the inhabitants of the adjacent country requested the king to order that the castle should be dismantled. they dreaded, lest its towers should serve as an asylum to some of the numerous bands of marauders, by whom france was then infested. it was consequently undermined and reduced to its present state of ruin. we did not again attempt to pay our devotions at the shrine of saint clotilda, and we found no interesting object in the church of andelys which could detain us. we therefore proceeded without delay to ecouis, where we were assured that the church would gratify our curiosity.--this building has an air of grandeur as it is seen rising above the flat country; and it is of a singular shape, the ground-plan being that of a greek cross. the exterior is plain and offers nothing remarkable: the interior retains statues of various saints, which, though not very ancient or in very good taste, are still far from being inelegant. saint mary, the egyptian, who is among them, covered with her tresses, which may easily be mistaken for a long plaited robe, is a saint of unfrequent occurrence in this part of france. in the choir are several tomb-stones, with figures engraved upon them, their faces and hands being inlaid with white marble.--in this part of the building also remains the tomb of john marigni, archbishop of rouen, with his effigy of fine white marble, in perfect preservation. the face is marked with a strong expression of that determined character, which he unquestionably possessed. when he was sent as an ambassador to edward iiird, in , he made his appearance at the english court in the guise of a military man, and not as a minister of peace; and we may doubt whether his virtues qualified him for the mitre. if even a pope, however, in latter days, commanded a sculptor to pourtray him with a sword in his hand, the martial tendency of an archbishop may well be pardoned in more turbulent times. the following distich, from his epitaph, alludes to his achievements:-- "armis præcinctus, mentisque charactere cinctus, dux fuit in bellis, anglis virtute rebellis." the unfortunate enguerrand de marigni, brother of the archbishop, and lord treasurer under philip the fair, was the founder of this church. at the instigation of the king's uncle, enguerrand was hanged without trial, and his family experienced the most bitter persecution. his body, which had at first been interred in the convent of the chartreux, at paris, was removed hither in ; and his descendants obtained permission, in , to erect a mausoleum to his memory. but the king, at the same time that he acceded to their petition, added the express condition[ ], that no allusion should be made to marigni's tragical end. the monument was destroyed in the revolution; but the murder of the treasurer is one of those "damned spots," which will never be washed out of the history of france.--charles de valois soon felt the sting of remorse; and within a year from the wreaking of his vengeance, he caused alms to be publicly distributed in the streets of paris, with an injunction to every one that received them, "to pray to god for the souls of enguerrand de marigni, and charles de valois, taking care to put the subject first[ ]."--in the church at ecouis, was formerly the following epitaph, whose obscurity has given rise to a variety of traditions:-- "ci gist le fils, ci gist la mere, ci gist la soeur, ci gist le frère, ci gist la femme, et le mari; et ci ne sont que deux ici[ ]." other inscriptions of the same nature are said to have existed in england. goube[ ] supposes that this one is the record of an incestuous connection; but we may doubt whether a less sinful solution may not be given to the enigma. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : andelys is also called in old deeds _andeleium_ and _andeliacum_.] [footnote : "seculo septimo, cum pauca essent in regione anglorum monasteria, hunc morem in illâ gente fuisse, ut multi ex britanniâ, monastiae conversationis gratiâ, francorum monasteria adirent, sed et filias suas eisdem erudiendas ac sponso coelesti copulandas mitterent, maximè in brigensi seu s. farae monasterio, et in calensi et in _andilegum_ monasterio."--_bede, hist_. lib. iii. cap. .] [footnote : _cotman's architectural antiquities of normandy_, plate .--in a future portion of his work, mr. cotman designs devoting a second plate exclusively to the oriel in the east front of this building.] [footnote : _monstrelet, johnes' translation_, ii. p. .] [footnote : the letter of this stipulation appears to have been attended to much more than its spirit for at the top of the monument were five figures:--our savior seated in the centre, as if in the act of pronouncing sentence; on either side of him, an angel; and below, charles de valois and enguerrand de marigni; the former on the right of christ, crowned with the ducal coronet; the other, on the opposite side, in the guise and posture of a suppliant, imploring the divine vengeance for his unjust fate.--_histoire de la haute normandie_, ii. p. .] [footnote : _montfaucon, monumens de la monarchie française_, ii. p. .] [footnote : in a collection of epitaphs printed at cologne, , under the title of _epitaphia joco-seria_, i find the same monumental inscription, with the observation, that it is at tournay, and with the following explanation.--"de pari conjugum, posteà ad religionem transeuntium et in eâ præfectorum. alter fuit franciscanus; altera verò clarissa."] [footnote : _histoire du duché de normandie_, iii. p. .] letter xviii. evreux--cathedral--abbey of st. taurinus--ancient history. (_evreux, july_, .) our journey to this city has not afforded the gratification which we anticipated.--you may recollect ducarel's eulogium upon the cathedral, that it is one of the finest structures of the kind in france.--it is our fate to be continually at variance with the doctor, till i am half inclined to fear you may be led to suspect that jealousy has something to do with the matter, and that i fall under the ban of the old greek proverb,-- "Î�αι ϰεÏ�Î±Î¼ÎµÏ Ï� ϰεÏ�αμει ΦÏ�ονεει ϰαι Ï�εϰÏ�ονι Ï�εϰÏ�Ï�ν."-- [english. not in original: the potter is jealous of the potter, as the builder is jealous of the builder.] as for myself, however, i do hope and trust that i am marvellously free from antiquarian spite.--and in this instance, our expectations were also raised by the antiquity and sanctity of the cathedral, which was entirely rebuilt by henry ist, who made a considerate bargain with bishop audinus[ ], by which he was allowed to burn the city and its rebellious inhabitants, upon condition of bestowing his treasures for the re-construction of the monasteries, after the impending conflagration. the church, thus raised, is said by william of jumieges[ ], to have surpassed every other in neustria; but it is certain that only a very small portion of the original building now remains. a second destruction awaited it. philip augustus, who desolated the county of evreux with fire and sword, stormed the capital, sparing neither age nor sex; and all its buildings, whether sacred or profane, were burnt to the ground. hoveden, his friend, and brito, his enemy, both bear witness to this fact--the latter in the following lines:-- "... irarum stimulis agitatus, ad omne excidium partis adversæ totus inardens, ebroicas primò sic incineravit, ut omnes cum domibus simul ecclesias consumpserit ignis."-- the church, in its present state, is a medley of many different styles and ages: the nave alone retains vestiges of early architecture, in its massy piers and semi-circular arches: these are evidently of norman workmanship, and are probably part of the church erected by henry.--all the rest is comparatively modern.--the western front is of a debased palladian style, singularly ill adapted to a gothic cathedral. it is flanked with two towers, one of which ends in a cupola, the other in a short cone.--the central tower, which is comparatively plain and surmounted by a high spire, was built about the middle of the fifteenth century, during the bishopric of the celebrated john de balue, who was in high favor with louis xith, and obtained from that monarch great assistance towards repairing, enlarging, and beautifying his church. the roof, the transept towards the palace, the sacristy, the library, and a portion of the cloisters, are all said to have been erected by him[ ].--the northern transept is the only part that can now lay claim to beauty or uniformity in its architecture: it is of late and bastard gothic; yet the portal is not destitute of merit: it is evidently copied from the western portal of the cathedral at rouen, though far inferior in every respect, and with a decided tendency towards the italian style. almost every part of it still appears full of elaborate ornaments, though all the saints and bishops have fled from the arched door-way, and the bas-relief which was over the entrance has equally disappeared. ducarel[ ] notices four statues of canons, attached to a couple of pillars at the back of the chancel.--we were desirous of seeing authentic specimens of sculpture of a period at least as remote as the conquest; and, as the garden belonging to the prefect, the comte de goyon, incloses this portion of the church, we requested to be allowed to enter his grounds. leave was most obligingly granted, and we received every attention from the prefect and his lady; but we could find no traces of the objects of our search. they were probably destroyed during the revolution; at which time, the count told us that the statues at the north portal were also broken to pieces. at evreux, the democrats had full scope for the exercise of their iconoclastic fury. little or no previous injury had been done by the calvinists, who appear to have been unable to gain any ascendency in this town or diocese, at the same time that they lorded it over the rest of normandy. evreux had been fortified against heresy, by the piety and good sense of two of her bishops: they foresaw the coming storm, and they took steps to redress the grievances which were objects of complaint, as well as to reform the church-establishment, and to revise the breviary and the mass-book.--conduct like this seldom fails in its effect; and the tranquil by-stander may regret that it is not more frequently adopted by contending parties. the interior of the cathedral is handsome, though not peculiar. some good specimens of painted glass remain in the windows; and, in various parts of the church, there are elegant tabernacles and detached pieces of sculpture, as well in stone as in wood. the pulpit, in particular, is deserving of this praise: it is supported on cherubs' heads, and is well designed and executed. the building is dedicated to the virgin: it claims for its first bishop, taurinus, a saint of the third century, memorable in legendary tale for a desperate battle which he fought against the devil. satan was sadly drubbed and the bishop wrenched off one of his horns[ ]. the trophy was deposited in the crypt of his church, where it long remained, to amuse the curious, and stand the nurses of evreux in good stead, as the means of quieting noisy children.--the learned cardinal du perron succeeded to st. taurinus, though at an immense distance of time. he was appointed by henry ivth, towards whose conversion he appears to have been greatly instrumental, as he was afterwards the principal mediator, by whose intercession the pope was induced to grant absolution to the monarch. the task was one of some difficulty: for the court of spain, then powerful at the vatican, used all their efforts to prevent a reconciliation, with a view of fomenting the troubles in france.--most of the bishops of this see appear to have possessed great piety and talent. i have already mentioned to you, that the fraternity of the conards was established at evreux, as well as at rouen. another institution, of equal absurdity, was peculiar, i believe, to this cathedral[ ]. it bore the name of the feast of st. vital, as it united with the anniversary of that saint, which is celebrated on the first of may: the origin of the custom may be derived from the heathen floralia, a ceremony begun in innocence, continued to abomination. at its first institution, the feast of st. vital was a simple and a natural rite: the statues of the saints were crowned with garlands of foliage, perhaps as an offering of the first-fruits of the opening year. in process of time, branches were substituted for leaves, and they were cut from the growing trees, by a lengthened train of rabble pilgrims.--the clergy themselves headed the mob, who committed such devastation in the neighboring woods, that the owners of them were glad to compromise for the safety of their timber, by stationing persons to supply the physical, as well as the religious, wants of the populace. the excesses consequent upon such a practice may easily be imagined: the duration of the feast was gradually extended to ten days; and, during this time, licentiousness of all kinds prevailed under the plea of religion. to use the words of a manuscript, preserved in the archives of the cathedral, they played at skittles on the roof of the church, and the bells were kept continually ringing. these orgies, at length, were quelled; but not till two prebendaries belonging to the chapter, had nearly lost their lives in the attempt.--hitherto, indeed, the clergy had enjoyed the merriment full as well as the laity. one jolly canon, appropriately named jean bouteille, made a will, in which he declared himself the protector of the feast; and he directed that, on its anniversary, a pall should be spread in the midst of the church, with a gigantic _bottle_ in its centre, and four smaller ones at the corners; and he took care to provide funds for the perpetuation of this _rebus_. the cathedral offers few subjects for the pencil.--as a species of monument, of which we have no specimens in england, i add a sketch of a gothic _puteal_, which stands near the north portal. it is apparently of the same æra as that part of the church. [illustration: gothic puteal, at evreux] from the cathedral we went to the church of st. taurinus. the proud abbey of the apostle and first bishop of the diocese retains few or no traces of its former dignity. so long as monachism flourished, a contest existed between the chapter of the cathedral and the brethren of this monastery, each advocating the precedency of their respective establishment.--the monks of st. taurinus contended, that their abbey was expressly mentioned by william of jumieges[ ] among the most ancient in neustria, as well as among those which were destroyed by the normans, and rebuilt by the zeal of good princes. they also alleged the dispute that prevailed under the norman dukes for more than two hundred years, between this convent and that of fécamp, respecting the right of nominating one of their own brethren to the head of their community, a right which was claimed by fécamp; and they displayed the series of their prelates, continued in an uninterrupted line from the time of their founder. whatever may have been the justice of these claims, the antiquity of the monastery is admitted by all parties.--its monks, like those of the abbey of st. ouen, had the privilege of receiving every new bishop of the see, on the first day of his arrival at evreux; and his corpse was deposited in their church, where the funeral obsequies were performed. this privilege, originally intended only as a mark of distinction to the abbey, was on two occasions perverted to a purpose that might scarcely have been expected. upon the death of bishop john d'aubergenville in , the monks resented the reformation which he had endeavoured to introduce into their order, by refusing to admit his body within their precinct; and though fined for their obstinacy, they did not learn wisdom by experience, but forty-three years afterwards shewed their hostility decidedly towards the remains of geoffrey of bar, a still more determined reformer of monastic abuses. extreme was the licentiousness which prevailed in those days among the monks of st. taurinus, and unceasing were the endeavors of the bishop to correct them. the contest continued during his life, at the close of which they not only shut their doors against his corpse, but dragged it from the coffin and gave it a public flagellation. so gross an act of indecency would in all probability be classed among the many scandalous tales invented of ecclesiastics, but that the judicial proceedings which ensued leave no doubt of its truth; and it was even recorded in the burial register of the cathedral. the church of st. taurinus offers some valuable specimens of ancient architecture.--the southern transept still preserves a row of norman arches, running along the lower part of its west side, as well as along its front; but those above them are pointed. to the south are six circular arches, divided into two compartments, in each of which the central arch has formerly served for a window. both the lateral ones are filled with coeval stone-work, whose face is carved into lozenges, which were alternately coated with blue and red mortar or stucco: distinct traces of the coloring are still left in the cavities[ ]. to the eastern side of this transept is attached, as at st. georges, a small chapel, of semi-circular architecture, now greatly in ruins. the interior of the church is all comparatively modern, with the exception of some of the lower arches on the north side.--a strange and whimsical vessel for holy water attracted our attention. i cannot venture to guess at its date, but i do not think it is more recent than the fourteenth century. [illustration: vessel for holy water] the principal curiosity of the church, and indeed of the town, is the shrine, which contained, or perhaps, contains, a portion of the bones of the patron saint, whose body, after having continued for more than three hundred years a hidden treasure, was at last revealed in a miraculous manner to the prayers of landulphus, one of his successors in the episcopacy.--the cathedral of chartres, in early ages, set up a rival claim for the possession of this precious relic; but its existence here was formally verified at the end of the seventeenth century, by the opening of the _châsse_, in which a small quantity of bones was found tied up in a leather bag, with a certificate of their authenticity, signed by an early bishop.--the shrine is of silver-gilt, about one and a half foot in height and two feet in length: it is a fine specimen of ancient art. in shape it resembles the nave of a church, with the sides richly enchased with figures of saints and bishops. our curious eyes would fain have pried within; but it was closed with the impression of the archbishop's signet.--a crypt, the original burial place of st. taurinus, is still shewn in the church, and it continues to be the object of great veneration. it is immediately in front of the high altar, and is entered by two staircases, one at the head, the other at the foot of the coffin. the vault is very small, only admitting of the coffin and of a narrow passage by its side. the sarcophagus, which is extremely shallow, and neither wide nor long, is partly imbedded in the wall, so that the head and foot and one side alone are visible.--a portion of the monastic buildings of st. taurinus now serves as a seminary for the catholic priesthood. the west front of the church of st. giles is not devoid of interest. many other churches here have been desecrated; and this ancient building has been converted into a stable. the door-way is formed by a fine semi-circular arch, ornamented with the chevron-moulding, disposed in a triple row, and with a line of quatrefoils along the archivolt. both these decorations are singular: i recollect no other instance of the quatrefoil being employed in an early norman building, though immediately upon the adoption of the pointed style it became exceedingly common; nor can i point out another example of the chevron-moulding thus disposed. it produces a better effect than when arranged in detached bands. the capitals to the pillars of the arch are sculptured with winged dragons and other animals, in bold relief. these are the only worthy objects of architectural inquiry now existing in the city. many must have been destroyed by the ravages of war, and by the excesses of the revolution.--evreux therefore does not abound with memorials of its antiquity. but its existence as a town, during the period of the domination of the romans, rests upon authority that is scarcely questionable. it has been doubted whether the present city, or a village about three miles distant, known by the name of _old evreux_, is the _mediolanum aulercorum_ of ptolemy. his description is given with sufficient accuracy to exclude the pretensions of any other town, though not with such a degree of precision as will enable us, after a lapse of sixteen centuries, to decide between the claims of the two sites. cæsar, in his _commentaries_, speaks in general terms of the _aulerci eburovices_, who are admitted to have been the ancient inhabitants of this district, and whose name, especially as modified to _ebroici_ and _ebroi_, is clearly to be recognized in that of the county. the foundations of ancient buildings are still to be seen at old evreux; and various coins and medals of the upper empire, have at different times been dug up within its precincts. hence it has been concluded, that the _mediolanum aulercorum_ was situated there. the supporters of the contrary opinion admit that old evreux was a roman station; but they say that, considering its size, it can have been no more than an encampment: they also maintain, that a castle was subsequently built upon the site of this encampment, by richard, count of evreux, and that the destruction of this castle, during the norman wars, gave rise to the ruins now visible, which in their turn were the cause of the name of the village[ ]. it is certain that, in the reign of william the conqueror, the town stood in its present situation: ordericus vitalis speaks in terms that admit of no hesitation, when he states that, in the year , "fides christi evanticorum, id est evroas, urbem, _super ittonum fluvium sitam_ possidebat et salubritèr illuminabat[ ]." in the times of norman sovereignty, evreux attained an unfortunate independence: duke richard ist severed it from the duchy, and erected it into a distinct earldom in favor of robert, his second son. from him the inheritance descended to richard and william, his son and grandson; after whose death, it fell into the female line, and passed into the house of montfort d'amaury, by the marriage of agnes, sister of richard of evreux.--nominally independent, but really held only at the pleasure of the dukes of normandy, the rank of the earldom occasioned the misery of the inhabitants, who were continually involved in warfare, and plundered by conflicting parties. the annals of evreux contain the relation of a series of events, full of interest and amusement to us who peruse them; but those, who lived at the time when these events were really acted, might exclaim, like the frogs in the fable, "that what is entertainment to us, was death to them."--at length, the treaty of louviers, in , altered the aspect of affairs. the king of france gained the right of placing a garrison in evreux; and, five years afterwards, he obtained a formal cession of the earldom. philip augustus took possession of the city, to the great joy of the inhabitants, who, six years before, had seen their town pillaged, and their houses destroyed, by the orders of this monarch. the severity exercised upon that occasion had been excessive; but philip's indignation had been roused by one of the basest acts of treachery recorded in history.--john, faithless at every period of his life, had entered into a treaty with the french monarch, during the captivity of his brother, coeur-de-lion, to deliver up normandy; and philip, conformably with this plan, was engaged in reducing the strong holds upon the frontiers, whilst his colleague resided at evreux. the unexpected release of the english king disconcerted these intrigues; and john, alarmed at the course which he had been pursuing, thought only how to avert the anger of his offended sovereign. under pretence, therefore, of shewing hospitality to the french, he invited the principal officers to a feast, where he caused them all to be murdered; and he afterwards put the rest of the garrison to the sword.--brito records the transaction in the following lines, which i quote, not only as an historical document, illustrative of the moral character of one of the worst sovereigns that ever swayed the british sceptre, but as an honorable testimony to the memory of his unfortunate brother:-- "attamen ebroïcam studio majore reformans armis et rebus et bellatoribus urbem, pluribus instructam donavit amore johanni, ut sibi servet eam: tamen arcem non dedit illi. ille dolo plenus, qui patrem, qui modo fratrem prodiderat, ne non et regis proditor esset, excedens siculos animi impietate tyrannos, francigenas omnes vocat ad convivia quotquot ebroïcis reperit, equites simul atque clientes, paucis exceptis quos sors servavit in arce. quos cum dispositis armis fecisset ut una discubuisse domo, tanquam prandere putantes, evocat e latebris armatos protinus anglos, interimitque viros sub eadem clade trecentos, et palis capita ambustis affixit, et urbem circuit affixis, visu mirabile, tali regem portento quærens magis angere luctu: talibus obsequiis, tali mercede rependens millia marcharum, quas rex donaverat illi. tam detestanda pollutus cæde johannes ad fratrem properat; sed rex tam flagitiosus non placuit fratri: quis enim, nisi dæmone plenus, omninoque deo vacuus, virtute redemptus a vitiis nulla, tam dira fraude placere appetat, aut tanto venetur crimine pacem? sed quia frater erat, licet illius oderit actus omnibus odibiles, fraternæ foedera pacis non negat indigno, nec eum privavit amore, ipsum qui nuper regno privare volebat." the vicissitudes to which the county of evreux was doomed to be subject, did not wholly cease upon its annexation to the crown of france. it passed, in the fourteenth century, into the hands of the kings of navarre, so as to form a portion of their foreign territory; and early in the fifteenth, it fell by right of conquest under english sovereignty.--philip the bold conferred it, in , upon louis, his youngest son; and from him descended the line of counts of evreux, who, originating in the royal family of france, became kings of navarre. the kingdom was brought into the family by the marriage of philip count of evreux with jane daughter of louis hutin, king of france and navarre, to whom she succeeded as heir general. charles iiird, of navarre, ceded evreux by treaty to his namesake, charles vith of france, in ; and he shortly after bestowed it upon john stuart, lord of aubigni, and constable of scotland.--under henry vth, our countrymen took the city in , but we were not long allowed to hold undisturbed possession of it; for, in , it was recaptured by the french. their success, however, was only ephemeral: the battle of verneuil replaced evreux in the power of the english before the expiration of the same year; and we kept it till , when the garrison was surprised, and the town lost, though not without a vigorous resistance.--towards the close of the following century, the earldom was raised into a _duché pairie_, by charles ixth, who, having taken the lordship of gisors from his brother, the duc d'alençon, better known by his subsequent title of duc d'anjou, recompenced him by a grant of evreux. upon the death of this prince without issue, in , evreux reverted to the crown, and the title lay dormant till , when louis xivth exchanged the earldom with the duc de bouillon, in return for the principality of sedan. in his family it remained till the revolution, which, amalgamating the whole of france into one common mass of equal rights and laws, put an end to all local privileges and other feudal tenures. evreux, at present, is a town containing about eight thousand inhabitants, a great proportion of whom are persons of independent property, or _rentiers_, as the french call them. hence it has an air of elegance, seldom to be found in a commercial, and never in a manufacturing town; and to us this appearance was the more striking, as being the first instance of the kind we had seen in normandy. the streets are broad and beautifully neat. the city stands in the midst of gardens and orchards, in a fertile valley, watered by the iton, and inclosed towards the north and south by ranges of hills. the river divides into two branches before it reaches the town, both which flow on the outside of the walls. but, besides these, a portion of its waters has been conducted through the centre of the city, by means of a canal dug by the order of jane of navarre. this iton, like the mole, in kent, suddenly loses itself in the ground, near the little town of damville, about twenty miles south of evreux, and holds its subterranean course for nearly two miles. a similar phenomenon is observable with a neighboring stream, the risle, between ferrière and grammont[ ]: in both cases it is attributed, i know not with what justice, to an abrupt change in the stratification of the soil. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : this curious transaction, which took place in the year , is related with considerable _näiveté_ by ordericus vitalis, p. , as follows:--"henricus rex rebellibus ultrà parcere nolens, pagum ebroicensem adiit, et ebroas cum valida manu impugnare coepit. sed oppidanis, qui intrinsecus erant, cum civibus viriliter repugnantibus, introire nequivit. erant cum illo ricardus filius ejus, et stephanus comes nepos ejus, radulfus de guader, et maxima vis normannorum. quibus ante regem convocatis in unnm, rex dixit ad audinum episcopum. "videsne, domine præsul, quòd repellimur ab hostibus, nec eos nisi per ignem subjugare poterimus? verùm, si ignis immittitur, ecclesiæ comburentur, et insontibus ingens damnum inferetur. nunc ergo, pastor ecclesiæ, diligentèr considera, et quod utilius prospexeris providè nobis insinua. si victoria nobis per incendium divinitùs conceditur, opitulante deo, ecclesiæ detrimenta restaurabuntur: quia de thesauris nostris commodos sumptus gratantèr largiemur. unde domus dei, ut reor, in melius reædificabuntur." hæsitat in tanto discrimine præsul auxius, ignorat quid jubeat divinæ dispositioni competentius: nescit quid debeat magis velle vel eligere salubrius. tandem prudentum consultu præcepit ignem immitti, et civitatem concremari, ut ab anathematizatis proditoribus liberaretur, et legitimis habitatoribus restitueretur. radulfus igitur de guader a parte aquilonali primus ignem injecit, et effrenis flamma per urbem statim volavit, et omnia (tempos enim autumni siccum erat) corripuit. tunc combusta est basilica sancti salvatoris, quam sanctimoniales incolebant, et celebris aula gloriosæ virginis et matris mariæ, cui præsul et clerus serviebant, ubi pontificalem curiam parochiani frequentabant. rex, et cuncti optimales sui episcopo pro ecclesiarum combustione vadimonium supplicitèr dederunt, et uberes impensas de opibus suis ad restaurationem earum palam spoponderunt."] [footnote : _duchesne, scriptores normanni_, p. .] [footnote : _gallia christiana_, xi. p. .] [footnote : from the manner in, which ducarel speaks of these statues, (_anglo-norman antiquities_, p. .) he leaves it to be understood, that they were in existence in his time; but it is far from certain that this was the case; for the whole of his account of them is no more than a translation from the following passage in le brasseur's _histoire du comté d'evreux_, p. .--"le diocèse d'evreux a été si favorisé des grâces de dieu, qu'on ne voit presqu'aucun temps où l'hérésie y ait pénétré, même lorsque les protestans inondoient et corrompoient toute la france, et particulierement la normandie. on ne peut pas cependant desavoüer qu'il y a eu de temps en temps, quelques personnes qui se sont livrées à l'erreur; et l'on peut remarquer quatre statuës attachées à deux piliers au dehors du chancel de l'eglise cathédrale du côté du cimetiere, dont trois représentent trois chanoines, la tête couverte de leurs aumuces selon la coûtume de ce temps-là, et une quatrième qui représente un chanoine à un pilier plus éloigné, la tête nuë, tenant sa main sur le coeur comme un signe de son repentir; parce que la tradition dit, qu'aïant été atteint et convaincu du crime d'hérésie, le chapitre l'avoit interdit des fonctions de son bénéfice; mais qu'aïant ensuite abjuré son erreur, le même chapitre le rétablit dans tous ses droits, honneurs, et privileges: cependant il fut ordonné qu'en mémoire de l'égarement et de la pénitence de ce chanoine, ces statuës demeureroient attachées aux piliers de leur eglise, lorsqu'elle fût rébâtie des deniers de henry i. roy d'angleterre, par les soins d'audoenus evêque d'evreux."] [footnote : this was not the first, nor the only, contest, which was fought by taurinus with satan. their struggles began at the moment of the saint's coming to evreux, and did not even terminate when his life was ended. but the devil was, by the power of his adversary, brought to such a helpless state, that, though he continued to haunt the city, where the people knew him by the name of _gobelinus_, he was unable to injure any one.--all this is seriously related by ordericus vitalis, (p. .) from whom i extract the following passage, in illustration of what evreux was supposed to owe to its first bishop.--"grassante secundâ persecutione, quæ sub domitiano in christianos furuit, dionysius parisiensis episcopus taurinum filiolum suum jam quadragenarium, præsulem ordinavit; et (vaticinatis pluribus quæ passurus erat) ebroicensibus in nomine domini direxit. viro dei ad portas civitatis appropinquanti, dæmon in tribus figmentis se opposuit: scilicet in specie ursi, et leonis, et bubali terrere athletam christi voluit. sed ille fortiter, ut inexpugnabilis murus, in fide perstitit, et coeptum iter peregit, hospitiumque in domo lucii suscepit. tertia die, dum taurinus ibidem populo prædicaret, et dulcedo fidei novis auditoribus multùm placeret, dolens diabolus eufrasiam lucii filiam vexare coepit, et in ignem jecit. quæ statim mortua est; sed paulò pòst, orante taurino ac jubente ut resurgeret, in nomine domini resuscitata est. nullum in ea adustionis signum apparuit. omnes igitur hoc miraculum videntes subitò territi sunt, et obstupescentes in dominum jesum christum crediderunt. in illa die cxx. homines baptizati sunt. octo cæci illuminati, et quatuor multi sanati, aliique plures ex diversis infirmitatibus in nomine domini sunt curati."] [footnote : _masson de st. amand, essais historiques sur evreux_, i. p. .] [footnote : _duchesne, scriptores normanni_, p. .] [footnote : for this observation, as well as for several others touching evreux and pont-audemer, i have to express my acknowledgments to mr. cotman's memoranda.] [footnote : _le brasseur, histoire du comté d'evreux_, p. .] [footnote : _duchesne, scriptores normanni_, p. .] [footnote : _goube, histoire du duché de normandie_, iii. p. .] letter xix. vicinity of evreux--chÂteau de navarre--cocherel--pont-audemer --montfort-sur-risle--harfleur--bourg-achard--french wedding. (_bourg-achard, july_, .) evreux is seldom visited by the english; and none of our numerous absentees have thought fit to settle here, though the other parts of normandy are filled with families who are suffering under the sentence of self-banishment. it is rather surprising, that this town has not obtained its share of english settlers: the air is good, provisions are cheap, and society is agreeable. those, too, if such there be, who are attracted by historical reminiscences, will find themselves on historical ground. the premier viscount of the british parliament derives his name from evreux; though, owing to a slight alteration in spelling and to our peculiar pronunciation, it has now become so completely anglicised, that few persons, without reflection, would recognize a descendant of the comtes d'evreux, in henry devereux, viscount of hereford. the norman origin of this family is admitted by the genealogists and heralds, both of france and of england; and the fate of the earl of essex is invariably introduced in the works of those authors, who have written upon evreux or its honors. it would have been unpardonable to have quitted evreux, without rambling to the château de navarre, which is not more than a mile and half distant from the town.--this château, whose name recals an interesting period in the history of the earldom, was originally a royal residence. it was erected in the middle of the fourteenth century by jane of france, who, with a very pardonable vanity, directed her new palace to be called navarre, that her norman subjects might never forget that she was herself a queen, and that she had brought a kingdom as a marriage portion to her husband. her son, charles the bad, a prince whose turbulent and evil disposition caused so much misfortune to france, was born here. happy too had it been for him, had he here closed his eyes before he entered upon the wider theatre of the world! during his early days passed at navarre, he is said to have shewn an ingenuousness of disposition and some traits of generosity, which gave rise to hopes that were miserably falsified by his future life.--the present edifice, however, a modern french château, retains nothing more than the name of the structure which was built by the queen, and which was levelled with the ground, in the year , by the duc de bouillon, the lord of the country, who erected the present mansion. his descendants resided here till the revolution, at which time they emigrated, and the estate became national property. it remained for a considerable period unoccupied, and was at last granted to joséphine, by her imperial husband. at present, the domain belongs to her son, prince eugene, by whom the house has lately been stripped of its furniture. many of the fine trees in the park have also been cut down, and the whole appears neglected and desolate. his mother did not like navarre: he himself never saw it: the queen of holland alone used occasionally to reside here.--the principal beauty of the place lies in its woods; and these we saw to the greatest advantage. it was impossible for earth or sky to look more lovely.--the house is of stone, with large windows; and an ill-shaped dome rises in the centre. the height of the building is somewhat greater than its width, which makes it appear top-heavy; and every thing about it is formal; but the noble avenue, the terrace-steps, great lanthorns, iron gates, and sheets of water on either side of the approach, are upon an extensive scale, and in a fine baronial style.--yet, still they are inferior to the accompaniments of the same nature which are found about many noblemen's residences in england.--the hall, which is spacious, has a striking effect, being open to the dome. its sides are painted with military trophies, and with the warlike instruments of the four quarters of the globe. we saw nothing else in the house worthy of notice. it is merely a collection of apartments of moderate size; and, empty and dirty as they were, they appeared to great disadvantage. in the midst of the solitude of desolation, some ordinary portraits of the bouillon family still remain upon the walls, as if in mockery of departed greatness. we were unable to direct our course to cocherel, a village about sixteen miles distant, on the road to vernon, celebrated as the spot where a battle was fought, in the fourteenth century, between the troops of navarre, and those of france, commanded by du guesclin.--i notice this place, because it is possible that, if excavations were made there, those antiquaries who delight in relics of the remotest age of european history, might win many prizes. a tomb of great curiosity was discovered in the year ; and celts, and stone hatchets, and other implements, belonging, as it is presumed, to the original inhabitants of the country, have been found beneath the soil. many of these are described and figured by the abbé de cocherel, in a paper full of curious erudition, subjoined to le brasseur's _history of evreux_. the hatchets resembled those frequently dug up in england; but they were more perfect, inasmuch as some of them were fastened in deers' horns, and had handles attached to them; thus clearly indicating the manner in which they were used.--the place of burial differed, i believe, in its internal arrangement from any sepulchral monument, whether cromlech, carnedd, or barrow, that has been opened in our own country. three sides of it were rudely faced with large stones: within were contained about twenty skeletons, lying in a row, close to each other, north and south, their arms pressed to their sides. the head of each individual rested on a stone, fashioned with care, but to no certain pattern. some were fusiform, others wedge-shaped, and others irregularly oblong. in general, the stones did not appear to be the production of the country. one was oriental jade, another german agate. in the tomb were also a few cinerary urns; whence it appears that the people, by whom it was constructed, were of a nation that was at once in the habit of burning, and of interring, their dead. from these facts, the abbé finds room for much ingenious conjecture; and, after discussing the relative probabilities of the sepulchre having been a burying-place of the gauls, the jews, the druids, the normans, or the huns, he decides, though with some hesitation, in favor of the last of these opinions. from evreux we went by brionne to pont-audemer: at first the road is directed through an open country, without beauty or interest; but the prospect improved upon us when we joined the rapid sparkling _risle_, which waters a valley of great richness, bounded on either side by wooded hills.--of brionne itself i shall soon have a better opportunity of speaking; as we purpose stopping there on our way to caen. a few miles before brionne, we passed harcourt, the ancient barony of the noble family still flourishing in england, and existing in france. it is a small country town, remarkable only for some remains of a castle[ ], built by robert de harcourt, fifth in descent from bernard the dane, chief counsellor, and second in command to rollo. the blood of the dane is in the present earl of harcourt: he traces his lineage in a direct line from robert, the builder of the castle, who accompanied the conqueror into england, and fell in battle by his side. pont-audemer is a small, neat, country town, situated upon the risle, which here, within ten miles of its junction with the seine, is enlarged into a river of considerable magnitude. but its channel, in the immediate vicinity of the town, divides into several small streams; and thus it loses much of its dignity, though the change is highly advantageous to picturesque beauty, and to the conveniences of trade. mills stand on some of these streams, but most of them are applied to the purposes of tanning; for leather is the staple manufacture of the place, and the hides prepared at pont-audemer are thought to be the best in france. from brionne the valley of the risle preserves a width of about a mile, or a mile and half: at pont-audemer it becomes somewhat narrower, and the town stretches immediately across it, instead of being built along the banks of the river.--the inhabitants are thus enabled to avail themselves of the different streams which intersect it. tradition refers the origin, as well as the name of pont-audemer, to a chief, called aldemar or odomar, who ruled over a portion of gaul in the fifth century, and who built a bridge here.--these legendary heroes abound in topography, but it is scarcely worth while to discuss their existence. in norman times pont-audemer was a military station. the nobility of the province, always turbulent, but never more so than during the reign of henry ist, had availed themselves of the opportunity afforded by the absence of the monarch, and by his domestic misfortunes, to take up arms in the cause of the son of robert. henry landed at the mouth of the seine, and it was at pont-audemer that the first conflict took place between him and his rebellious subjects. the latter were defeated, and the fortress immediately surrendered; but, in the early part of the fourteenth century, it appears to have been of greater strength: it had been ceded by king john of france to the count of evreux, and it resisted all the efforts of its former lord during a siege of six weeks, at the end of which time his generals were obliged to retire, with the loss of their military engines and artillery. this siege is memorable in history, as the first in which it is known that cannon were employed in france.--pont-audemer, still in possession of the kings of navarre, withstood a second siege, towards the conclusion of the same century, but with less good fortune than before. it was taken by the constable du guesclin, and, according to froissart[ ], "the castle was razed to the ground, though it had cost large sums to erect; and the walls and towers of the town were destroyed." st. ouen, the principal church in the place, is a poor edifice. it bears, however, some tokens of remote age: such are the circular arches in the choir, and a curious capital, on which are represented two figures in combat, of rude sculpture.--a second church, that of notre dame des prés, now turned into a tan-house, exhibits an architectural feature which is altogether novel. over the great entrance, it has a string-course, apparently intended to represent a corbel-table, though it does not support any superior member; and the intermediate spaces between the corbels, instead of being left blank, as usual, are filled with sculptured stones, which project considerably, though less than the corbels with which they alternate. there is something of the same kind, but by no means equally remarkable, over the arcades above the west door-way of castle-acre priory[ ]. neither mr. cotman's memory, nor my own, will furnish another example.--the church of notre dame des prés is of the period when the pointed style was beginning to be employed. the exterior is considerably injured: to the interior we could not obtain admission. the suburbs of pont-audemer furnish another church dedicated to st. germain, which would have been an excellent subject for both pen and pencil, had it undergone less alteration. the short, thick, square, central tower has, on each side, a row of four windows, of nearly the earliest pointed style; many of the windows of the body of the church have semi-circular heads; the corbels which extend in a line round the nave and transepts are strangely grotesque; and, on the north side of the eastern extremity, is a semi-circular chapel, as at st. georges.--the inside is dark and gloomy, the floor unpaved, and every thing in and about it in a state of utter neglect, except some dozen saints, all in the gayest attire, and covered with artificial flowers. the capitals of the columns are in the true norman style. those at st. georges are scarcely more fantastic, or more monstrous.--between two of the arches of the choir, on the south side of this church, is the effigy of a man in his robes, coifed with a close cap, lying on an altar-tomb. the figure is much mutilated; but the style of the canopy-work over the head indicates that it is not of great antiquity. the feet of the statue rest upon a dog, who is busily occupied in gnawing a marrow-bone.--dogs at the base of monumental effigies are common, and they have been considered as symbols of fidelity and honor; but surely the same is not intended to be typified by a dog thus employed; and it is not likely that his being so is a mere caprice of the sculptor's.--there is no inscription upon the monument; nor could we learn whom it is intended to commemorate. at but a short distance from pont-audemer, higher up the risle, lies the yet smaller town of montfort, near which are still to be traced, the ruins of a castle,[ ] memorable for the thirty days' siege, which it supported from the army of henry ist, in ; and dismantled by charles vth, at the same time that he razed the fortifications of pont-audemer. the baron of montfort yet ranks in our peerage; though i am not aware that the nobleman, who at present bears the title, boasts a descent from any part of the family of _hugh with a beard_, the owner of montfort at the time of the conquest, and one of the conqueror's attendants at the battle of hastings. from pont-audemer we proceeded to honfleur: it was market-day at the place which we had quitted, and the throng of persons who passed us on the road, gave great life and variety to the scene. there was scarcely an individual from whom we did not receive a friendly smile or nod, accompanied by a _bon jour_; for the practice obtains commonly in france, among the peasants, of saluting those whom they consider their superiors. almost all that were going to market, whether male or female, were mounted on horses or asses; and their fruit, vegetables, butchers' meat, live fowls, and live sheep, were indiscriminately carried in the same way. about a league before we arrived at honfleur, a distant view of the eastern banks of the river opened upon us from the summit of a hill, and we felt, or fancied that we felt, "the air freshened from the wave." as we descended, the ample seine, here not less than nine miles in width, suddenly displayed itself, and we had not gone far before we came in sight of honfleur. the mist occasioned by the intense heat, prevented us from seeing distinctly the opposite towns of havre and harfleur: we could only just discern the spire of the latter, and the long projecting line of the piers and fortifications of havre. the great river rolls majestically into the british channel between these two points, and forms the bay of honfleur. about four miles higher up the stream where it narrows, the promontories of quilleboeuf and of tancarville close the prospect.--honfleur itself is finely situated: valleys, full of meadows of the liveliest green, open to the seine in the immediate vicinity of the town; and the hills with which it is backed are beautifully clothed with foliage to the very edge of the water. the trees, far from being stunted and leafless, as on the eastern coast of england, appear as if they were indebted to their situation for a verdure of unusual luxuriancy. a similar line of hills borders the seine on either side, as far as the eye can reach. it was unfortunate for us, that we entered the town at low water, when the empty harbor and slimy river could scarcely fail to prepossess us unfavorably. the quays are faced with stone, and the two basins are fine works, and well adapted for commerce. this part of honfleur reminded us of dieppe; but the houses, though equally varied in form and materials, are not equally handsome.--still less so are the churches; and a picturesque castle is wholly wanting.--in the principal object of my journey to honfleur, my expectations were completely frustrated. i had been told at rouen, that i should here find a very ancient wooden church, and our imagination had pictured to us one equally remarkable as that of greensted, in essex, and probably constructed in the same manner, of massy trunks of trees. with the usual anticipation of an antiquary, i imagined that i should discover a parallel to that most singular building; which, as every body knows, is one of the greatest architectural curiosities in england. but, alas! i was sadly disappointed. the wooden church of honfleur, so old in the report of my informant, is merely a thing of yesterday, certainly not above two hundred and fifty years of age; and, though it is undeniably of wood, within and without, the walls are made, as in most of the houses in the town, of a timber frame filled with clay. there is another church in honfleur, but it was equally without interest. thus baffled, we walked to the heights above the town: at the top of the cliff was a crowd of people, some of them engaged in devotion near a large wooden crucifix, others enjoying themselves at different games, or sitting upon the neat stone benches, which are scattered plentifully about the walks in this charming situation. the neighboring little chapel of notre dame de grace is regarded as a building of great sanctity, and is especially resorted to by sailors, a class of people who are superstitious, all the world over. it abounds with their votive tablets. from the roof and walls "pendono intorno in lungo ordine i voti, che vi portaro i creduli divoti." among the pictures, we counted nineteen, commemorative of escape from shipwreck, all of them painted after precisely the same pattern: a stormy sea, a vessel in distress, and the virgin holding the infant savior in her arms, appearing through a black cloud in the corner,--in the catholic ritual, the holy virgin, is termed _maris stella_, and she is καÏ�' εξοÏ�ην [english. not in original: pre-eminently, especially, above all] the protectress of normandy. honfleur is still a fortified town; but it does not appear a place of much strength, nor is it important in any point of view. its trade is inconsiderable, and its population does not amount to nine thousand inhabitants. but in the year , while in the hands of our countrymen, it sustained a siege of a month's duration from the king of france; and, in the following century, it had the distinction, attended with but little honor, of being the last place in the kingdom that held out for the league. from honfleur we would fain have returned by sanson-sur-risle and foullebec, at both which villages m. le prevost had led us to expect curious churches; but our postillion assured us that the roads were wholly impassable. we were therefore compelled to allow mr. cotman to visit them alone, while we retraced a portion of our steps through the valley of the risle, and then took an eastern direction to bourg-achard in our way to rouen. bourg-achard was the seat of an abbey, built by the monks of falaise, in : it was originally dedicated to st. lô; but st. eustatius, the favorite saint of this part of the country, afterwards became its patron. before the revolution, his skull was preserved in the sacristy of the convent, enchased in a bust of silver gilt[ ]; and even now, when the relic has been consigned to its kindred dust, and the shrine to the furnace, and the abbey has been levelled with the ground, there remains in the parochial church a fragment of sculpture, which evidently represented the miracle that led to eustatius' conversion.--the knight, indeed, is gone, and the cross has disappeared from between the horns of the stag; but the horse and the deer, are left, and their position indicates the legend.--the church of bourg-achard has been materially injured. the whole of the building, from the transept westward, has been taken down; but it deserves a visit, if only as retaining a _bénitier_ of ancient form and workmanship, and a leaden font. of the latter, i send you a drawing. leaden fonts are of very rare occurrence in england[ ], and i never saw or heard of another such in france: indeed, a baptismal font of any kind is seldom to be seen in a french church, and the vessels used for containing the holy water, are in most cases nothing more than small basins in the form of escalop shells, affixed to the wall, or to some pillar near the entrance.--it is possible that the fonts were removed and sold during the revolution, as they were in our own country, by the ordinance of the houses of parliament, after the deposition of charles ist; but this is a mere conjecture on my own part. it is also possible that they may be kept in the sacristy, where i have certainly seen them in some cases. in earlier times, they not only existed in every church, but were looked upon with superstitious reverence. they are frequently mentioned in the decrees of ecclesiastical councils; some of which provide for keeping them clean and locked; others for consigning the keys of them to proper officers; others direct that they should never be without water; and others that nothing profane should be laid upon them[ ]. [illustration: leaden font at bourg-achard] as we were at breakfast this morning, a procession, attended by a great throng, passed our windows, and we were invited by our landlady to go to the church and see the wedding of two of the principal persons of the parish, we accepted the proposal; and, though the same ceremony has been witnessed by thousands of englishmen, yet i doubt whether it has been described by any one.--the bride was a girl of very interesting appearance, dressed wholly in white: even her shoes were white, and a bouquet of white roses, jessamine, and orange-flowers, was placed in her bosom.--the mayor of the town conducted her to the altar. previously to the commencement of the service, the priest stated aloud that the forms required by law, for what is termed the civil marriage, had been completed. it was highly necessary that he should do so; for, according to the present code, a minister of any persuasion, who proceeds to the religious ceremonies of marriage before the parties have been married by the magistrate, is subject to very heavy penalties, to imprisonment, and to transportation. indeed, going to church at all for the purpose of marriage, is quite a work of supererogation, and may be omitted or not, just as the parties please; the law requiring no other proof of a marriage, beyond the certificate recorded in the municipal registry. after this most important preliminary, the priest exhorted every one present, under pain of excommunication, to declare if they knew of any impediment: this, however, was merely done for the purpose of keeping up the dignity of the church, for the knot was already tied as fast as it ever could be. he then read a discourse upon the sanctity of the marriage compact, and the excellence of the wedded state among the catholics, compared to what prevailed formerly among the jews and heathens, who degraded it by frequent divorces and licentiousness. the parties now declared their mutual consent, and his reverence enjoined each to be to the other "comme un époux fidèle et de lui tenir fidélité en toutes choses."--the ring was presented to the minister by one of the acolytes, upon a gold plate; and, before he directed the bridegroom to place it upon the finger of the lady, he desired him to observe that it was a symbol of marriage.--during the whole of the service two other acolytes were stationed in front of the bride and bridegroom, each holding in his hands a lighted taper; and near the conclusion, while they knelt before the altar, a pall of flowered brocade was stretched behind them, as emblematic of their union. holy water was not forgotten; for, in almost every rite of the catholic church, the mystic sanctification by water and by fire continually occurs.--the ceremony ended by the priest's receiving the sacrament himself, but without administering it to any other individual present. having taken it, he kissed the paten which had contained the holy elements, and all the party did the same: each, too, in succession, put a piece of money into a cup, to which we also were invited to contribute, for the love of the holy virgin.--they entered by the south door, but the great western portal was thrown open as they left the church; and by that they departed. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : _masson de st. amand, essais historiques sur evreux_, i. p. .] [footnote : _johnes' translation_, vo, iv. p. .] [footnote : see _britten's architectural antiquities_, iii. t. .] [footnote : _goube, histoire de normandie_, iii. .] [footnote : _histoire de la haute normandie_, ii. p. .] [footnote : mr. gough, (see _archæologia_, x. p. .) whose attention had been much directed to this subject, seems to have known only four fonts made of lead, in the kingdom;--at brookland in kent, dorchester in oxfordshire, wareham in dorsetshire, and walmsford in northamptonshire; but there are in all probability many more. we have at least four in norfolk. he says, "they are supposed to be of high antiquity; and that at brookland may have relation to the time of birinus himself. to what circumstance the others are to be referred, or from what other church brought, does not appear."--the leaden fonts which i have seen, have all been raised upon a basis of brick or stone, like this at bourg-achard, and are all of nearly the same pattern.] [footnote : see _concilia normannica_, ii. pp. , , , , , &c] letter xx. moulineaux--castle of robert the devil--bourg-theroude--abbey of bec--brionne. (_brionne, july_, .) having accomplished the objects which we had proposed to ourselves in rouen and its vicinity, we set out this morning upon our excursion to the western parts of the province. our first stage, to moulineaux, was by the same road by which we returned a few days ago from bourg-achard. it is a delightful ride, through the valley of the seine, here of great width, stretching to our left in an uninterrupted course of flat open country, but, on our right hand, bordered at no great distance by the ridge of steep chalky cliffs which line the bank of the river. the road appears to have been a work of considerable labor: it is every where raised, and in some places as high as fifteen feet above the level of the fields on either side.--agriculture in this district is conducted, as about paris, upon the plan called by the french _la petite culture_: the fields are all divided into narrow strips; so that a piece of not more than two or three acres, frequently produces eight or ten different crops, some of grain, others of culinary vegetables, at the same time that many of these portions are planted with apple and cherry trees. the land is all open and uninclosed: not a fence is to be seen; nor do there even appear to be any balks or head-marks. strangers therefore who come, like us, from a country entirely inclosed, cannot refrain from frequent expressions of surprise how it is that every person here is enabled to tell the limits of his own property. moulineaux is a poor village, a mere assemblage of cottages, with mud walls and thatched roofs. but the church is interesting, though desecrated and verging to ruin. even now the outside alone is entire. the interior is gutted and in a state of absolute neglect.--the building is of the earliest pointed style: its lancet-windows are of the plainest kind, being destitute of side pillars: in some of the windows are still remains of handsome painted glass.--either the antiquaries in france are more honest than in england, or they want taste, or objects of this kind do not find a ready market. we know too well how many an english church, albeit well guarded by the churchwardens and the parson, has seen its windows despoiled of every shield, and saint, and motto; and we also know full well, by whom, and for whom, such ravages are committed. in france, on the contrary, where painted glass still fills the windows of sacred buildings, now employed for the meanest purposes, or wholly deserted, no one will even take the trouble of carrying it away; and the storied panes are left, as derelicts utterly without value.--the east end of the church at moulineaux is semi-circular; the roof is of stone, handsomely groined, and the groinings spring from fanciful corbels. on either side of the nave, near the choir, is a recess in the wall, carved with tabernacle-work, and serving for a piscina. recesses of this kind, though of frequent occurrence in english churches, do not often appear in france. still less common are those elaborate screens of carved timber, often richly gilt or gorgeously painted, which separate the nave from the chancel in the churches of many of our smaller villages at home. the only one i ever recollect to have seen in france was at moulineaux.--i also observed a mutilated pillar, which originally supported the altar, ornamented with escalop shells and fleurs-de-lys in bold relief. it reminded me of one figured in the _antiquarian repertory_, from harold's chapel, in battle abbey[ ]. immediately after leaving moulineaux, the road winds along the base of a steep chalk hill, whose brow is crowned by the remains of the famous castle of robert the devil, the father of richard fearnought. robert the devil is a mighty hero of romance; but there is some difficulty in discovering his historical prototype. could we point out his _gestes_ in the chronicle, they would hardly outvalue his adventures, as they are recorded in the nursery tale. robert haunts this castle, which appears to have been of great extent, though its ruins are very indistinct. the walls on the southern side are rents, and covered with brush-wood; and no architectural feature is discernible. wide and deep fosses encircle the site, which is undermined by spacious crypts and subterraneous caverns.--the fortress is evidently of remote, but uncertain, antiquity: it was dismantled by king john when he abandoned the duchy. the historians of normandy say that it was re-fortified during the civil wars; and the fact is not destitute of probability, as its position is bold and commanding. bourg-theroude, our next stage, is one of those places which are indebted to their names alone for the little importance they possess. at present, it is a small assemblage of mean houses, most of them inns; but its latin appellation, _burgus thuroldi_, commemorates no less a personage than one of the preceptors of william the conqueror, and his grand constable at the time when he effected the conquest of england.--the name of turold occurs upon the bayeux tapestry, designating one of the ambassadors dispatched by the norman duke to guy, earl of ponthieu; and it is supposed that the turold there represented was the grand constable[ ].--the church of bourg-theroude, which was collegiate before the revolution, is at present uninteresting in every point of view. about half way from this place to brionne, we came in sight of the remains of the celebrated abbey of bec, situated a mile and half or two miles distant to our right, at the extremity of a beautiful valley. we had been repeatedly assured that scarcely one stone of this formerly magnificent building was left upon another; but it would have shewn an unpardonable want of curiosity to have passed so near without visiting it: even to stand upon the spot which such a monastery originally covered is a privilege not lightly to be foregone:-- "the pilgrim who journeys all day, to visit some far distant shrine; if he bear but a relic away, is happy, nor heard to repine."-- and _happiness_ of this kind would on such an occasion infallibly fall to your lot and to mine. a love for botany or for antiquities would equally furnish _relics_ on a similar _pilgrimage_. as usual, the accounts which we had received proved incorrect. the greater part of the conventual edifice still exists, but it has no kind of architectural value. some detached portions, whose original use it would be difficult now to conjecture, appear, from their wide pointed windows, to be of the fifteenth century. the other buildings were probably erected within the last fifty years.--the part inhabited by the monks is at this time principally employed as a cotton-mill; and, were it in england, nobody would suspect that it ever had any other destination. of the church, the tower[ ] only is in existence. i find no account of its date; though authors have been unusually profuse in their details of all particulars relating to this monastery. i am inclined to refer it to the beginning of the seventeenth century, in which case it was built shortly after the destruction of the nave. its character is simple, solid elegance. its ornaments are few, but they are selected and disposed with judgment. each corner is flanked by two buttresses, which unite at top, and there terminate in a crocketed pinnacle. the buttresses are also ornamented with tabernacles of saints at different heights; and one of the tabernacles upon each buttress, about mid-way up the tower, still retains a statue as large as life, of apparently good workmanship. they were fortunately too high for the democrats to destroy with ease. the height of the tower is one hundred and fifty feet, as i found by the staircase of two hundred steps, which remains uninjured, in a circular turret attached to the south side. the termination of this turret is the most singular part of the structure: it is surmounted by a cap, considerably higher than the pinnacles, and composed, like a bee-hive, of a number of circles, each smaller than the one below it. a few ruined arches of the east end of the church, and of one of the side chapels are also existing. the rest is levelled with the ground, and has probably been in a great measure destroyed lately; for piles of wrought stones are heaped up on all sides. if historical recollections or architectural beauty could have proved a protection in the days of revolution, the church of bec had undoubtedly stood. ducarel, who saw it in its perfection, says it was one of the finest gothic structures in france; and his account of it, though only an abridgement of that given by du plessis, in his _history of upper normandy_, is curious and valuable.--mr. gough states the annual income of the abbey at the period of the revolution, to have exceeded twenty thousand crowns. its patronage was most extensive: the monks presented to one hundred and sixty advowsons, two of them in the metropolis; and thirty other ecclesiastical benefices, as well priories as chapels, were in their gift[ ].--its possessions, as we may collect from the various charters and donations, might have led us to expect a larger revenue. the estates belonging to the monastery in england, prior to the reformation, were both numerous and valuable. sammarthanus, author of the _gallia christiana_, says, in speaking of bec, that, whether considered as to religion or literature, there was not, in the eleventh century, a more celebrated convent throughout the whole of neustria. the founder of the abbey was hellouin, sometimes called herluin, a nobleman, descended by the mother's side from the counts of flanders, but he himself was a native of the territory of brionne, and educated in the castle of gislebert, earl of that district. hellouin determined, at an early age, to withdraw himself from the court and from the world: it seems he was displeased or affronted by the conduct of the earl; and we may collect from the chroniclers, that it was not a very easy task in those times for an individual of rank, intent upon monastic seclusion, to carry his purpose into effect, and that still greater difficulties were to be encountered if he wished to put his property into mortmain. hellouin was obliged to counterfeit madness, and at last to come to a very painful explanation with his liege lord; and, when he finally succeeded in obtaining the permission he craved, his establishment was so poor, that he was compelled to take upon himself the office of abbot, from an inability to find any other person who would accept it.--the monkish historians lavish their praises upon hellouin. they assign to him every virtue under heaven; but they particularly laud him for his humility and industry: all day long he worked as a laborer in the building of his convent, whilst the night was passed in committing the psalter to memory. at this period of his life, a curious anecdote is recorded of him: curious in itself, as illustrative of the character of the man; and particularly curious, in being quoted as matter of commendation, and thus serving to illustrate the feelings of a great body of the community.--his mother, who shared in the pious disposition of her son, had attached herself to the convent to assist in the menial offices; and one day, while she was thus engaged, the building caught fire, and she perished in the flames; upon which, hellouin, though bathed in tears, lifted up his hands to heaven, and gave thanks to god that his parent had been burned to death in the midst of an occupation of humility and piety! during the life of hellouin, the abbey was twice levelled with the ground: on each occasion it rose more splendid from its ruins, and on each the site was changed, till at length it was fixed upon the spot from which its ruins are now vanishing. the whole of normandy would scarcely furnish a more desirable situation. under the prelacy of hellouin, bec increased rapidly in celebrity, and consequently in the number of its inmates: it was principally indebted for this increase to an accidental circumstance. lanfranc, a native of pavia, a lawyer in italy, but a monk in france, after having visited various monasteries, and distinguished himself by defending the doctrine of the real presence, then impugned by berengarius, established himself here in the year , and immediately opened a school, which, to judge from the language of ordericus vitalis[ ], seems to have been the first ever known in normandy. scholars from france, from england, and from flanders, hastened to place themselves under his care; his fame, according to william of malmesbury, went forth into the outer parts of the earth; and bec, under his auspices, became a most celebrated resort of literature. to borrow the more copious account given by william of jumieges--"report quickly spread the glory of bec, and of its abbot, hellouin, through every land. the clergy, the sons of dukes, the most eminent schoolmasters, the most powerful of the laity, and the nobility, all hastened hither. many, actuated by love for lanfranc, gave their lands to the convent. the abbey was enriched with ornaments, with possessions, and with noble inmates. religion and learning increased; property of all kinds abounded; and the monks, who but a few years before, could scarcely command sufficient ground for the site of their own building, now saw their estates extend for many miles in a lengthening line."--promotion followed the fame of lanfranc, who soon became abbot of the royal monastery of st. stephen, at caen, and thence was translated to the archiepiscopal see of canterbury. it was the rare good fortune of bec, that the abbey furnished two successive metropolitans to the english church, both of them selected for their erudition, lanfranc and anselm. it is not a little remarkable, too, that both were italians. lanfranc, whilst archbishop of canterbury, presided in the year , at the dedication of the third church built at bec. we may judge how far the abbey had at that time increased in consequence; for five bishops, one of them brother to the conqueror, honored the ceremony with their presence; and the nobles and ladies of france, normandy, and england crowded to the spot, to refresh their bodies by the pleasures of the festival, and their souls by endowments to the convent. in the fifteenth century, when our henry vth brought his victorious armies into france, the monks of bec were reduced to a painful alternative. it was apprehended by the french monarch, that the monastery might be converted into a dépôt by the english; and they were commanded either to demolish the church, or to fortify it against the invaders. they naturally regarded the latter as the lesser evil; and the consequence was, that the abbey was scarcely put into a state of defence, when it was attacked by the enemy, and, after sustaining a siege for a month, was obliged to surrender. a great part of the monastic buildings were levelled to the ground; and the fortifications which had been so strangely affixed to them were also razed: meanwhile the monks suffered grievously from the contending parties: their sacristy was plundered; their treasury emptied; and they were themselves exposed to a variety of personal hardships. at the same time, also, the tomb of the empress maud[ ], which faced the high altar, was destroyed, after having been stripped of its silver ornaments. considering the number of illustrious persons who were abbots or patrons of bec, and who had been elected from it to the superintendance of other monasteries, the church does not appear to have been rich in monuments. we read indeed of many individuals who were interred here belonging to the house of neubourg, a family distinguished among the benefactors of the convent; and the records of the abbey speak also of the tomb of richard of st. leger, bishop of evreux; but the empress was the only royal personage who selected this convent as the resting-place for her remains; and she likewise appears to have been the only eminent one, except hellouin, the founder, who lay in the chapter-house, under a slab of black marble, with various figures of rude workmanship[ ] carved upon it. his epitaph has more merit than the general class of monumental inscriptions:-- "hunc spectans tumulum, titulo cognosce sepultum; est via virtutis nôsse quis ipse fuit. dum quater hic denos ævi venisset ad annos, quæ fuerant secli sprevit amore dei. mutans ergò vices, mundi de milite miles fit christi subito, monachus ex laïco. hinc sibi, more patrum, socians collegia fratrum, curâ, quâ decuit, rexit eos, aluit. quot quantasque vides, hic solus condidit ædes, non tàm divitiis quàm fidei meritis. quas puer haud didicit scripturas postea scivit, doctus ut indoctum vix sequeretur eum. flentibus hunc nobis tulit inclementia mortis sextilis quinâ bisque die decimâ. herluine pater, sic cÅ�lica scandis ovantèr; credere namque tuis hoc licet ex meritis." in number of inmates, extent of possessions, and possibly, in magnificence of buildings, other norman monasteries may have excelled bec: none equalled it in the prouder honor of being a seminary for eminent men and especially for those destined to the highest stations in the church. lanfranc and anselm were not the only two of its monks who were seated on the archiepiscopal throne at canterbury. two others, theobald and hubert obtained the same dignity in the following century; and roger, the seventh abbot of bec, enjoyed the still more enviable distinction of having been unanimously elected to fill the office of metropolitan, but of possessing sufficient firmness of mind to resist the attractions of wealth, and rank, and power. the sees of rochester, beauvais, and evreux were likewise filled by monks from bec; and it was here that many monastic establishments, both norman and foreign, found their pastors. three of our own most celebrated convents, those of chester, ely, and st. edmund's bury, received at different epochs their abbots from bec; and during the prelacy of anselm, the supreme pontiff himself selected a monk of this house as the prior of the distant convent of the holy savior at capua.--the village of bec, which adjoins the abbey, is small and unimportant. i was returning to our carriage, when a soldier invited me to walk to a part of the monastic grounds (for they are very extensive) which is appropriated to the purpose of keeping up the true breed of norman horses. the french government have several similar establishments: they consider the matter as one of national importance; and, as france has not yet produced a duke of bedford or a mr. coke, the state is obliged to undertake what would be much better effected by the energy of individuals.--a norman horse is an excellent draft horse: he is strong, bony, and well proportioned. but the natives are not content with this qualified praise: they contend that he is equally unrivalled as a saddle-horse, as a hunter, and as a charger. in this part of the country the present average price of a hussar's horse is nineteen pounds; of a dragoon's thirty-four pounds; and of an officer's eighty pounds.--these prices are considered high, but not extravagant. france abounds at this time in fine horses. the losses occasioned by the revolutionary wars, and more especially by the disastrous russian campaign, have been more than compensated by five years of peace, and by the horses that were left by the allied troops. an annual supply is also drawn from mecklenburg and the adjacent countries. importations of this kind are regarded as indispensable, to prevent a degeneration in the stock. a frenchman can scarcely be brought to believe it possible; that we in england can preserve our fine breed of horses without having recourse to similar expedients; and if at last, by dint of repeated asseverations, you succeed in obtaining a reluctant assent, the conversation is almost sure to end in a shrug of the shoulders, accompanied with the remark--"ah, vous autres anglais, vous voulez toujours voler de vos propres ailes." as we approached brionne, the face of the country became more uneven; and we passed an extensive tract of uncultivated chalk hills, resembling the downs of wiltshire.--brionne itself lies in a valley watered by the risle: the situation is agreeable, and advantageous for trade. the present number of its inhabitants does not amount to two thousand; and there is no reason to apprehend that the population has materially decreased of late years. but in the times of norman rule, brionne was a town of more importance: it had then three churches, besides an abbey and a lazar-house. at present a single church only remains; and this is neither large, nor handsome, nor ancient, nor remarkable in any point of view. we found in it a monument of the revolution, which i never saw elsewhere, and which i never expected to see at all. the age of reason was a sadly irrational age.--the tablet containing the rights and duties of man, disposed in two columns, like the tables of the mosaic law, is still suffered to exist in the church, though shorn of all its republican dignity, and degraded into the front of a pew. on the summit of a hill that overhangs the town, stood formerly the castle of the earls of brionne; and a portion of the building, though it be but an insignificant fragment, is still left. the part now standing consists of little more than two sides of the square dungeon, the walls, which are about fifty feet in height, appear crumbling and ragged, as they have lost the greater part of their original facing. yet their thickness, which even now exceeds twelve feet, may enable them to bid defiance for many a century, to "the heat of the sun, and the furious winter's rages."--nearly the half of one of the sides, which is seventy feet long, is occupied by three flat norman buttresses, of very small projection. no arched door-way, no window remains; nor any thing, except these buttresses, to give a distinct character to the architecture: the hill is so overgrown with brush-wood, that though traces of foundation are discernible in almost every part of it, no clear idea can be formed of the dimensions or plan of the building. its importance is sufficiently established by its having been the residence of a son or brother of richard iind, duke of normandy, on whose account, the town of brionne, with the adjacent territory, was raised into an earldom. historians speak unequivocally of its strength. during the reign of william the conqueror, it was regarded as impregnable. this king was little accustomed to meet with disappointment or even with resistance; but the castle of brionne defied his utmost efforts for three successive years. under his less energetic successor, it was taken in a day. its possessor, robert, earl of brionne, felt himself so secure within his towers, that he ventured, with only six attendants, to oppose the whole army of the norman duke; but the besiegers observed that the fortress was roofed with wood; and a shower of burning missiles compelled the garrison to surrender at discretion.--the castle was finally dismantled by the orders of charles vth. brionne is known in ecclesiastical history as the place where the council of the church was held, by which the tenets of berengarius were finally condemned. it appears that the archdeacon of angers, after some fruitless attempts to make converts among the norman monks, took the bold resolution of stating his doctrines to the duke in person; and that the prince, though scarcely arrived at years of manhood, acted with so much prudence on the occasion, as to withhold any decisive answer, till he had collected the clergy of the duchy. they assembled at brionne, as a central spot; and here the question was argued at great length, till berengarius himself, and a convert, whom he had brought with him, trusting in his eloquence, were so overpowered by the arguments of their adversaries, that they were obliged to renounce their errors. the doctrine of the real presence in the sacrament, was thus incontrovertibly established; and it has from that time remained an undisputed article of faith in the roman catholic church. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : vol. iii. p. .--the engraving in the _antiquarian repertory_ was made from a drawing in the possession of the late sir william burrell, bart.] [footnote : the word _turold_, in the tapestry, stands immediately over the head of a dwarf, who is holding a couple of horses; and it has therefore been inferred by montfaucon, (_monumens de la monarchie française_, i. p. .) that he is the person thus denominated. but m. lancelot, in the _mémoires de l'académie des inscriptions_, vi. p. , supposes turold to be the ambassador who is in the act of speaking; and this seems the more probable conjecture. the same opinion is still more decidedly maintained by father du plessis, in his _histoire de la haute normandie_, ii. p. .--"sur une ancienne tapisserie de l'eglise de baieux, que l'on croit avoir été faite par ordre de la reine mathilde femme du conquérant, pour représenter les circonstances principales de cette mémorable expédition, on lit distinctement le mot _turold_ à côté d'un des ambassadeurs, que guillaume avoit envoiez au comte de ponthieu; et je ne doute nullement que ce turold ne soit le même que le connétable. le sçavant auteur des antiquitez de notre monarchie croit cependant que ce mot doit se rapporter à un nain qui tient deux chevaux en bride derriere les ambassadeurs; et il ajoute que ce nain devoit être fort connu à la conr du duc de normandie. on avoue que si c'est lui en effet qui doit s'appeller turold, il devoit tenir aussi à la cour de son prince un rang distingué; sans quoi on n'auroit pas pris la peine de le désigner par son nom dans la tapisserie. on avoue encore que le nom de turold est placé là de maniere qu'on peut à la rigueur le donner au nain aussi bien qu'à l'un des deux ambassadeurs; et comme le nain est appliqué à tenir deux chevaux en bride, on pourrait croire enfin que c'est le connétable, dont les titres de l'abbaïe de facan nous ont appris le nom: _signum turoldi constabularii_. mais le nain est très-mal habillé, il a son bonnet sur la tête, et tourne le dos au comte de ponthieu, pendant que les deux ambassadeurs noblement vêtus regardent ce prince en face, et lui parlent découverts: trois circonstances qui ne peuvent convenir, ni au connétable du duc, ni à toute autre personne de distinction qui auroit tenu compagnie, ou fait cortege aux ambassadeurs."] [footnote : this tower is figured, but very inaccurately, by gough, in his _alien priories_, i. p. .--the cupola which then surmounted it is now gone; and the cap to the turret, which served as the staircase, has strangely changed its shape.] [footnote : _alien priories_, i. p. .] [footnote : "nam antea, sub tempore sex ducum vix ullus normannorum liberalibus studiis adhæsit; nec doctor inveniebatur, donec provisor omnium, deus, normannicis oris lanfrancum appulit. fama peritiæ illius in totâ ubertim innotuit europâ, unde ad magisterium ejus multi convenerunt de franciâ, de wasconiâ, de britanniâ, necne flandriâ."--_duchesne, scriptores normanni_, p. .] [footnote : a question always existed, whether the empress was really buried here, or at the abbey of ste marie des prés, at rouen. hoveden expressly says, that she was interred at rouen: the chronicle of bec, on the other hand, is equally positive in the assertion that her body was brought to bec, and entombed with honor before the altar of the virgin. the same chronicle adds that, in the year , her remains were discovered before the high altar, sewed up in an ox's hide.--still farther to substantiate their claim, the monks of bec maintained that, in , upon the occasion of some repairs being done to this altar, the bones of the empress were again found immediately under the lamp (which, in catholic churches, is kept constantly burning before the holy sacrament,) and that they were deposited once more in the ground in a wooden chest, covered with lead.--the empress was a munificent endower of monasteries, and was at all times most liberal towards bec. william of jumieges says, that it would be tedious to enumerate the presents she made to the abbey, but that the sight of them gave pleasure to those strangers who have seen the treasures of the most noble churches. his remarks on this matter, and his account of her arguments with her father, on the subject of her choice of bec, as a place of her interment, deserve to be transcribed.--"transiret illac hospes græcus aut arabs, voluptate traheretur eadem. credimus autem, et credere fas est, æquissimum judicem omnium non solùm in futuro, verumetiam in præsenti seculo, illi centuplum redditurum, quod seruis suis manu sicut larga, ita devota gratantèr impendit. ad remunerationem verò instantis temporis pertinere non dubium est, quòd, miserante deo, sopita adversa valetudine, sanctitatem refouit, et monachos suos, monachos beccenses, qui præ omnibus, et super omnes pro ipsius sospitate, jugi labore supplicandi decertando pene defecerant, aura prosperæ valetudinis ejus afflatos omninò redintegravit.--nec supprimendum illud est silentio, imò, ut ita dicatur, uncialibus literis exaratum, seculo venturo transmittendum; quòd antequam convalesceret postulaverat patrem suum, ut permitteret eam in cÅ�nobio beccensi humari. quod rex primo abnuerat, dicens non esse dignum, ut filia sua, imperatrix augusta, quæ semel et iterùm in urbe romulea, quæ caput est mundi, per manus summi pontificis imperiali diademate processerat insignita, in aliquo monasterio, licèt percelebri et religione et fama, sepeliretur; sed ad civitatem rotomagensium, quæ metropolis est normannorum, saltem delata, in ecclesia principali, in qua et majores ejus, rollonem loquor et willelmum longamspatam filium ipsius, qui neustriam armis subegerunt, positi sunt, ipsa et poneretur. qua deliberatione regis percepta, illi per nuncium remandavit, animam suam nunquam fore lætam, nisi compos voluntatis suæ in hac duntaxat parte efficeretur.--o femina macte virtutis et consilii sanioris, paruipendens pompam secularem in corporis depositione! noverat enim salubrius esse animabus defunctorum ibi corpora sua tumulari, ubi frequentiùs et devotiùs supplicationes pro ipsis deo offeruntur. victus itaque pater ipsius augustæ pietate et prudentia filiæ, qui ceteros et virtute et pietate vincere solitus erat, cessit, et voluntatem, et petitionem ipsius de se sepelienda becci fieri concessit. sed volente deo ut præfixum est, sanitati integerrimæ restituta convaluit."--_duchesne, scriptores normanni_, p. .] [footnote : _histoire de la haute normandie_, ii. p, .] letter xxi. bernat--broglie--orbec--lisieux--cathedral--ecclesiastical history. (_lisieux, july_, .) instead of pursuing the straight road from brionne to this city, we deviated somewhat to the south, by the advice of m. le prevost; and we have not regretted the deviation. bernay was once celebrated for its abbey, founded in the beginning of the eleventh century, by judith, wife of richard iind, duke of normandy. some of the monastic buildings are standing, and are now inhabited: they appear to have been erected but a short time before the revolution, and to have suffered little injury.--but the abbey church, which belonged to the original structure, is all desolate within, and all defaced without. the interior is divided into two stories, the lower of which is used as a corn market, the upper as a cloth hall. thus blocked up and encumbered, we may yet discern that it is a noble building: its dimensions are grand, and in most parts it is a perfect specimen of the semi-circular style, except the windows and the apsis, which are of later dates. the pillars in the nave and choir are lofty, but massy: the capitals of some of them are curiously sculptured. on the lower member of the entablature of one capital there are still traces of an inscription; but it is so injured by neglect and violence, that we were unable to decipher a single word. the capital itself is fanciful and not devoid of elegance. [illustration: capital] the convent was placed under the immediate protection of the sovereign, by virtue of an ordinance issued by philip augustus[ ], in , at which time peter, count of alençon, attempted to establish a claim to some rights affecting the monastery. he alleged a grant from a former monarch to one of his predecessors, by whom he asserted that the convent had been founded; and, in support of his claim, he urged its position within the limits of his territory. the abbot and monks resisted: they gave proof that the abbey of bernay was really founded by the duchess; and therefore the king, after a full and impartial hearing, decided against the count, and declared that the advocation of the monastery was thenceforth to belong to himself and his successors in the dukedom for ever.--judith died before the convent was entirely built, and the task of completing it devolved upon her widowed husband, whose charter, confirming the foundation, is still in existence. it begins by a recital of the pious motives[ ] which urged the duchess to the undertaking; it expressly mentions her death while the building was yet unfinished; and, after detailing the various lands and grants bestowed on the abbey, it concludes by denouncing the anger of god, and a fine of two hundred pounds weight of gold upon those who disturb the establishment, "that they may learn to their confusion that the good deeds of their ancestors, undertaken for the love of god, are not to be undone with impunity." the parochial church at bernay is uninteresting. the sculptures, however, which adorn the high altar, are relics saved from the destruction of the abbey of bec. the virgin mary and joseph are represented, contemplating the infant jesus, who is asleep. the statues are all of the natural size. we saw many grave-stones from the same abbey, nine or ten feet long, and covered with monumental figures of the usual description, indented in the stone. these memorials were standing by the side of the church door, not for preservation, but for sale! and at a small chapel in the burial-ground near the town, we were shewn twelve statues of saints, which likewise came from bec. they are of comparatively modern workmanship, larger than life, and carved in a good, though not a fine, style. in the same chapel is kept the common coffin for the interment of all the poor at bernay. the custom of merely putting the bodies of persons of the lower class into coffins, when they are brought to the burial-ground, and then depositing them naked in their graves, prevails at present in this part of france as it did formerly in england.--in a place which must be the receptacle for many that were in easy, and for not a few that were in affluent, circumstances, it was remarkable that all lay indiscriminately side by side, unmarked by any monumental stone, or any sepulchral record.--republican france proscribed distinctions of every description, and those memorials which tended to perpetuate distinctions beyond the limits of mortal existence, were naturally most unpardonable in the eyes of the apostles of equality. but doctrines of this nature have fallen into disrepute for more than twenty years; and yet the country church-yard remains as naked as when the guillotine would have been the reward of opposition to the tenets of the day. there are few more comfortless sights, than such a cemetery: it looks as if those by whom it is occupied regarded death as eternal sleep, and thought that the memory of man should terminate with the close of his life. however unlettered the muse, however hackneyed the rhyme, however misapplied the text, it is consolatory to see them employed. man dwells with a melancholy satisfaction upon the tomb-stones of his relations and friends, and not of them alone, but of all whom he has known or of whom he has heard.--a mere _hic jacet_, with the name and years of him that sleeps beneath, frequently recals the most lively impressions; and he who would destroy epitaphs would destroy a great incitement to virtue.--in other parts of france tomb-stones, or crosses charged with monumental inscriptions, have re-appeared: at bernay we saw only two; one of them commemorated a priest of the town; the other was erected at the public expence, to the memory of three gendarmes, who were killed at the beginning of the revolution, and before religion was proscribed, in the suppression of some tumult. at less than a mile from bernay, in the opposite direction, is another church, called notre dame de la couture, a name borrowed from the property on which it stands. we were induced to visit it, by the representation of different persons in the town, who had noticed our architectural propensities. some assured us that "c'est une belle pièce;" others that "c'est une pièce qui n'est pas vilaine;" and all concurred in praising it, though some only for the reason that "les processions vont tout autour du choeur."--we found nothing to repay the trouble of the walk. bernay contains upwards of six thousand inhabitants, the greater part of whom are engaged in manufacturing coarse woollen and cotton cloths; and the manufactures flourish, the goods made being principally for home consumption. it is the chief place of the _arrondissement_, and the residence of a sub-prefect.--most of the houses are like those at rouen, merely wooden frames filled with mortar, which, in several instances, is faced with small bricks and flints, disposed in fanciful patterns: here and there the beams are carved with a variety of grotesque figures. the lower story of all those in the high street retires, leaving room for a wooden colonnade, which shelters the passenger, though it is entirely destitute of all architectural beauty. the head-dress of the females at bernay is peculiar, and so very archaic, that our chamber-maid at the inn appeared to deserve a sketch, full as much as any monumental effigy. [illustration: head-dress of females of bernay] on our road between bernay and orbec, we stopped at the village of chambrais, more commonly called broglie. before the revolution, it belonged to the noble family of that name, and it thence derived its familiar appellation. the former residence of the seigneurs of broglie, which is still standing, apparently uninjured, upon an adjoining eminence, has lately been restored to the present maréchal duc de broglie. it looks like an extensive parish work-house, or like any thing rather than a nobleman's seat.--the village church is very ancient and still curious, though in parts considerably modernized. unlike most churches of great antiquity, it is not built in the form of a cross, but consists only of a nave and choir, with side-aisles and an apsis, all on a small scale[ ]. towards the north, the nave is separated from the aisle by some of the largest and rudest piers i ever saw. they occupy full two-thirds of the width of the intervening arches, which are five feet wide, elliptic rather than semi-circular, and altogether without ornament of any kind. above each of these arches is a narrow, circular-headed window, banded with a cylindrical pilaster; and, in most instances, a row of quatrefoils runs between the pillar and the window. the bases of the windows rest upon a string-course that extends round the whole building; and on this also, alternating with the windows, rest corbels, from which spring very short, clustered columns, intended to support the groinings of the roof. on the south side, the massy piers have been pared into comparatively slender pillars; and the arches are pointed, as are all the lower windows in the church.--the font is of stone, and ancient: it consists of a round basin, on a quadrangular pedestal, like many in england.--the west front of the church is peculiar. it is entered by a very wide, low, semi-circular door-way, of rude architecture, and quite unornamented. above is a window corresponding with those in the clerestory; and, still higher, a row of interlaced arches, also semi-circular. a pointed arch, the receptacle for the statue of a saint, surmounts the whole; but this is, most probably, of a later æra, as evidently are the two lateral compartments, which terminate in slender spires of slate, and are separated from the central division by norman buttresses. we stopped to dine at orbec, a small and insignificant country town, formerly an appendage of the houses of orléans and navarre, with the title of a barony; but, more immediately before the revolution, the domain of the family of chaumont. its church is a most uncouth edifice: the plan is unusual; the entrance is in the north transept, which ends in a square high tower. bernay, orbec, and lisieux, communicate only by cross roads, scarcely passable by a carriage, even at this season of the year. from orbec to lisieux the road runs by the side of the touques, which, at orbec, is no more than a rivulet. the beautiful green meadows in the valley, appear to repay the great care which is taken in the draining and irrigating of them. they are every where intersected by small trenches, in which the water is confined by means of sluices.--in this part of the country, we passed several flocks of sheep, the true _moutons du pays_, a large breed, with red legs and red spotted faces. their coarse wool serves to make the ordinary cloth of the country, but is inapplicable to any of a finer texture. to remedy this deficiency, and, if possible, improve the local manufactures, some large flocks of merino sheep were imported at the time when the french occupied spain; and they are said to thrive. but it is only of late years that any attempts, have been made of the kind.--the norman farmer, however careful about the breed of his horses, has altogether neglected his sheep; and this is the more extraordinary, considering that the prosperity of the province is inseparably connected with that of the manufactures, and that much of the value of the produce must of necessity depend upon the excellence of the material. his pigs are the very perfection of ugliness: it is no hyperbole to say, that, in their form, they partake as much of a greyhound as of an english pig.--these animals are sure to attract the gaze of our countrymen; and poor trotter, in his narrative of the journey of mr. fox, expressed his marvel so often, as to call down upon himself the witty vengeance of one of our ablest periodical writers. melons are cultivated on a great scale in the country about lisieux. they grow here in the natural soil, occupying whole fields of considerable size, and apparently without requiring any extraordinary pains.--as we approached the city, the meadows, through which we passed, were mostly occupied as extensive bleaching-grounds. lisieux is an industrious manufacturing town. its ten thousand inhabitants find their chief employment in the making of the ordinary woollen cloths, worn by the peasantry of normandy and of lower brittany. linen and flannels are also manufactured here, though on a comparatively trifling scale. for trade of this description, lisieux is well situated upon the banks of the touques, a small river, which, almost immediately under the walls of the town, receives the waters of a yet smaller stream, the orbec. a project is in agitation, and it is said that it may be carried into effect at an inconsiderable expence, of making the touques navigable to lisieux. at present, it is so no farther than the the little town of the same name as the river; and even this derives no great advantage from the navigation; for, however near its situation is to the mouth of the stream, it is approachable only by vessels of less than one hundred tons burthen.--it was at touques that henry vth landed in france, in the spring of , when the monarch, flushed with a degree of success as extraordinary as it was unexpected, quitted england with the determination of returning no more till the whole kingdom of france should be subjugated. the greater part of the houses in lisieux are built of wood; and many of them are old, and most of them are mean; yet, on the whole, it is picturesque and handsome. its streets are spacious, and contain several large buildings: it is surrounded with pleasant _boulevards_; and its situation, like that of most other norman towns, is delightful.--in consequence of the revolution, the city has lost the privilege of being an episcopal see. even when napoléon, by virtue of the concordat of , restored the gallican church to its obedience to the the supreme pontiff, the see of lisieux was suppressed. the six suffragan bishops of ancient normandy were at that time reduced to four, conformably to the number of the departments of the province; and lisieux and avranches merged in the more important dioceses of bayeux and coutances. the cathedral, now the parish church of st. peter, derived, however, one advantage from the revolution. another church, dedicated to st. germain, which had previously stood immediately before it, so as almost to block up the approach, was taken down, and the west front of the cathedral was made to open upon a spacious square.--solid, simple grandeur are the characters of this front, which, notwithstanding some slight anomalies, is, upon the whole, a noble specimen of early pointed architecture.--it is divided into three equal compartments, the lateral ones rising into short square towers of similar height. the southern tower is surmounted by a lofty stone spire, probably of a date posterior to the part below. the spire of the opposite tower fell in , at which time much injury was done to the building, and particularly to the central door-way, which, even to the present day, has never been repaired.--contrary to the usual elevation of french cathedrals, the great window over the principal entrance is not circular, but pointed: it is divided into three compartments by broad mullions, enriched with many mouldings. the compartments end in acute pointed arches.--in the north tower, the whole of the space from the basement story is occupied by only two tiers of windows. each tier contains two windows, extremely narrow, considering their height; and yet, narrow as they are, each of them is parted by a circular mullion or central pillar. you will better understand how high they must be, when told that, in the southern tower, the space of the upper row is divided into three distinct tiers; and still the windows do not appear disproportionately short. they also are double, and the interior arches are pointed; but the arches, within which they are placed, are circular. in this circumstance lies the principal anomaly in the front of the cathedral; but there is no appearance of any disparity in point of dates; for the circular arches are supported on the same slender mullions, with rude foliaged capitals, of great projection, which are the most distinguishing characteristics of this style of architecture. the date of the building establishes the fact of the pointed arch being in use, not only as an occasional variation, but in the entire construction of churches upon a grand scale, as early as the eleventh century.--sammarthanus tells us that bishop herbert, who died in , began to build this church, but did not live to see it completed; and ordericus vitalis expressly adds, that hugh, the successor to herbert, upon his death-bed, in , while retracing his past life, made use of these words:--"ecclesiam sancti petri, principis apostolorum, quam venerabilis herbertus, praedecessor meus, coepit, perfeci, studiosè adornavi, honorificè dedicavi, et cultoribus necessariisque divino servitio vasis aliisque apparatibus copiosè ditavi."--language of this kind appears too explicit to leave room for ambiguity, but an opinion has still prevailed, founded probably upon the style of the architecture, that the cathedral was not finished till near the expiration of the thirteenth century. admitting, however, such to be the fact, i do not see how it will materially help those who favor the opinion; for the building is far from being, as commonly happens in great churches, a medley of incongruous parts; but it is upon one fixed plan; and, as it was begun, so it was ended.--the exterior of the extremity of the south transept is a still more complete example of the early pointed style than the west front: this style, which was the most chaste, and, if i may be allowed to use the expression, the most severe of all, scarcely any where displays itself to greater advantage. the central window is composed of five lancet divisions, supported upon slender pillars: massy buttresses of several splays bound it on either side. the same character of uniformity extends over the interior of the building. on each side of the nave is a side-aisle; and, beyond the aisles, chapels. the pillars of the nave are cylindrical, solid, and plain. their bases end with foliage at each corner, and foliage is also sculptured upon the capitals. the arches which they support are acute.--the triforium is similar in plan to the part below; but the capitals of the columns are considerably more enriched, with an obvious imitation of the antique model, and every arch encircles two smaller ones. in the clerestory the windows are modern.--the transepts appear the oldest parts of the cathedral, as is not unfrequently the case; whether they were really built before the rest, or that, from being less used in the services of the church, they were less commonly the objects of subsequent alterations. they are large; and each of them has an aisle on the eastern side. the architecture of the choir resembles that of the nave, except that the five pillars, which form the apsis, are slender and the intervening arches more narrow and more acute.--the lady-chapel, which is long and narrow, was built towards the middle of the fifteenth century, by peter cauchon, thirty-sixth bishop of lisieux, who, for his steady attachment to the anglo-norman cause, was translated to this see, in , when beauvais, of which he had previously been bishop, fell into the hands of the french. he was selected, in , for the invidious office of presiding at the trial of the maid of orléans. repentance followed; and, as an atonement for his unrighteous conduct, according to ducarel, he erected this chapel, and therein founded a high mass to the holy virgin, which was duly sung by the choristers, in order, as is expressed in his endowment-charter, to expiate the false judgment which he pronounced[ ].--the two windows by the side of the altar in this chapel have been painted of a crimson color, to add to the effect produced upon entering the church; and, seen as they are, through the long perspective of the nave and the distant arches of the choir, the glowing tint is by no means unpleasing.--the central tower is open within the church to a considerable height: it is supported by four arches of unusual boldness, above which runs a row of small arches, of the same character as the rest of the building; and, still higher, on each side, are two lancet-windows.--the vaulting of the roof is very plain, with bosses slightly pendant and carved. [illustration: ancient tomb in the cathedral at lisieux] at the extremity of the north transept is an ancient stone sarcophagus, so built into the wall, that it appears to have been incorporated with the edifice, at the period when it was raised. the style of the medallions which adorn it will be best understood by consulting the annexed sketch, which is very faithful, though taken under every possible disadvantage. the transept is now used as a school; and the little filthy imps, who are there taught to drawl out their catechisms, continued swarming round the feverish artist, during the progress of the drawing. the character of the heads, the crowns, and the disposition of the foliage, may be considered as indicating that it is a production, at least of the carlovingian period, if it be not indeed of earlier date. i believe it is traditionally supposed to have been the tomb of a saint, perhaps st. candidus; but i am not quite certain whether i am accurate in the recollection of the name.--above are two armed statues, probably of the twelfth or thirteenth centuries. these have been engraved by willemin, in his useful work, _les monumens français_, under the title of _two armed warriors, in the nave of the cathedral at lisieux_; and both are there figured as if in all respects perfect, and with a great many details which do not exist, and never could have existed, though at the same time the draftsman has omitted the animals at the feet of the statues, one of which is yet nearly entire.--this may be reckoned among the innumerable proofs of the disregard of accuracy which pervades the works of french antiquaries. a french designer never scruples to sacrifice accuracy to what he considers effect.--willemin describes the monuments as being in the nave of the church. i suspect that he has availed himself of the unpublished collection of gaignat, in this and many other instances. it is evident that originally the statues were recumbent; but i cannot ascertain when they changed their position.--no other tombs now exist in the cathedral: the brazen monument raised to hannuier, an englishman, the marble that commemorated the bishop, william d'estouteville, founder of the _collège de lisieux_ at paris, that of peter cauchon in the lady-chapel, and all the rest, were destroyed during the revolution. the diocese of lisieux was a more modern establishment than any other in normandy. even those who are most desirous to honor it by antiquity, do not venture to date its foundation higher than the middle of the sixth century. ordericus vitalis, a monk of the province, suggests with some reason that we ought not to be hasty in forming our judgment upon these subjects; for that, owing to the destruction caused by the norman pirates and the abominable negligence (_damnabilis negligentia_) of those to whom the care of the records of religious houses had subsequently been intrusted, many documents had been irretrievably lost.--the see of lisieux was also peculiarly unfortunate, in having twice been in a state of anarchy, and on each occasion for a period of more than a century. the series of its prelates is interrupted from the year to , and again from to . it is rather extraordinary, that no one of the lexovian bishops was ever admitted by the church into the catalogue of her saints. many of them were prelates of unquestionable merit. freculfus, in the ninth century, was a patron of literature, and himself an author; hugh of eu, grandson of richard, duke of normandy, was one of the most illustrious ecclesiastics of his day; gilbert is described by ordericus vitalis as having been a man of exemplary charity, and deeply versed in all sciences, though it is admitted that he was somewhat too much addicted to worldly pleasures, and not averse from gambling; and arnulf, whose letters and epigrams are preserved among the manuscripts of the vatican, was a prelate who would have done honor to st. peter's chair.--all these were bishops of lisieux, during the ages when canonization was not altogether so unfrequent as in our days. arnulf particularly distinguished himself by taking a leading part in the principal transactions of the times. he accompanied the crusaders to the holy land in ; five years subsequently he officiated at the marriage of henry plantagenet with eleanor of guyenne, the repudiated wife of louis le jeune, which was performed in his cathedral; he assisted at the coronation of the same king, by whom he was shortly afterwards employed in a mission of great importance at rome; and he interposed to settle the differences between that sovereign and thomas à becket; and though he espoused the part of the prelate, he had the good fortune to retain the favor of the monarch. a life thus eventful ended with the conviction that all was vanity!--arnulf, disgusted with sublunary honors, abdicated his see and retired to a monastery at paris, where he died.--one of the immediate successors of this prelate, william of rupierre, was the ambassador of richard coeur-de-lion to the pope; and he pleaded the cause of his sovereign against walter, archbishop of rouen, on the occasion of the differences that originated from the building of château gaillard. he also resisted the power usurped by king john within the city and liberties of lisieux, and finally obtained a sentence from the norman court of exchequer, whereby the privileges of the dukes of the province were restricted to what was called the _placitum spathæ_, consisting of the right of billetting soldiers, of coining money, and of hearing and determining in cases of appeal. the decision is honorable both to the independence of the court, and the vigor of the prelate.--in times nearer to our own, a bishop of lisieux, jean hennuyer, obtained a very different distinction. authors are strangely at variance whether this prelate is to be regarded as the protector or the persecutor of the protestants. all agree that his church suffered materially from the excesses of the huguenots, in , and that, on the following year, he received public thanks from the cardinal of bourbon, for the firmness with which he had opposed them; but the point at issue is, whether, after the massacre of st. bartholomew, ten years subsequently, he withstood the sanguinary orders from the court to put the huguenots to the sword, or whether he endeavored, as far as lay in his power, to forward the pious labor of extirpating the heretics, but was himself effectually resisted by the king's own lieutenant.--sammarthanus tells us that the first of these traditions rests solely upon the authority of anthony mallet[ ] but it obtained general credence till within the last three years, when a very well-informed writer, in the _mercure de france_, and subsequently in the article _hennuyer_ in the _bibliographie universelle_, espoused, and has apparently established, the opposite opinion. we visited only one other of the churches in lisieux, that of st. jacques, a large edifice, in a bad style of pointed architecture, and full of gaudy altars and ordinary pictures. on the outside of the stalls of the choir towards the north is some curious carving; but i should scarcely have been induced to have spoken of the building, were it not for one of the paintings, which, however uninteresting as a piece of art, appears to possess some historical value. it represents how the bones of st. ursinus were miraculously translated to lisieux, under the auspices of hugh the bishop, in ; and it professes, and apparently with truth, to be a copy, made in the seventeenth century, from an original of great antiquity. the legend relating to the relics of this saint, is noticed by no author with whom i am acquainted, nor do i find him mentioned any where in conjunction with the church of lisieux, or with any other norman diocese.--but the extraordinary privilege granted to the canons of the cathedral, of being earls of lisieux, and of exercising all civil and criminal jurisdiction within the earldom, upon the vigil and feast-day of st. ursinus, in every year, is most probably connected with the tradition commemorated by the picture. the actual existence of the privilege, in modern times, we learn from ducarel; who also details at length the curious ceremonies with which the claim of it was accompanied. the exercise of these rights was confirmed by a compact between the canons and the bishop, who, prior to the revolution, united the secular coronet of an earl with the episcopal mitre, and bore supreme sway in all civil and ecclesiastical polity, during the remaining three hundred and sixty-three days in the year. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : this ordinance is preserved by du monstier in the _neustria pia_, p. .] [footnote : the preamble of the charter is as follows:--"nulli dubium videri debet futuros esse haeredes regni coelestis, et cohaeredes dei, qui christum haeredem sui facientes, eorum, quæ in hujus vitae peregrinatione, quasi a quadam paterna haereditate possident, locis ea divino cultui deditis mancipare non dubitant. ad quam rem, nostram firmat fidem calix aquæ frigidae, qui, juxta evangelicum verbum, suo pollet munere. non ergò divini muneris gratia privari credendi sunt, qui ecclesiasticis obsequiis, etsi officio non intersunt, rerum tamen suarum admistratione, divini officii sustentant ministros: ea spe temporalem subministrantes alimoniam, ut sic solummodò coelestibus reddant intentos, qui coelestis regis assiduo constituuntur invigilare obsequio, participes fiant ejusmodi beneficii omnimodò."--_neustria pia_, p. .] [footnote : the following are the dimensions of the building, in english feet:-- length. width. nave choir north aisle south ditto ] [footnote : _anglo-norman antiquities_, p. .] [footnote : "sed ne quid omittam eorum etiam quæ unum antonium _mallet_ habent auctorem, anno , cum prorex urbis lexoviensis livarotus a carolo rege literas accepisset, quibus qui lexovii infecti erant hæresi occidi omnes jubebantur per eos dies quibus princeps civitas cruore ejus insaniæ hominum commaduerat, easque communicasset episcopo: neque sum passurus, inquit præsul, oves meas, et quamquam evagatas christi caula, meas tamen adhuc, necdum desperatas, gladio trucidari. referente contra prorege imperio se mandatoque urgeri principis; quod si posthabeatur, omnem esse periculi aleam in caput suum moriendique necessitatem redituram: et polliceor, inquit episcopus, illa te eximendum, postulantique cautionem, præsul consignatum manu sua scriptum tradidit, fidem datam confirmans. qua illico publicata clementia, et ad errantes oves perlata, sollicitudine præsulis vigilantis circa gregis commissi sibi salutem et conservationem, rediere sensim in ecclesiæ sinum omnes quotquot lexovii per ea tempora novum istud fataleque delirium dementarat, nec ultra ibidem diu visi qui a recta fide aberrarent."--_gallia christiana_, p. .] letter xxii. site and ruins of the capital of the lexovii--history of lisieux--monasteries of the diocese--ordericus vitalis--m. dubois--letter from the princess borghese. (_lisieux, july_, .) lisieux represents one of the most ancient capitals of the primitive tribes of gaul. the lexovii, noticed by julius cæsar, in his _commentaries_, and by other authors, who were almost contemporary with the roman conqueror, are supposed by modern geographers to have occupied a territory nearly co-extensive with the bishopric of lisieux; and it may be remarked, that the bounds of the ancient bishoprics of france were usually conterminal with the roman provinces and prefectures. the capital of the lexovii was called the _neomagus_ or _noviomagus lexoviorum_; and no doubt ever was entertained but that the present city occupied the same site, till an accidental discovery, in the year , proved the contrary to be the fact.--about that time a _chaussée_ was formed between lisieux and caen; and, in the course of some excavations, which were made under the direction of m. hubert, the superintending engineer, for the purpose of procuring stone, the laborers opened the foundations of some ruined buildings scattered over a field, called _les tourettes_, about three-quarters of a mile from the former town. the character of these foundations was of a nature to excite curiosity: they were clearly the work of a remote age, and various specimens of ancient art were dug up amongst the ruins. the extent of the foundations, which spread over a space four times as large as the plot occupied by modern lisieux left no doubt but that danville, and all other geographers, must have been mistaken with respect to the position assigned by them to the ancient neomagus. m. hubert drew a plan of the ruins, and accompanied it with an historical memoir; but unfortunately he was a man little capable of prosecuting such researches; and though m. mongez, in his report to the national institute[ ], eulogized the map as exact, and the memoir as excellent, they were both of them extremely faulty. it was reserved for m. louis dubois, of whom i shall have occasion to speak again before i close this letter, to repair the omissions and rectify the mistakes of m. hubert, and he has done it with unremitting zeal and extraordinary success. the researches of this gentleman, among the remains of neomagus lexoviorum, have already brought to light a large number of valuable medals, both in silver and bronze, as well as a considerable quantity of fragments of foreign marble, granite, and porphyry, some of them curiously wrought. the most important of his discoveries has been recently made: it is that of a roman amphitheatre, in a state of great perfection, the grades being covered only by a thin layer of soil, which a trifling expence of time and labor will effectually remove. such vestiges prove that neomagus must have been a place of importance; and, like the other gallo-roman cities, it would probably have maintained its honors under the franks; but about the middle of the fourth century, the saxons, swarming from the mouths of the elbe and weser, laid waste the coasts of belgium and of neustria, and finally established themselves in that portion of northern gaul called the _secunda lugdunensis_, which thence obtained, in the _notitia imperii_, the title of the _littus saxonicum_.--in the course of these incursions, it is supposed that neomagus was utterly destroyed by the invaders. none of the medals dug up within the precincts of the town, or in its neighborhood, bear a later date than the reign of constantine; and, though the city is recorded in the _itinerary of antoninus_, no mention of it is to be found in the curious chart, known by the name of the _tabula peutingeriana_, formed under the reign of theodosius the great; so that it then appears to have been completely swept away and forgotten. the new town of lisieux and the bishopric most probably arose together, towards the close of the sixth century; and the city, like other provincial capitals in gaul, took the name of the tribe by whom the district had been peopled. it first appears in history under the appellation of _lexovium_ or _lexobium_: in the eleventh century, when ordericus vitalis composed his history, it was called _luxovium_; and soon after it became _lixovium_, and _lizovium_, which, gallicised, naturally passed into _lyzieulx_, or, as it is now written, _lisieux_. the city was ravaged by the normans about the year , in the course of one of their predatory excursions from bayeux: it again felt their vengeance early in the following century, when rollo, after taking bayeux by storm, sacked lisieux at the head of his army on his way to rouen. the conqueror was not put in possession of the lexovian territory by charles the simple till , eleven years after the rest of neustria had been ceded to him. united to the duchy, lisieux enjoyed a short respite from the calamities of war; nor does it appear to have borne any prominent part in the transactions of the times. the name, indeed, of the city occurs as the seat of the council held for the purpose of degrading malgerius from the primacy of normandy; but, except on this occasion, lisieux is scarcely mentioned till the first year of the twelfth century, when it was the seat of rebellion. ralph flambart, bishop of durham, a prelate of unbounded arrogance, had fled from england, and joined duke robert, then in arms against his brother. raising the standard of insurrection, he fixed himself at lisieux, took forcible possession of the town, and invested his son, only twelve years old, with the mitre[ ], while he himself exercised despotic authority over the inhabitants. at length, he purchased peace and forgiveness, by opening the gates to his lawful sovereign, after the battle of tinchbray.--in the middle of october, in the same year, henry returned to lisieux, and there held an assembly of the norman nobility and prelates, who proclaimed peace throughout the duchy, enacted sundry strict regulations to prevent any infringement of the laws, and decreed that robert, the captive duke, should be consigned to an english prison.--two years subsequently, another council was also assembled at lisieux, by the same sovereign, and for nearly the same objects; and again, in , henry convened his nobles a third time at lisieux, when this parliament ratified the peace concluded at gisors, six years previously, and witnessed the marriage[ ] of the king's son, william adelin, with matilda, daughter of fulk, earl of anjou. historical distinction is seldom enviable:--in the wars occasioned by the usurpation of stephen, lisieux once more obtained an unfortunate celebrity. the town was attacked in , by the forces of anjou, under the command of geoffrey plantagenet, husband of the empress maud, joined by those of william, duke of poitiers; and the garrison, consisting of bretons, seeing no hope of effectual resistance or of rescue, set fire to the place to the extreme mortification of the invaders, who, in the language of the chronicles of the times, "when they beheld the city and all its wealth a prey to the flames, waxed exceedingly wroth, at being deprived of the spoil; and grieved sorely for the loss of the booty which perished in the conflagration."--the town, however, was not so effectually ruined, but that, during the following year, it served king stephen as a rallying point, at which to collect his army to march against his antagonist.--in , it was distinguished by being selected by thomas à becket, as the place of his retirement during his temporary disgrace. history from this time forward relates but little concerning lisieux. though surrounded with walls during the bishopric of john, who was promoted to the see early in the twelfth century, the situation of the town, far from the coast or from the frontiers of the province, rendered the inhabitants naturally unwarlike, and caused them in general to submit quietly to the stronger party.--brito, in his _philippiad_, says that, when philip augustus took lisieux, in , the lexovians, destitute of fountains, disputed with the toads for the water of the muddy ditches. his mentioning such a fact is curious, as shewing that public fountains were at that early period of frequent occurrence in normandy.--our countrymen, in the fifteenth century, acted with great rigor, to use the mildest terms, towards lisieux. henry, after landing at touques, in , entered the town, in the character of an enraged enemy, not as the sovereign of his people: he gave it up to plunder; and even the public archives were not spared. the cruelty of our english king is strongly contrasted by the conduct of the count de danois, general of the army of charles viith, to whom the town capitulated in . thomas basin, then bishop, negociated with such ability, that, according to monstrelet, "not the slightest damage was done to any individual, but each peaceably enjoyed his property as before the surrender." the most celebrated monasteries within the diocese of lisieux were the benedictine abbeys of bernay, st. evroul, preaux, and cormeilles.--cormeilles was founded by william fitz-osborne, a relation to william the conqueror, at whose court he held the office of sewer, and by whom he was promoted to the earldom of hereford. its church and monastic buildings had so far gone to ruin, in the last century, as to call forth a strong remonstrance from mabillon[ ]: they were afterwards repaired by charles of orléans, who was appointed abbot in .--the abbey of preaux is said to have existed prior to the invasion of the normans; but its earliest records go no farther back than the middle of the eleventh century, when it was restored by humphrey de vetulis, who built and inclosed the monastery about the year , at which time duke robert undertook his pilgrimage to the holy land. this abbey, according to the account given by gough, in his _alien priories_, presented to thirty benefices, and enjoyed an annual revenue of twenty thousand livres.--among its english lands which were considerable, was the priory of toft-monks in our own immediate vicinity: the name, as you know, remains, though no traces of the building are now in existence. the third abbey, that of st. evrau or st. evroul, called in latin, _monasterium uticense_, was one of the most renowned throughout normandy. the abbey dates its origin from st. evroul himself, a nobleman, who lived in the reign of childebert, and was attached to the palace of that monarch, "from which," to use the words of the chronicles, "he made his escape, as from shipwreck, and fled to the woods, and entered upon the monastic life."--the legend of st. ebrulfus probably savors of romance, the almost inseparable companion of traditional, and particularly of monastic, history: it is safer, therefore, to be contented with referring the foundation of the monastery to the tenth century, when william gerouis, after having been treacherously deprived of his sight and otherwise maimed, renounced the world; and, uniting with his nephews, hugh and robert de grentemaisnil, brought considerable possessions to the endowment of this abbey. the abbey was at all times protected by the especial favor of the kings of france. no payment or service could be demanded from its monks; they acknowledged no master without their own walls, besides the sovereign himself; they were entitled to exemption from every kind of burthen; and they had the privilege of being empowered to castellate the convent, and to compel the people of the surrounding district to contribute their assistance for the purpose. st. evroul, however, principally claims our attention, as the sanctuary where ordericus vitalis, to use his own expressions, "delighted in obedience and poverty."--this most valuable writer was an englishman; his native town being attingesham, on the severn, where he was born in the year . he was sent to school at shrewsbury, and there received the first rudiments, both of the _humanities_ and of ecclesiastical education. in the tenth year of his age, his father, odelerius, delivered the boy to the care of the monk rainaldus. the weeping father parted from the weeping son, and they never saw each other more. ordericus crossed the sea, and arrived in normandy, an exile, as he describes himself, and "hearing, like joseph in egypt, a language which he understood not." in the eleventh year of his age, he received the tonsure from the hands of mainerius, the abbot of st. evroul. in the thirty-third year of his age, he was ordained a priest; and thenceforward his life wore away in study and tranquillity. aged and infirm, he completed his _ecclesiastical history_, in the sixty-seventh year of his age; and this great and valuable work ends with his auto-biography, which is written in an affecting strain of simplicity and piety.--the ecclesiastical history of ordericus is divided into parts: the first portion contains an epitome of the sacred and profane history of the world, beginning with the incarnation, and ending with pope innocent iind. the second, and more important division, contains the history of normandy, from the first invasion of the country, down to the year .--though professedly an ecclesiastical historian, yet ordericus vitalis is exceedingly copious in his details of secular events; and it is from these that his chronicle derives its importance and curiosity. it was first published by duchesne, in his collection of norman historians, a work which is now of rare occurrence, and it has never been reprinted. valuable materials for a new edition were, however, collected early in the eighteenth century, by william bessin, a monk of st. ouen; and these, before the revolution, were preserved in the library of that abbey. bessin had been assisted in the task by francis charles dujardin, prior of st. evroul, who had collated the text, as published in the collection of norman historians, with the original manuscript in his own monastery, to which latter duchesne unfortunately had not access, but had been obliged to content himself with a copy, now in the royal library at paris. it is to be hoped, that the joint labors of bessin and dujardin may still be in existence, and may come to light, when m. liquet shall have completed the task of arranging the manuscripts in the public library at rouen. the manuscript which belonged to st. evroul, and was always supposed to be an autograph from the hands of ordericus vitalis himself, was discovered during the revolution among a heap of parchments, thrown aside as of no account, in some buildings belonging to the former district of laigle. it is now deposited in the public library of the department of the orne, but unfortunately, nearly half the leaves of the volume are lost. the earliest part of what remains is towards the close of the seventh book, and of this only a fragment, consisting of eight pages, is left. the termination of the seventh book, and the whole of the eighth are wanting. from the ninth to the thirteenth, both of these inclusive, the manuscript is perfect. a page or two, however, at the end of the work, which contained the author's life, has been torn out.--at the beginning of the sixteenth century, the manuscript was complete; for it is known that, at that time, a monk of st. evroul made a transcript of it, which extended through four volumes in folio. these volumes were soon dispersed. two of them found their way to rouen, where they were kept in the library of st. ouen: the other two were in that of the abbey of st. maur de glandefeuille, on the loire. a third, though incomplete, copy of the original manuscript was also known to exist in france before the revolution. it formerly belonged to coaslin de camboret, bishop of metz, by whom it was presented, together with four thousand manuscripts, to the monks of st. germain des prés at paris. but the greater part of the literary treasures of this abbey fell a prey to the flames in july, , and it is feared that the copy of ordericus perished at that time. the original code from st. evroul, was discovered by m. louis dubois, whom i have already mentioned in connection with the ruins of neomagus. he is an antiquary of extensive knowledge and extraordinary zeal. his _history of lisieux_, which he has long been preparing for the press, will be a work of great curiosity and interest. the publication of it is for the present suspended, whilst he superintends an edition of the _vaux-de-vires_, or _vaux de villes_, of olivier basselin, an early norman poet. meanwhile, m. dubois still continues his researches among the foundations of the ancient city, from which he has collected a number of valuable relics. some of the most pleasant and instructive hours of my tour have been spent in his society; and, whilst it was under his guidance that i visited the antiquities of lisieux, his learning assisted me in illustrating them. m. dubois likewise possesses a large collection of original autograph letters, which i found much pleasure in perusing. during the reign of napoléon, he held the office of librarian of alençon, a situation that afforded him the opportunity of meeting with many literary curiosities of this nature. among others, which thus fell into his hands, was the following letter, written by the princess borghese, sister to the emperor, and addressed to the empress marie-louise, by whom it was received, while on a tour through the western departments. i annex a transcript of this epistle; for, although it has no immediate connection with the main subject of our correspondence, it yet is a very singular contribution towards the private history of the dynasty of napoléon.--the odd mixture of caudle-cup compliment and courtly flattery, is sufficiently amusing. i have copied it, word for word, letter for letter, and point for point; for, as we have no other specimen of the epistles of her imperial highness, i think it right to preserve all the peculiarities of the original; and, by, way of a treat for the collectors of autographs, i have added a fac-simile of her signature. madame et tres chere sÅ�ur, je recois par le prince aldobrandini la lettre de v.m. et la belle tasse dont elle a daigné, le charger pour moi au nom de l'empereur, je remercie mille fois votre aimable bonté, et j'ose vous prier ma tres chere sÅ�ur d'être aupres de l'empereur l'interprete de ma reconnaissance pour cette marque de souvenir.--je fais parler beaucoup le prince et la princesse aldobrandini sur votre santé, sur votre belle grossesse, je ne me lasse pas de les interroger, et je suis heureuse d'apprendre que vous vous portés tres bien, que rien ne vous fatigue, et que vous avés la plus belle grossesse qu'il soit possible de desirer, combien je desire chere sÅ�ur que tous nos vÅ�ux soient exaucés, ne croyés cependant pas que si vous nous donnés une petite princesse je ne l'aimerais pas. non, elle nous serait chere, elle resemblerait a v.m. elle aurait sa douceur, son amabilité, et ce joli caractere qui la fait cherir de ceux qui out le bonheur de la conaitre--mais ma chère sÅ�ur j'ai tort de m'apesantir sur les qualités dont serait douée cette auguste princesse, vous nous donnerés d'abord un prince un petit roi de rome, jugés combien je le desire nos bons toscans prient pour vous, ils vous aiment et je n'ai pas de peine a leur inspirer ce que je sens si vivement. je vous remercie ma tres chere sÅ�ur de l'interest que vous prenez a mon fils, tout le monde dit qu'il ressemble a l'empereur. cela me charme il est bien portant a present, et j'espere qu'il sera digne de servir sous les drapeaux de son auguste oncle.--adieu ma chere sÅ�ur soyés assés bonne pour conserver un souvenir a une sÅ�ur qui vous est tendrement attachée. napoléon ne cesse de lire la lettre pleine de bonté que v.m. a daigné lui ecrire, cela lui a fait sentir le plaisir qu'il y avait a savoir lire, et l'encourage dans ses etudes--je vous embrasse et suis, madame et tres chere sÅ�ur de v.m. la plus attachée [illustration: autograph of the princess borghese] pitti le janvier * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : see _magazin encyclopédique, for_ , iii. p. .] [footnote : this transaction appears to have been peculiarly flagrant: a long detail of the circumstances, accompanied by several letters, very characteristic of the feeling and church-government of the times, is preserved in the _concilia normannica_, p. .--the account concludes in the following words:--"exhorruit ad facinus, non normannia solum et anglia, quibus maledicta progenies notissima erat, sed et universa gallia, et a singulis ad apostolicum paschalem delatum est. nec tamen utrique simul ante quinquienniuin sordes de domo dei propulsare prævaluerunt. ceteris ferventiùs institit yvo carnotensis antistes, conculcatæ disciplinæ ecclesiasticæ zelo succensus; in tantum ut neustriacos præsules quasi desides ac pusillanimes coarguere veritus non sit: sed ea erat ecclesiæ sub ignavo principe sors per omnia lamentabilis, ut ipsemet postmodum cum laude non invitus agnovit."] [footnote : sandford, in his _genealogical history of the kings of england_, says, that this marriage was solemnized at luxseul, in the county of burgundy; but he refers for his authority to ordericus vitalis, by whom it is stated to have been at luxovium, the name by which he always calls lisieux; and he, in the same page, mentions the assembly of the nobles also held there.] [footnote : _annal_, iv. p. .] letter xxiii. french police--ride from lisieux to caen--cider--general appearance and trade of caen--english resident there. (_caen, august_, .) our reception at caen has been somewhat inauspicious: we had scarcely made the few necessary arrangements at the hôtel, and seated ourselves quietly before the _caffé au lait_, when two gens-d'armes, in military costume, stalked without ceremony into the room, and, taking chairs at the table, began the conversation rather abruptly, with "monsieur, vous êtes sous arrêt."--my companions were appalled by such a salutation, and apprehended some mistake; but the fact turned out to be, that our passport did not bear the signature of the mayor of rouen, and that this ignorance of the regulations of the french police had subjected us to so unexpected a visit. it was too late in the day for the deficiency to be then supplied; and therefore, after a few expostulations, accompanied with observations, on their part, that we had the good fortune to have fixed ourselves at an _honnête hôtel_, and did not wear the appearance of suspicious persons, the soldiers took their leave, first exacting from me a promise, that i would present myself the next morning before the proper officer, and would in the meanwhile consider myself a prisoner upon my parole. the impression which this occurrence could not fail to make upon our minds, was, that the object of the gens-d'armes had been either to extort from us money, or to shew their consequence; but i have since been led to believe that they did no more than their duty.--we have several acquaintance among the english who reside here, and we find from the whole of them, that the utmost strictness is practised in all matters relating to passports, and not less towards natives than foreigners. no frenchman can quit his _arrondissement_ unprovided with a passport; and the route he intends to take, and the distance he designs to travel, must also be specified. a week or two ago the prefect of the police himself was escorted back to caen, between a couple of gens-d'armes, because he inadvertently paid a visit to a neighboring bathing-place without his passport in his pocket. this is a current story here: i cannot vouch for its authenticity; however it is certain, that since the discovery of the late plot contrived by the ultras, a plot whose existence is generally disbelieved, the french police is more than usually upon the alert. when i presented myself at the hôtel de ville, to redeem my promise, a recent decree was pointed out to me, containing a variety of regulations which shew extraordinary uneasiness on the part of the government, and which would seem to indicate that they are in possession of intelligence respecting projects, that threaten the public tranquillity[ ]. to judge from all official proceedings, it seems as if we were walking upon a smothered volcano, and yet we are told by every body that there is not the slightest room for apprehension of any kind. this interruption has thrown me out of the regular course of my narration.--my last letter left me still at lisieux, from which city to caen the road lies through a tract of country altogether without interest, and in most places without beauty. during the first half of the ride, we could almost have fancied ourselves at home in norfolk.--about this part of the way, the road descends through a hollow or dale, which bore the ominous name of "_coupe gorge_." when napoléon was last in normandy, he inquired into the origin of the appellation.--the diligences, he was answered, "had often been stopped and robbed in this solitary pass."--napoléon then said, "if one person can be made to settle here, more will follow, for it is conveniently situated between two good towns. let the prefect buy a little plot of ground and build a house upon it, and give it to an old soldier, upon condition that he shall constantly reside in it with his family." the orders of napoléon were obeyed. the old soldier opened an inn, other houses arose round it, and the cut-throat pass is now thoroughly secure. the conductor and the post-boy tell the tale with glee whilst they drive through the hamlet; and its humble dwellings will perhaps recal the memory and fame of napoléon buonaparte when the brazen column of the grand army, and the marble arch of the thuilleries, shall have been long levelled with the ground.--as to the character of the landscape, i must add, that though it makes a bad picture, there are great appearances of care in the agriculture, and of comfort in the population. the country, too, is sufficiently well wooded; and apple and pear trees every where take the place of the pollard oaks and elms of our hedge-rows. norman cider is famous throughout france: it is principally, however, the western part of the province that produces it. throughout the whole of that district, the lower classes of the inhabitants scarcely use any other beverage. vines, as i have already had occasion to mention, were certainly cultivated, in early times, farther to the north than they are at present. the same proofs exist of vineyards in the vicinity of caen and lisieux, as at jumieges. indeed, towards the close of the last century, there was still a vineyard at argence, only four miles south-east of caen; and a kind of white wine was made there, which was known by the name of _vin huet_. but the liquor was meagre; and i understand that the vineyard is destroyed.--upon the subject of the early use of beer in normandy, tradition is somewhat indistinct. the ancient name of one of the streets in caen, _rue de la cervoisiere_, distinctly proves the habit of beer-drinking; and, when tacitus speaks of the beverage of the germans, in his time, as "humor ex hordeo vel frumento in quandam similitudinem vini corruptus," it seems highly improbable but that the same liquor should have been in use among the cognate tribes of gaul. brito, however, expressly says of flanders, that it is a place where, "raris sylva locis facit umbram, vinea nusquam: indigenis potus thetidi miscetur avena, ut vice sit vini multo confecta labore." and the same author likewise tells us, that the normans of his time were cider-drinkers-- "... _siceræque_ potatrix algia tumentis ... non tot in autumni rubet algia tempore _pomis_ unde liquare solet _siceram_ sibi _neustria_ gratam." huet is of opinion, that the use of cider was first introduced into neustria by the normans, who had learned it of the biscayans, as these latter had done from the inhabitants of the northern coast of africa. we did not find the norman cider at all palatable: it is extremely sour, hard, and austere. the inhabitants, however, say that this is not its natural character, but is attributable to the late unfavorable seasons, which have prevented the fruit from ripening properly.--the apple-tree and pear-tree in normandy, far from being ugly, and distorted, and stunted in their growth, as is commonly seen in england, are trees of great beauty, and of extreme luxuriance, both in foliage and ramification. the _coccus_, too, which has caused so much destruction among our orchards at home, is fortunately still unknown here. the only place at which we stopped between lisieux and caen, was croissanville, a poor village, but one that possesses a degree of historical interest, as the spot where the battle was fought between aigrold, king of denmark, and louis d'outremer, king of france; a battle which seated richard fearnought upon the throne of normandy.--the country about croissanville is an immense tract of meadow-land; and from it the parisian market draws a considerable proportion of its supplies of beef. the cattle that graze in these pastures are of a large size, and red, and all horned; very unlike those about caen, which latter are of small and delicate proportions, with heads approaching to those of deer, and commonly with black faces and legs. from croissanville to caen the road passes through a dead flat, almost wholly consisting of uninclosed corn-fields, extending in all directions, with unvaried dull monotony, as far as the eye can reach. buck-wheat is cultivated in a large proportion of them: the inhabitants prepare a kind of cake from this grain, of which they are very fond, and which is said to be wholesome. tradition, founded principally upon the french name of this plant, _sarrazin_, has given rise to a general belief, that buck-wheat was introduced into france by the moors; but this opinion has, of late, been ably combated. the plant is not to be found in arabia, spain, or sicily; the countries more particularly inhabited by mahometans; and in brittany, it still passes by the celtic appellation, _had-razin_, signifying _red-corn_, of which words _sarrazin_ may fairly be regarded a corruption, as _buck-wheat_, in our own tongue, ought unquestionably to be written _beech-wheat_; a term synonymous to what it is called in latin and german. the present name may well appear inexplicable, to those who are unacquainted with the anglo-saxon and its cognate dialects. in the midst of this level country, in which even apple-trees are scarce, stands the ancient capital of lower normandy, extending from east to west in so long a line, that on our approach it appeared to cover as much ground as rouen, which is in fact double its size.--from a distance, the view of caen is grand; not only from the apparent magnitude of the town, but from the numerous spires and towers, that, rising from every part of it, give it an air of great importance. those of the abbeys of st. stephen and the trinity, at opposite extremities, constitute the principal features in the view.--the same favorable impressions continue when you enter the town. the streets are wide, and the houses of stone; and a stone city is a pleasing sight to eyes long accustomed to the wooden buildings of rouen, bernay, and lisieux.--besides, there is a certain degree of regularity in the construction of the buildings, and some care is taken in keeping them clean.--lace-making is the principal occupation of females of the lower class in caen and the neighborhood; the streets, as we passed along, were lined almost uninterruptedly on either side, with a row of lace-makers; and boys were not uncommonly working among the women. it is calculated that not fewer than twenty thousand individuals, of all ages, from ten or twelve years old and upwards, are thus employed; and the annual produce of their labor is estimated at one hundred and seventy thousand pounds sterling. caen lace is in high estimation for its beauty and quality, and is exported in considerable quantities. the present population of caen amounts to about thirty-one thousand individuals. the town, no longer the capital of lower normandy, is still equally distinguished as the capital of the department of the calvados. the prefect resides here; and the royal court of caen comprises in its jurisdiction, not only the department more especially appertaining to it, but also those of the manche and the orne.--the situation of the town, though at the confluence of the orne and the odon, is not such as can be regarded favorable to extensive trade. the united rivers form a stream, which, though navigable at very high tides for vessels of two hundred tons burthen, will, on other occasions, admit only of much smaller ones; while the channel, nearer to its mouth, is obstructed by rocks that render the navigation difficult and dangerous. many plans have been projected and attempted for the purpose of improving and enlarging the harbor, but little or no progress has yet been made. vauban long since pointed out the mouth of the orne as singularly well adapted for a naval station; and napoléon, in pursuance of this idea, actually commenced the excavation of a basin under the walls of the town, and intended to deepen the bed of the river, thinking it best to make a beginning in this direction. all idea, however, of prosecuting such a plan is for the present abandoned.--other engineers have proposed the junction of the orne with the loire by means of a canal, which would be of the greatest importance to france, not only by facilitating internal commerce, but by saving her vessels the necessity of coasting capes finisterre, and la hogue, and thus enabling them to avoid a navigation, which is at all times dangerous, and in case of war peculiarly exposed. for minor purposes, however, for mills and manufactories of different kinds, caen is certainly well situated; being in almost every direction intersected with streams, owing to the repeated ramifications of the odon, some of which are artificial, and of as early a date as the eleventh century. the same circumstance contributes materially to the pleasantness of the town; for the banks of the river are in many places formed into walks, and crowned by avenues of noble trees. [illustration: head-dress of females, at caen] the _grand cours_ at caen is almost as fine a promenade as that at rouen. on sunday evening it was completely crowded. the scene was full of life and gaiety, and very varied. all the females of the lower rank, and many of the higher orders, were dressed in the costume of the country, which commonly consists of a scarlet gown and deep-blue apron, or _vice versâ_. their hair, which is usually powdered, is combed entirely back from every part of their faces, and tucked up behind. the snow-white cap which covers it is beautifully plaited, and has longer lappets than in the pays de caux. mr. cotman sketched the _coiffure_ of the chamber-maid, at the hôtel d'espagne, in grand costume, and i send his drawing to you.--the men dress like the english; but do not therefore fancy that you or i should have any chance of being mistaken for natives, even if we did not betray ourselves by our accent. here, as every where else, our countrymen are infallibly known: their careless slouching gait is sure to mark them; and the police keep a watchful eye upon them. caen is at present frequented by the english: those indeed, who, like the virgilian steeds, "stare loco nesciunt," seldom shew themselves in lower normandy; but above thirty british families have taken up their residence in this town: they have been induced to do so principally by the cheapness of living, and by the advantages held out for the education of their children. a friend of mine, who is of the number of temporary inhabitants, occupies the best house in the place, formerly the residence of the duc d'aumale; and for this, with the garden, and offices, and furniture of all kinds, except linen and plate, he pays only nine pounds a month. for a still larger house in the country, including an orchard and garden, containing three acres, well stocked with fruit-trees, he is asked sixty pounds from this time to christmas. but, cheap as this appears, the expence of living at coutances, or at bayeux, or valognes, is very much less. were i obliged to seek myself a residence beyond the limits of our own country, i never saw a place which i should prefer to caen. i should not be tempted to look much farther before i said, "sis meæ sedes utinam senectæ:"-- the historical recollections that are called forth at almost every turn, would probably have some influence in determining my choice; the noble specimens of ancient architecture which happily remain, unscathed by wars and calvinists and revolutions, might possibly have more; but the literary resources which the town affords, the pleasant society with which it abounds, and, above all, the amiable character of its inhabitants, would be my great attraction.--at present, indeed, we have not been here sufficiently long to say much upon the subject of society from our own experience; but the testimony we receive from all quarters is uniform in this point, and the civilities already shewn us, are of a nature to cause the most agreeable prepossessions. it is not our intention to be hurried at caen; and i shall therefore reserve to my future letters any remarks upon its history and its antiquities. to a traveller who is desirous of information, the town is calculated to furnish abundant materials. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : the following were among the articles of the decree:--"no individual to leave his _arrondissement_ without a passport.--no person to receive a stranger in his house, or suffer one to quit it, without apprising the police.--the inhabitants to carry their arms of all kinds to the hôtel de ville.--no plays to be performed, except first approved by the officers of the police.--the manager of the theatre to give notice every friday to the mayor, of the pieces intended to be acted the following week.--the actors to read nothing, and say nothing, which is not in the play.--the performance to begin precisely at six, and close at ten.--only a certain interval to be allowed between the different pieces, or between the acts of each.--every person to be uncovered, except the soldiers on duty.--no weapons of any kind, nor even sticks or umbrellas, to be taken into the theatre."] letter xxiv. historians of caen--towers and fortifications--chÂteau de la gendarmerie--castle--churches of st. stephen, st. nicholas, st. peter, st. john, and st. michel de vaucelles. (_caen, august,_ .) france does not abound in topographical writers; but the history and antiquities of caen have been illustrated with singular ability, by men to whom the town gave birth, and who have treated their subject with equal research and fidelity--these are charles de bourgueville, commonly called the seigneur de bras, and the learned huet, bishop of avranches. de bourgueville was a magistrate of caen, where he resided during almost the whole of the sixteenth century. the religious wars were then raging; and he relates, in a most entertaining and artless manner, the history of the events of which he was an eye-witness. his work, as is justly observed by huet, is a treasure, that has preserved the recollection of a great variety of the most curious details, which would otherwise have been neglected and forgotten. every page of it is stamped with the character of the author--frankness, simplicity, and uprightness. it abounds in sound morality, sage maxims, and proofs of excellent principles in religion and politics; and, if the writer occasionally carries his _naïveté_ to excess, it is to be recollected that the book was published when he was in his eighty-fifth year, a period of life when indulgence may reasonably be claimed. he died four years subsequently, in .--in huet's work, the materials are selected with more skill, and are digested with more talent. the author brought to his task a mind well stored with the learning requisite for the purpose, and employed it with judgment. but he has confined himself, almost wholly, to the description of the town; and the consequence is, that while the bishop's is the work most commonly referred to, the magistrate's is that which is most generally read. the dedication of the former to the town of caen, does honor to the feelings of the writer: the portrait of the latter, prefixed to his volume, and encircled with his quaint motto, _"l'heur de grace use l'oubli,"_ itself an anagram upon his name, bespeaks and insures the good will of the reader. the origin of caen is uncertain.--its foundation has been alternately ascribed to phoenicians, romans, gauls, saxons, and normans. the earliest historical fact connected with the town, is recorded in an old chronicle of normandy[ ], written in , by william de talleur, of rouen. the author, in speaking of the meeting between louis d'outremer, king of france, and richard ist, duke of normandy, about the year , enumerates caen among the good towns of the province. upon this, huet observes that, supposing caen to have been at that time only recently founded, it must have acquired importance with much rapidity; for, in the charter, by which richard iiird, duke of normandy, granted a dowery to adela, daughter of robert, king of france, whom he married in , caen is not only stated as one of the portions of the dower, but its churches, its market, its custom-house, its quay, and its various appurtenances are expressly mentioned; and two hundred years afterwards, brito in his _philippiad_, puts caen in competition with paris, "villa potens, opulenta situ, spatiosa, decora, fluminibus, pratis, et agrorum fertilitate, merciferasque rates portu capiente marino, seque tot ecclesiis, domibus et civibus ornans, ut se parisio vix annuat esse minorem."-- caen is designated in duke richard's charter, by the appellation of "in bajocensi comitatu villa quæ dicitur _cathim_, super fluvium olnæ."--from _cathim_, came _cahem_; and _cahem_, in process of time, was gradually softened into _caen_. the elision that took place in the first instance, is of a similar nature to that by which the italian words _padre_ and _madre_, have been converted into _père_ and _mère_; and the alteration in the latter case continued to be indicated by the diæresis, which, till lately, separated the two adjoining vowels.--towards the latter part of the eleventh century, caen is frequently mentioned by the monkish historians, in whose latin, the town is styled _cadomus_ or _cadomum_.--and here ingenious etymologists have found a wide field for conjecture: cadomus, says one, was undoubtedly founded by cadmus; another, who hesitates at a phoenician antiquity, grasps with greater eagerness at a roman etymon, and maintains that _cadomus_ is a corruption from _caii domus_, fully and sufficiently proving that the town was built by julius cæsar. robert wace states, in his _roman de rou_, that, at the time immediately previous to the conquest of england, caen was an open town.-- "encore ert caen sans châtel, n'y avoit mur, ny quesnel."-- and wace is a competent witness; for he lived during the reign of henry ist, to whom he dedicated his poem. philip de valois, in , allowed the citizens to surround the town with ditches, walls, and gates. this permission was granted by the king, on the application of the inhabitants, caen, as they then complained, being still open and unfortified. hence, the fortifications have been considered to be the work of the fourteenth century, and, generally speaking, they were unquestionably, of that time; but it is equally certain, that a portion was erected long before. a proof of the antiquity of the fortifications may perhaps be found in the name of the tower called _la tour guillaume le roi_, which stands immediately behind st. peter's, and was intended to protect the river at the extremity of the walls, dividing the town from the suburb of vaugeux. this tower is generally supposed to be the oldest in the fortifications. its masonry is similar to that of the wall with which it is connected, and which is known to have been built about the same time as the abbey of st. stephen. the appearance of it is plain, massy, and rugged; and it forms a picturesque object. such also is the _tour au massacre_, which is situated at the confluence of the orne and odon. the tower in question is said to have received its gloomy title from a massacre, of which our countrymen were guilty, at the time when the town was taken in . there is, however, reason to believe that this tale is a mere fiction. huet, at the same time that he does not venture so far to oppose popular belief, as altogether to deny the truth of the story of the massacre, adds, that the original name of the tower was _la tour machart_, and suspects its present appellation to be no more than a corruption of the former one. renauld machart was bailiff of caen two years prior to the capture of the place by edward iiird; and the probability is, that the tower was erected by him in those times of alarm, and thus took his name. it has been supposed that the figure sculptured upon it, may also be intended for a representation of machart himself. caen contains another castellated building, which might easily mislead the studious antiquarian. the _château de calix_, as it is sometimes called, is situated at the extremity of the suburb known by that name; and the curious inhabitants of caen usually suppose that it was erected for the purpose of commanding the river, whilst it flowed in its ancient, but now deserted, bed; or, at least, that it replaces such a fortification. according to the learned abbé de la rue, however, and he is a most competent authority, no real fortification ever existed here; but the castle was raised in conformity to the caprice of girard de nollent, the wealthy owner of the property, who flourished towards the beginning of the sixteenth century.--girard de nollent's mansion is now occupied by a farmer. it has four fronts. the windows are square-headed, and surrounded by elegant mouldings; but the mullions have been destroyed. one medallion yet remains over the entrance; and it is probable that the walls were originally covered with ornaments of this kind. such, at least, is the case with the towers and walls, which, surrounding the dwelling, have given it a castellated aspect. the circular tower nearest the gate forms the subject of the accompanying sketch: it is dotted on all sides with busts in basso-relievo, enclosed in medallions, and of great diversity of character. one is a frowning warrior, arrayed in the helmet of an emperor of the lower empire; another, is a damsel attired in a ruff; a third, is a turbaned turk. the borders of the medallions are equally diversified: the _cordelière_, well known in french heraldry, the vine-leaf, the oak-leaf, all appear as ornaments. the battlements are surmounted with two statues, apparently neptune, or a sea-god, and hercules. these heathen deities not being very familiar to the good people of caen, they have converted them, in imagination, into two gens-d'armes, mounting guard on the castle; and hence it is frequently called the _château de la gendarmerie_. some of the busts are accompanied by inscriptions--"vincit pudicitiam mors;" "vincit amor pudicitiam;" "amor vincit mortem;" and all seem to be either historical or allegorical. the battlements of the curtain-wall are ornamented in the same manner. the farther tower has less decoration, and is verging to decay. i have given these details, because the castle of calix is a specimen of a style of which we have no fair parallel in england, and the workmanship is far from being contemptible. [illustration: tower in the _château de calix_, at caen] in the rue st. jean is a house with decorations, in the same style, but more sumptuous, or, perhaps i ought rather to say, more perfect. both of them are most probably of nearly the same date: for it was principally during the reigns of charles viiith and louis xiith, that the practice prevailed in france, of ornamenting the fronts of houses with medallions. the custom died away under francis ist. i must now return to more genuine fortifications.--when the walls of caen were perfect, they afforded an agreeable and convenient promenade completely round the town, their width being so great, that three persons might with ease walk abreast upon them. de bourgueville tells us that, in his time, they were as much frequented as the streets; and he expatiates with great pleasure upon the gay and busy prospect which they commanded, the castle at caen, degraded as it is in its character by modern innovation, is more deserving of notice as an historical, than as an architectural, relic. it still claims to be ranked as a place of defence, though it retains but few of its original features. the spacious, lofty, circular towers, known by the names of the black, the white, the red, and the grey horse, which flanked its ramparts, have been brought down to the level of the platform. the dungeon tower is destroyed. all the grandeur of the norman castle is lost; though the width of its ditches, and the thickness of its walls, still testify its ancient strength. i doubt whether any castle in france covers an equal extent of ground. monstrelet and other writers have observed, that this single fortress exceeded in size the towns of corbeil or of montferrand; and, indeed, there are reasons for supposing that caen, when first founded, only occupied the site of the present castle; and that, when it became advisable to convert the old town into a fortress, the inhabitants migrated into the valley below. six thousand infantry could be drawn up in battle-array within the outer ballium; and so great was the number of houses and of inhabitants enclosed within its area, that it was thought expedient to build in it a parochial church, dedicated to st. george, besides two chapels. one of the chapels is still in existence, though now converted to a store-house; and the abbé de la rue considers it as an erection anterior to the conquest, and, belonging to the old town of caen. its choir is turned towards the west, and its front to the east.--the religious edifices upon the continent do not preserve the same uniformity as our english ones, in having their altars placed in the direction of the rising sun; but this at caen is a very remarkable instance of the position of the entrance and the altar being completely reversed[ ]. the door-way is a fine semi-circular arch: the side pillars supporting it are very small, but the decorations of the archivolt are rich: they consist principally of three rows of the chevron moulding, enclosed within a narrow fillet of smaller ornaments, approaching in shape to quatrefoils. collectively, they form a wide band, which springs from flat piers level with the wall, and does not immediately unite with the head of the inner arch. the intermediate space is covered by a reticulated pattern indented in the stone. above the entrance is a window of the same form, its top encircled by a broad chequered band, a very unusual accompaniment to this style of architecture. the front of the chapel presents in other respects, a flat uniform surface, unvaried, except by four norman buttresses, and a string-course of the simplest form, running round the whole building, at somewhat less than mid-height. the sides of the chapel are lighted by a row of circular-headed windows, with columns in the angles; and between these windows are buttresses, as in the chapel of the lazar-house of st. julien, at rouen. huet endeavours to prove that the first fortress which was built at caen, was erected by william the conqueror, who frequently resided here with his queen matilda, and who was likely to find some protection of this nature desirable, as well to guard his royal residence against the mutinous disposition of the lords of the bessin, as to command the navigation of the orne. the castle was enlarged and strengthened by his son henry; but it is believed that the four towers, just mentioned, and the walls surrounding the keep, were added by our countrymen, during that short period when the norman sceptre was again wielded by the descendants of the norman dukes. under louis xiith and francis ist, the whole of the castle, but particularly the dungeon, underwent great repairs, by which the original form of the structure was entirely changed.--from that period history is silent respecting the fortress. i cannot, however, take leave of it without reminding you, that sir john fastolf, whilom our neighbour at castor, was for some time placed in command here, as lieutenant to the regent duke of bedford. you, who are acquainted with the true character of the knight, need scarcely be told, that even his enemies concur in bearing testimony to his ability, his vigilance, and his valor: it is to be regretted that he has not met with equal justice at home. not one individual troubles himself about history, whilst a thousand read the drama; and the stains which shakspeare's pen has affixed to the name of fastolf, are of a nature never to be wiped away; thus disproving the distich of the satyrist, who indeed, by his own works, has effectually falsified his own maxim, that-- "truth will survive when merry jokes are past; for rising merit must buoy up at last." as usual, the buildings dedicated to religion are far more numerous and valuable than the relics of military architecture. of these, the first which salutes the stranger who enters by the great high road, is the hôtel dieu, which is almost intact and unaltered. the basement story contains large and deep pointed arches, ornamented with the chevron moulding, disposed in a very peculiar manner.--from the style of the building, there is every reason to believe that it is of the beginning of the thirteenth century, at which time william, count of magneville, appropriated to charitable purposes the ground now occupied by this hospital, and caused his donation to be confirmed by a bull from pope innocent iiird, dated in april, . the abbeys, the glories of caen, will require more leisure: at present let us pass on to the parochial churches. of these, the most ancient foundation is _st. etienne le vieil_; and tradition relates that this church was dedicated by st. renobert, bishop of bayeux, in the year .--but, though the present edifice may stand upon the site of an ancient one, there would be little risk in affirming, that not one stone of it was laid upon another till after the year . the building is spacious, and its tower is not devoid of beauty. the architecture is a medley of debased gothic and corrupted roman; but the large pointed windows, decorated by fanciful mouldings and scroll-work, have an air of richness, though the component parts are so inharmonious. attached to the wall of the choir of this church is still to be seen an equestrian statue[ ], part of the celebrated group supposed to represent william the conqueror making his triumphal entry into caen. a headless horse, mounted by a headless rider, and a figure, which has lost all shape and form, beneath the feet of the steed, are all that now remain; but de bourgueville, who knew the group when perfect, says, that there likewise belonged to it a man and woman upon their knees, as if seeking some explanation for the death of their child, or rather, perhaps, in the act of imploring mercy.--i have already pointed out the resemblance between these statues and the bas-relief, of which i have sent you a sketch from st. georges. one of the most learned antiquaries of the present time has found a prototype for the supposed figure of the duke, among the sculptures of the trajan column. but this, with all due deference, is far from a decisive proof that the statue in question was not intended for william. similar adaptations of the antique model, "mutato nomine," frequently occur among the works of the artists of the middle ages; and there is at least a possibility that, had the face been left us, we might have traced some attempt at a portrait of the norman duke. upon the date of the sculpture, or the style of the workmanship, i dare not venture an opinion. there are antiquaries, i know, (and men well qualified to judge,) who believe it roman: i have heard it pronounced from high authority, that it is of the eleventh century, others suspect that it is italian, of the thirteenth or fourteenth centuries; whilst m. le prevost and m. de gerville maintain most strenuously that it is not anterior to the fifteenth. de bourgueville certainly calls it "une antiquité de grand remarque;" but we all know that any object which is above an hundred years old, becomes a piece of antiquity in the eye of an uncritical observer; and such was the good magistrate. the church of st. nicholas, now used as a stable, was built by william the conqueror, in the year , or thereabouts. desecrated as it is, it remains entire; and its interior is remarkable for the uniformity of the plan, the symmetry of the proportions. all the capitals of the pillars attached to the walls are alike; and those of the arches, which very nearly resemble the others, are also all of one pattern. in the side-aisles there is no groining, but only cross vaulting. the vaulting of the nave is pointed, and of late introduction. round the choir and transepts runs a row of small arches, as in the triforium.--the west end was formerly flanked by two towers, the southern of which only remains. this is square, and well proportioned: each side contains two lancet windows. the lower part is quite plain, excepting two norman buttresses. the whole of the width of the central compartment, which is more than quadruple that of either of the others, is occupied below by three circular portals, now blocked up.--above them are five windows, disposed in three tiers. in the lowest are two not wider than loop-holes: over these two others, larger; another small one is at the top. all these windows are of the simplest construction, without side pillars or mouldings.--the choir of the church ends in a semi-circular apsis, divided into compartments by a row of pillars, rising as high as the cornice: in the intercolumniation are windows, and under the windows small arches, each of which has its head hewn out of a single stone.--the roof of the choir is of stone, and the pitch of it is very high. here, then, we have the exact counterpart of the irish stone-roofed chapels, the most celebrated of which, that of cormac, in cashel cathedral, appears, from all the drawings and descriptions i have seen of it, to be altogether a norman building. ledwich asserts that "this chapel is truly saxon, and was erected prior to the introduction of the norman, and gothic styles[ ]." if, we agree with him, we only obtain a proof that there is no essential difference between norman and saxon architecture; and this proposition, i believe, will soon be universally admitted. we now know what is really norman; and a little attention to the buildings in the north of germany, may terminate the long-debated questions, relative to saxon architecture and the origin of the stone-roofed chapels in the sister isle. in the burial-ground that surrounds the church of st. nicholas, are several monumental inscriptions, all of them posterior to the commencement of the reign of napoléon, and all, with one single exception, commemorative of females. the epitaphs are much in the same tone as would be found in an english church-yard. the greater part, however, of the tomb-stones, are uninscribed. they are stone coffins above-ground, sculptured with plain crosses, or, where they have been raised to ecclesiastics, with an addition of some portion of the sacerdotal dress. [illustration: tower and spire of st. peter's church, at caen] among the churches of comparatively modern erection, st. peter deserves most attention. from every part of the town and neighborhood, its lofty spire, towering above the surrounding buildings, forces itself upon your view. it is not easy to carry accurate ideas of height in the memory; but, as far as recollection will serve me, i should say that its elevation is hardly inferior to that of the spire of salisbury cathedral. i have no hesitation in adding, that the proportions of the tower and spire of the church at caen, are more pleasing. elegance, lightness, and symmetry, are the general characters of the whole, though the spire has peculiar characters of its own.--the tower, though built a century later than that of salisbury, is so much less ornamented, that it might be mistaken for an earlier example of the pointed style. the lowest story is occupied wholly by a portal: the second division is surrounded by pointed arches, beneath crocketed gables: the third is filled by four lancet arches, supported by reeded pillars, so lofty, that they occupy nearly two-thirds of the entire height of the tower. the flanking arches are blanks: the two middle ones are pierced into windows, divided by a central mullion. the balustrade at the top of the tower is of a varied pattern, each side exhibiting a different tracery. eight crocketed pinnacles are added to the spire, which is octangular, and has a row of crockets at each angle. from the base to the summit it is encircled, at regular distances, with broad bands of stone-work, disposed like scales; and, alternating with the bands, are perforations in the form of cinquefoils, quatrefoils, and trefoils, diminishing as the spire rises, but so disposed, that the light is seen distinctly through them. the effect of these perforations was novel and very pleasing. [illustration: sculpture upon a capital in st. peter's church at caen] this tower and spire were built in the year , under the directions of nicolle l'anglois, a burgher of caen, and treasurer of the church.--how far we are at liberty to infer from his name, as ducarel does, that he was an englishman, may admit of some doubt. he was buried here; and de bourgueville has preserved his epitaph, which recounts among his other merits, that "et par luy, et par sa devise fut la tour en sa voye mise d'estre faicte si noblement."-- but the name of the architect who was employed is unrecorded.--the rest of the church was erected at different periods: the northern aisle in ; the opposite one some time afterwards; and the eastern extremity, with the vaulted roof of the choir and aisles, in .--with this knowledge, it is not difficult to account for the diversity of styles that prevails in the building.--the western front contains much good tracery, and well disposed, apparently as old as the tower.--the exterior of the east end, with its side-chapels, is rather italian than gothic.--the interior is of a purer style: the five arches forming the apsis are perhaps amongst the finest specimens of the luxuriant french gothic: roses are introduced with great effect amongst the tracery and friezes, with which the walls are covered. the decorations of the chapels round the choir, although they display a tendency towards italian architecture, are of the most elaborate arabesque. the niches are formed by escalop shells, swelling cylinders of foliage, and scrolls: some of the pendants from the roofs are of wonderfully varied and beautiful workmanship.--the nave has nothing remarkable, saving the capital of one of the side pillars. its sculptures, with the exception of one mutilated group, have been drawn by mr. cotman.--the subjects are strangely inappropriate, as the ornaments of a sacred edifice. all are borrowed from romance.--aristotle bridled and saddled by the mistress of alexander. virgilius, or, as some say, hippocrates, hanging in the basket. lancelot crossing the raging flood.--the fourth, which is not shewn in the sketch, is much defaced, but seems to have been taken from the _chevalier et la charette_. according to the usual fate of ancient sculpture, the _marguilliers_ of the parish have so sadly encumbered it with white-wash, that it is not easy to make out the details; and a friend of mine was not quite certain whether the bearded figure riding on the lion, was not a youthful cupid. no other of the capitals has at present any basso-relievo of this kind; but i suspect they have been chopped off. the church suffered much from the calvinists; and afterwards, during the revolution, when most of the bas-reliefs of the portal were destroyed. [illustration: tower of st. john's church, at caen] the neighboring church of st. john appears likewise to be the work of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. this building and st. peter's agree in general character: their towers are nearly the counterparts of each other. but, in st. john's, the great tower is placed at the west end of the edifice, the principal portal being beneath it. this is not very usual in the norman-gothic churches, though common in england. the tower wants a spire; and, at present, it leans considerably out of the perpendicular line, so that some apprehensions are entertained for its safety. it was originally intended that the church should also be surmounted by a central tower; and, as de bourgueville says, the beginning was made in his time; but it remains to the present day incomplete, and has not been raised sufficiently high to enable us to form a clear idea of the design of the architect, though enough remains to shew that it would have been built in the romanizing-gothic style.--the inside is comparatively plain, excepting only the arches in the lower open part of the tower. these are richly ornamented; and a highly-wrought balustrade runs round the triforium, uniform in its pattern in the nave and choir, but varying in the transepts.--in the other ecclesiastical buildings at caen, we saw nothing to interest us.--the chapel of st. thomas l'abattu, which, according to huet, "had existed from time immemorial," and which, to judge from ducarel's description and figure, must have been curious, has now entirely disappeared. in the suburb of vaucelles, the church of st. michael contains some architectural features of great curiosity[ ]. the circular-headed arches in the short square tower, and in a small round turret that is attached to it, are unquestionably early norman, and are remarkable for their proportions, being as long and as narrow as the lancet windows of the following æra. it would not be equally safe to pronounce upon the date of the stone-roofed pyramid which covers this tower. the north porch is entered by a pointed arch, which, though much less ornamented, approaches in style to the southern porch of st. ouen, and, like that, has its inner archivolt fringed with pendant trefoils. the wall above the arch rises into a triangular gable, entirely covered with waving tracery, the only instance of the kind which i have seen at caen. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : _huet, origines de caen_, p. .] [footnote : upon this subject, huet has an extraordinary observation, (_origines de caen_, p. .) "that, in the early times of christianity, it was customary for all churches to front the east or north, or some intermediate point of the compass."--so learned and careful a writer would scarcely have made such a remark without some plausible grounds; but i am at a loss where to find them. bingham, in his _origines eccleslasticæ_, i. p. , says, "that churches were so placed, that the front, or chief entrances, were towards the west, and the sanctuary or altar placed towards the east;" and though he adduces instances of a different position, as in the church of antioch, which faced the east, and that of st. patrick, at sabul, near down in ulster, which stood from north to south, he cites them only as deviations from an established practice.] [footnote : _cotman's architectural antiquities of normandy_, t. .] [footnote : _antiquities of ireland_, p. .] [footnote : see _cotman's architectural antiquities of normandy_, t. , .] letter xxv. royal abbeys of the holy trinity and st. stephen--funeral of the conqueror, exhumation of his remains, and destruction of his monument. (_caen, august_, .) the two royal abbeys of caen have fortunately escaped the storms of the revolution. these buildings are still standing, an ornament to the town, and an honor to the sovereign who caused them to be erected, as well as to the artist who planned, and to the age which produced them. as models of architecture they are the same land-marks to the history of the art in lower normandy, as the church of st. georges is in the upper division of the province. their dates are equally authenticated; and the characteristic features in each are equally perfect. both these noble edifices rose at the same time, and from the same motive. william the conqueror, by his marriage with matilda, daughter of baldwin, earl of flanders, had contracted an alliance proscribed by the degrees of consanguinity. the clergy inveighed against the union; and they were supported in their complaints by lanfranc, then resident at bec, whose remonstrances were so uncourtly and strenuous, that the duke banished him from the province. it chanced that the churchman, while in the act of obedience to this command, met the sovereign. their interview began with recriminations: it ended with reconciliation; and lanfranc finally engaged to undertake a mission to the supreme pontiff, who, considering the turbulent disposition of the normans, and that a better end was likely to be answered by peaceable than by hostile measures, consented to grant the necessary dispensation. at the same time, by way of penance, he issued an injunction that the royal pair should erect two monasteries, the one for monks, the other for nuns. and in obedience to this command, william founded the abbey of st. stephen, and matilda, the abbey of the holy trinity; or, as they are usually called at caen, _l'abbaye aux hommes_, and _l'abbaye aux dames_. the approach to the monastery of the trinity is through a spacious gate-tower, part of the original structure. over the rent and shapeless door-way are three semi-circular arches, upon the capitals of which is distinctly observable the cable-moulding, and along the top of the tower runs a line of the same toothed ornament, remarked by ducarel at bourg-achard, and stated by him to have been considered peculiar to saxon architecture[ ]. the park that formerly environed the abbey retains its character, though abandoned to utter neglect. it is of great extent, and is well wooded. the monastic buildings, which are, as usual, modern, are mostly perfect.--a ruined wall nearly in front of the church, with a chimney-piece, perhaps of norman workmanship, belonged to the old structure. such part of the chimney wall as was exposed to the flame is built of large tiles, placed diagonally. all other vestiges of the ancient apartments have been removed. the noble church[ ] is now used as a work-house for the department. at the revolution it became national property, and it remained unappropriated, till, upon the institution of the legion of honor, napoléon applied it to some purpose connected with that body, by whom it was lately ceded for it present object. but, if common report may be credited, it is likely soon to revert to its original destination. the restoration may be easily effected, as the building has sustained but little injury. a floor has been thrown across the nave and transept, dividing them into two stories; but in other respects they are unaltered, and divine service is still performed in the choir. a finer specimen of the solid grandeur of norman architecture is scarcely to be found any where than in the west front of this church. the corresponding part of the rival abbey of st. stephen is poor when compared to it; and jumieges and st. georges equally fail in the comparison. in all of these, there is some architectural anomaly: in the trinity none, excepting, indeed, the balustrade at the top of the towers; and this is so obviously an addition of modern times, that no one can be misled by it. this balustrade was erected towards the beginning of the seventeenth century, when the oval apertures and scrolls seen in ducarel's print were introduced. anciently the towers were ornamented with very lofty spires. according to some accounts, these were demolished, because they served as land-marks to the english cruizers, being seen far out at sea; but other accounts state, that the spires were pulled down by charles, king of navarre, who was at war with his namesake, charles vth, then dauphin and regent. the abbey at that time bore the two-fold character of nunnery and fortress.--strangely inconsistent as this union may appear, the fact is undoubted. even now a portion of the fosses remains; and the gate-way indicates an approach to a fortified place. ancient charters likewise expressly recognize the building in both capacities: they endow the abbey for the service of god; and they enjoin the inhabitants of the adjacent parishes to keep the fortifications in repair against any assaults of men. nay, letters patent, granted by charles vth, which fix the salary of the captain of the _fort of the trinity, at caen_, at one hundred francs per annum, are yet extant. i shall attempt no description of the west front of this monastery, few continental buildings being better known in england. the whole remains as it was in the time of ducarel, except that the arches of entrance are blocked up, and modern windows have been inserted in the door-ways.--the north side of the church is quite concealed by the cloisters and conventual buildings. the southern aisle has been plastered and patched, and converted into a range of work-shops, so that its original elevation is wholly obliterated. but the nave, which rises above, is untouched by innovation. the clerestory range is filled by a row of semi-circular headed windows, separated by intervening flat buttresses, which reach to the cornice. each buttress is edged with two slender cylindrical pilasters; and each window flanked by two smaller arches, whose surfaces are covered with chequer-work. the arch of every window has a key-stone, formed by a grotesque head.--above the whole is a corbel-table that displays monsters of all kinds, in the form of beasts, and men scarcely less monstrous.--the semi-circular east end is divided in its elevation into three compartments. the lower contains a row of small blank arches: in each of the other two is a window, of a size unusually large for a norman building, but still without mullions or tracery; its sides ornamented with columns, and its top encircled with a broad band of various mouldings. the windows are separated by cylindrical pillars, instead of buttresses.--in the upper part of the low central tower are some pointed arches, the only deviations of style that are to be found in the building. to the extremity of the southern transept has been attached a grecian portico, which masks the ancient portal. above is a row of round arches, some of which are pierced into windows. of the effect of the nave and transept within, it is difficult now to obtain a correct idea, the floor intervening to obstruct a general view.--high arches, encircled with the embattled moulding below; above these, a wide billeted string-course, forming a basis for a row of smaller arches, without side-pillars or decoration of any kind; then another string-course of different and richer patterns; and over this, the triforium, consisting also of a row of small arches, supported by thick pillars;--such is the elevation of the sides of the nave; and the same system is continued with but small variation in the transepts. but, notwithstanding the general uniformity of the whole, no two compartments are precisely alike; and the capitals are infinitely varied. it is singular to see such a playfulness of ornament in a building, whose architect appears, at first view, to have contemplated only grandeur and solidity.--the four arches which support the central tower are on a magnificent scale. the archivolts are encircled by two rows of lozenged squares, indented in the stone. the rams, or rams' heads, upon the capitals of these piers, are peculiar. the eastern arch rises higher than the rest, and is obtusely pointed; yet it seems to be of the same date with its circular companions.--so exquisite, however, is the quality of the caen stone, that no opinion drawn from the appearance of the material, ought to be hazarded with confidence. seven centuries have elapsed since this church was erected, and there is yet no difference to be discovered in the color of the stone, or the sharpness of the work; the whole is as clean and sharp as if it were but yesterday fresh from the chisel. the interior of the choir has not been divided by the flooring; and the eastern extremity, which remains perfect, shews the original design. it consists of large arches, disposed in a double tier, so as to correspond with the windows of the apsis, and placed at a short distance from the wall; but without any lady-chapel beyond. the pillars that support these arches are well proportioned: the sculptures on their capitals are scarcely less grotesque than those at st. georges; but, barbarous as they are, the corners of almost every capital are finished with imitations, more or less obvious, of the classical ionic volute.--among the sculptures is a head resting upon two lions, which has been fancied to be a representation of the conqueror himself; whilst a faded painting of a female, attired as a nun, on the north side of the altar, is also commonly entitled a portrait of the foundress.--were any plausible reason alleged for regarding the picture as intended to bear even an imaginary resemblance to matilda, i would have sent you a copy of it; but there appear no grounds to consider it as authentic.--willing, however, to contribute a mark of respect to a female, styled by william of malmesbury, "fæminam prudentiæ speculum, pudoris culmen," and, by way of a companion to the rough sketch of her illustrious consort, in the initial letter in the library at rouen, i add the fac-simile of a seal, which, by the kindness of a friend has fallen into my hands. it has been engraved before, but only for private distribution; and, if a suspicion should cross your mind, that it may have belonged to the empress maud, or to matilda, wife to stephen, i can only bespeak your thanks to me, for furnishing you with a likeness of any one of these ladies. [illustration: fac-simile of seal] matilda was interred in the middle of this choir; and, according to ordericus vitalis, a monument of exquisite workmanship, richly ornamented with gold and precious stones, and bearing a long inscription in letters of gold, was raised to her memory. her effigy was afterwards added to the monument; the whole of which was destroyed in , by the calvinists, who tore open the queen's coffin, and dispersed her remains. after a lapse of an hundred and forty years, the royal bones were again collected, and deposited in this church. at the same time, the splendid monument was replaced by a plain altar-tomb, which existed till the revolution, when all was once more swept away. the marble slab, inscribed with the original epitaph, alone remained entire, and was carried to the abbey church of st. stephen's, where it still forms a part of the pavement in a chapel. the letters are finely sculptured and perfectly sharp. however, it is not likely to continue there long; for count de montlivault, the prefect of the department, has already caused a search to be made for matilda's remains, and he intends to erect a third monument to her memory. the excavations for this purpose have hitherto been unsuccessful: the count met with many monumental stones, and many coffins of various kinds, but none that could be mistaken for the desired object; for one of the inscriptions on the late monument expressly states, that the queen's bones had been wrapped in a linen cloth, and enclosed in a leaden box. the inquiry, however, will not be discontinued[ ]: there are still hopes of success, especially in the crypt, which corresponds in its architecture with the church above. it is filled with columns placed in four ranges, each standing only four feet from the other, all of elegant proportions, with diversified capitals, as those in the choir.--round it runs a stone bench, as in the subterraneous chapel in st. gervais, at rouen. founded by a queen, the abbey of the trinity preserved at all times a constitution thoroughly aristocratical. no individual, except of noble birth, was allowed to take the veil here, or could be received into the community. you will see in the series of the abbesses the names of bourbon, valois, albret, montmorenci, and others of the most illustrious families in france. cecily, the conqueror's eldest daughter, stands at the head of the list. according to the _gallia christiana_, she was devoted by her parents to this holy office, upon the very day of the dedication of the convent, in july . the black marble slab which covered her remains, was lately discovered in the chapter-house. a crozier is sculptured upon it. it is delineated in a very curious volume now in the possession of the abbé de la rue, which contains drawings of all the tombs and inscriptions that formerly existed in the abbey. the annual income of the monastery of the trinity is stated by gough, in his _alien priories_, at thirty thousand livres, and that of the monastery of st. stephen, at sixty thousand; but ducarel estimates the revenue of the former at seventy thousand, and of the latter at two hundred thousand; and i should not doubt but that the larger sums are nearest the truth; indeed, the grants and charters still in existence, or noticed by historians, would rather lead to the supposition that the revenues must have been even greater. parsimony in the endowment of religious buildings, was not a prevailing vice in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. least of all was it likely that it should be practised in the case of establishments, thus founded in expiation of the transgressions of wealthy and powerful sinners. page after page, in the charters, is filled with the list of those, who, with "lands and livings, many a rood, had gifted the shrine for their soul's repose." the privileges and immunities enjoyed by these abbeys were very extensive. both of them were from their origin exempted by pope alexander iind, with the consent of odo, bishop of bayeux, from all episcopal jurisdiction; and both had full power, as well spiritual as ecclesiastical, over the members of their own communities, and over the parishes dependent upon them; with no other appeal than to the archbishop of rouen, or to the pope. express permission was likewise given to the abbot of st. stephen's, by virtue of a bull from pope clement viith, to wear a gold mitre studded with precious stones, and a ring and sandals, and other episcopal ornaments. many of the monuments and deeds of the greater abbey are now in the prefecture of the department. the original chartulary or register was saved by the abbé de la rue, and is at this time preserved in his valuable collection. the charters of the trinity were hid, during the revolution, by the nuns, who secreted them beneath the tiling of a barn. they were discovered there not long since; but damp and vermin had rendered them wholly illegible. lanfranc, whose services at rome well deserved every distinction that his sovereign could bestow, was the first abbot of st. stephen's. upon his translation to the see of canterbury, he was succeeded by william, who was likewise subsequently honored with an archiepiscopal mitre. the third abbot, gislebert, was bishop of evreux; and, though the series was not continued through an uninterrupted line of equal dignity, the office of abbot of this convent was seldom conferred, except upon an individual of exalted birth. eight cardinals, two of them of the noble houses of medici and farnese, and three others, still more illustrious, the cardinals richelieu, mazarine, and fleury, are included in the list, though in later times the abbacy was held _in commendam_ by these powerful prelates, whilst all the internal management of the house devolved upon a prior. amongst the abbots will also be found hugh de coilly, grandson of king stephen, anthony of bourbon, a natural son of henry ivth of france, and charles of orléans, who was likewise of royal extraction.--st. stephen was selected as the patron of the abbey, in consequence of the founder having bestowed upon it the head of the protomartyr, together with one of his arms, and a phial of his blood, and the stone with which he was killed. [illustration: monastery of st. stephen, at caen] the monastic buildings now serve for what, in the language of revolutionary and imperial france, was called a _lycée_, but which has since assumed the less heathen appellation of a college. they constitute a fine edifice, and, seen from a short distance, in conjunction with the east end of the church, they form a grand _tout-ensemble_. the abbey church, from this point of view, has somewhat of an oriental character: the wide sweep of the semi-circular apsis, and the slender turrets and pyramids that rise from every part of the building, recal the idea of a mahometan mosque. but the west end is still more striking than the east; and if, in the interior of the church of the trinity, we had occasion to admire the beautiful quality of the caen stone, our admiration of it was more forcibly excited here: notwithstanding the continual exposure to wind and weather, no part appears corroded, or discolored, or injured. a character of magnificence, arising in a great measure from the grand scale upon which it is built, pervades this front. but, to be regarded with advantage, it must be viewed as a whole: the parts, taken separately, are unequal and ill assorted. the simplicity of the main division approaches to meanness. its three door-ways and double tier of windows appear disproportionally small, when contrasted with the expanse of blank wall; and their returns are remarkably shallow. the windows have no mouldings whatever, and the pillars and archivolts of the doors are very meagre. the front consists of three compartments, separated by flat buttresses; the lateral divisions rising into lofty towers, capped with octagon spires. the towers are much ornamented: three tiers of semi-circular arches surround the upper divisions; the arches of the first tier have no mouldings or pillars; the upper vary in pattern, and are enriched with pillars and bands, and some are pierced into windows.--twelve pinnacles equally full of arches, some pointed, others semi-circular, surround each spire. similar pinnacles rise from the ends of the transepts and the choir.--the central tower, which is short and terminates in a conical roof, was ruined by the huguenots, who undermined it, thinking that its fall would destroy the whole building. fortunately, however, it only damaged a portion of the eastern end; the reparations done to which have occasioned a discrepancy of style, that is injurious to the general effect. but the choir and apsis were previously of a different æra from the rest of the edifice. they were raised by the abbot simon de trevieres, in the beginning of the fourteenth century.--i am greatly mistaken, if a real norman church ever extended farther eastward than the choir. the building is now undergoing a thorough repair, at the expence of the town. no other revenues, at present, belong to it, except the _sous_ which are paid for chairs during mass. a friend, who is travelling through normandy, describes the interior in the following manner; and, as i agree with him in his ideas, i shall borrow his description:--"without doubt, the architect was conversant with roman buildings, though he has normanized their features, and adopted the lines of the basilica to a _barbaric_ temple. the coliseum furnished the elevation of the nave;--semi-circular arches surmounted by another tier of equal span, and springing at nearly an equal height from the basis of the supporting pillars. the architraves connecting the lower rows of pillars are distinctly enounced. the arches which rise from them have plain bold mouldings. the piers between each arch are of considerable width. in the centre of each pier is a column, which ascends as usual to the vault. these columns are alternately simple and compound. the latter are square pilasters, each fronted by a cylindrical column, which of course projects farther into the nave than the simple columns; and thus the nave is divided into bays. this system is imitated in the gothic cathedral, at sens. the square pilaster ceases at about four-fifths of its height: then two cylindrical pillars rise from it, so that, from that point, the column becomes clustered. angular brackets, sculptured with knots, grotesque heads, and foliage, are affixed to the base of these derivative pillars. a bold double-billeted moulding is continued below the clerestory, whose windows adapt themselves to the binary arrangement of the bays. a taller arch is flanked by a smaller one on the right or the left side, as its situation requires. these are supported by short massy pillars: an embattled moulding runs round the windows. "in the choir the arches become pointed, but with norman mouldings: the apsis is a re-construction. in that portion of the choir, which seems original, there are pointed windows formed by the interlacing of circular arches: these light the gallery. "the effect produced by the perspective of the interior is lofty and palatial. the ancient masonry of the exterior is worthy of notice. the stones are all small, perhaps not exceeding nine or twelve inches: the joints are about three-quarters of an inch." at the north-west angle of the nave has been built a large chapel, comparatively a modern erection; and in the centre of this lies matilda's gravestone.--there is no other chapel to the nave, and, as usual, no monument in any portion of the church; but in front of the high altar is still to be seen the flat stone, placed there in , in memory of the conqueror, and bearing the epitaph-- [illustration: epitaph in memory of the conqueror] qui rexit rigidos normannos atque britannos avdacter vicit fortiter obtinvit et cenomanenses virtvte coercvit enses imperiiqve svi legibus applicvit rex magnvs parva jacet hic villelmvs in vrna svfficit hÆc magno parva domvs domino ter septem gradibvs se volverat atque dvobvs virginis in gremio phoebvs et hic obiit anno mlxxxvii reqviescebat in spe corpvs beneficientissimi fvndatoris qvvm a calvinianis anno mdlxii dissipata svnt eivs ossa vnvm ex eis a viro nobili qvi tvm aderat reservatvm et a posteris illivs anno mdcxlii restitvtvm in medio choro depositvm fverat mole sepvlchrali desvper extrvcta hanc ceremoniarvm solemnitate minvs accommodam amovervnt monachi anno mdccxlii regio fvlti diplomate et os qvod vnvm svpererat reposvervnt in crypta prope altare in qvo ivgiter de benedictionibvs metet qvi seminavit in benedictionibvs fiat fiat the poetical part of this epitaph was composed by thomas, archbishop of york, and was engraved upon the original monument, as well as upon a plate of gilt copper, which was found within the sepulchre when it was first opened. many other poets, we are told by ordericus vitalis, exercised their talents upon the occasion; but none of their productions were deemed worthy to be inscribed upon the tomb. the account of the opening of the vault is related by de bourgueville, from whom it has been already copied by ducarel; but the circumstances are so curious, that i shall offer no apology for telling a twice-told tale. from ordericus vitalis also we may borrow some details respecting the funeral of the conqueror, which, though strictly appertaining to english history, have never yet, i believe, appeared in an english dress. in speaking of the church of st. gervais at rouen, i have already briefly alluded to the melancholy circumstances by which the death of this monarch was attended. the sequel of the story is not less memorable. the king's decease was the signal for general consternation throughout the metropolis of normandy. the citizens, panic struck, ran to and fro, as if intoxicated, or as if the town were upon the point of being taken by assault. each asked counsel of his neighbor, and each anxiously turned his thoughts to the concealing of his property. when the alarm had in some measure subsided the monks and clergy made a solemn procession to the abbey of st. georges, where they offered their prayers for the repose of the soul of the departed duke; and archbishop william commanded that the body should be carried to caen, to be interred in the church of st. stephen, which william had founded. but the lifeless king was now deserted by all who had participated in his munificence and bounty. every one of his brethren and relations had left him; nor was there even a servant to be found to perform the last offices to his departed lord. the care of the obsequies was finally undertaken by herluin, a knight of that district, who, moved by the love of god and the honor of his nation, provided at his own expence, embalmers, and bearers, and a hearse, and conveyed the corpse to the seine, whence it was carried by land and water to the place of its destination. upon the arrival of the funeral train at caen, it was met by gislebert, bishop of evreux, then abbot of st. stephen's, at the head of his monks, attended with a numerous throng of clergy and laity; but scarcely had the bier been brought within the gates, when the report was spread that a dreadful fire had broken out in another part of the town, and the duke's remains were a second time deserted. the monks alone remained; and, fearful and irresolute, they bore their founder "with candle, with book, and with knell," to his last home. ordericus vitalis enumerates the principal prelates and barons assembled upon this occasion; but he makes no mention of the conqueror's son, henry, who, according to william of jumieges, was the only one of the family that attended, and was also the only one worthy of succeeding to such a father.--mass had now been performed, and the body was about to be committed to the ground, "ashes to ashes, dust to dust," when, previously to this closing part of the ceremony, gislebert mounted the pulpit, and delivered an oration in honor of the deceased.--he praised his valor, which had so widely extended the limits of the norman dominion; his ability, which had elevated the nation to the highest pitch of glory; his equity in the administration of justice; his firmness in correcting abuses; and his liberality towards the monks and clergy; then, finally, addressing the people, he besought them to intercede with the almighty for the soul of their prince, and to pardon whatsoever transgression he might have been guilty of towards any of them.--at this moment, one asselin, an obscure individual, starting from the crowd, exclaimed with a loud voice, "the ground upon which you are standing, was the site of my father's dwelling. this man, for whom you ask our prayers, took it by force from my parent; by violence he seized, by violence he retained it; and, contrary to all law and justice, he built upon it this church, where we are assembled. publicly, therefore, in the sight of god and man, do i claim my inheritance, and protest against the body of the plunderer being covered with my turf."--the appeal was attended with instant effect; bishops and nobles united in their entreaties to asselin; they admitted the justice of his claim; they pacified him; they paid him sixty shillings on the spot by way of recompence for the place of sepulture; and, finally, they satisfied him for the rest of the land. but the remarkable incidents doomed to attend upon this burial, were not yet at an end; for at the time when they were laying the corpse in the sarcophagus, and were bending it with some force, which they were compelled to do, in consequence of the coffin having been made too short, the body, which was extremely corpulent, burst, and so intolerable a stench issued from the grave, that all the perfumes which arose from all the censers of the priests and acolytes were of no avail; and the rites were concluded in haste, and the assembly, struck with horror, returned to their homes. the latter part of this story accords but ill with what de bourgueville relates. we learn from this author, that four hundred and thirty years subsequent to the death of the conqueror, a roman cardinal, attended by an archbishop and bishop, visited the town of caen, and that his eminence having expressed a wish to see the body of the duke, the monks yielded to his curiosity, and the tomb was opened, and the corpse discovered in so perfect a state, that the cardinal caused a portrait to be taken from the lifeless features.--it is not worth while now to inquire into the truth of this story, or the fidelity of the resemblance. the painting has disappeared in the course of time: it hung for a while against the walls of the church, opposite to the monument; but it was stolen during the tumults caused by the huguenots, and was broken into two pieces, in which state de bourgueville saw it a few years afterwards, in the hands of a calvinist, one peter hodé, the gaoler at caen, who used it in the double capacity of a table and a door.--the worthy magistrate states, that he kept the picture, "because the abbey-church was demolished." he was himself present at the second violation of the royal tomb, in ; and he gives a piteous account of the transaction. the monument raised to the memory of the conqueror, by his son, william rufus, under the superintendance of lanfranc, was a production of much costly and elaborate workmanship: the shrine, which was placed upon the mausoleum, glittered with gold and silver and precious stones. to complete the whole, the effigy of the king had been added to the tomb, at some period subsequent to its original erection.--a monument like this naturally excited the rapacity of a lawless banditti, unrestrained by civil or military force, and inveterate against every thing that might be regarded as connected with the catholic worship.--the calvinists were masters of caen, and, incited by the information of what had taken place at rouen, they resolved to repeat the same outrages. under the specious pretext of abolishing idolatrous worship, they pillaged and ransacked every church and monastery: they broke the painted windows and organs, destroyed the images, stole the ecclesiastical ornaments, sold the shrines, committed pulpits, chests, books, and whatever was combustible, to the fire; and finally, after having wreaked their vengeance upon eyery thing that could be made the object of it, they went boldly to the town-hall to demand the wages for their labors.--in the course of these outrages the tomb of the conqueror at one abbey, and that of matilda at the other, were demolished. and this was not enough; but a few days afterwards, the same band returned, allured by the hopes of farther plunder. it was customary in ancient times to deposit treasures of various kinds in the tombs of sovereigns, as if the feelings of the living passed into the next stage of existence;-- "... quæ gratia currûm armorumque fuit vivis, quæ cura nitentes pascere equos, eadem sequitur tellure repostos." the bees that adorned the imperial mantle of napoléon were found in the tomb of childeric. a similar expectation excited the huguenots, at caen. they dug up the coffin: the hollow stone rung to the strokes of their daggers: the vibration proved that it was not filled by the corpse; and nothing more was wanted to seal its destruction. de bourgueville, who went to the spot and exerted his eloquence to check this last act of violence, witnessed the opening of the coffin. it contained the bones of the king, wrapped up in red taffety, and still in tolerable preservation; but nothing else. he collected them, with care, and consigned them to one of the monks of the abbeys who kept them in his chamber, till the admiral de châtillon entered caen at the head of his mercenaries, on which occasion the whole abbey was plundered, and the monks put to flight, and the bones lost. "sad doings, these," says de bourgueville, "_et bien peu réformez!_"--he adds, that one of the thigh-bones was preserved by the viscount of falaise, who was there with him, and begged it from the rioters, and that this bone was longer by four fingers' breadth than that of a tall man. the bone thus preserved, was re-interred, after the cessation of the troubles: it is the same that is alluded to in the inscription, which also informs us that a monument was raised over it in , but was removed in , it being then considered as an incumbrance in the choir. with this detail i close my letter. the melancholy end of the conqueror, the strange occurrences at his interment, the violation of his grave, the dispersion of his remains, and the demolition and final removal of his monument, are circumstances calculated to excite melancholy emotions in the mind of every one, whatever his condition in life. in all these events, the religious man traces the hand of retributive justice; the philosopher regards the nullity of sublunary grandeur; the historian finds matter for serious reflection; the poet for affecting narrative; the moralist for his tale; and the school-boy for his theme.--ordericus vitalis sums the whole up admirably. i should spoil his language were i to attempt to translate it; i give it you, therefore, in his own words:--"non fictilem tragoediam venundo, non loquaci comoedia cachinnantibus parasitis faveo: sed studiosis lectoribus varios eventus veraciter intimo. inter prospera patuerunt adversa, ut terrerentur terrigenarum corda. rex quondam potens et bellicosus, multisque populis per plures provincias metuendus, in area jacuit nudus, et a suis, quos genuerat vel aluerat, destitutus. aere alieno in funebri cultu indiguit, ope gregarii pro sandapila et vespilionibus conducendis eguit, qui tot hactenus et superfluis opibus nimis abundavit. secus incendium a formidolosis vectus est ad basilicam, liberoque solo, qui tot urbibus et oppidis et vicis principatus est, caruit ad sepulturam. arvina ventris ejus tot delectamentis enutrita cum dedecore patuit, et prudentes ac infrunitos, qualis sit gloria carnis, edocuit[ ]." * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : _anglo-norman antiquities_, p. .] [footnote : see _cotman's architectural antiquities of normandy_, t. - .] [footnote : a detailed account of the proceedings on this occasion, is given in the _journal politique du département du calvados_, for march , and may , .--the first attempt at the discovery of matilda's coffin, was made in march, , and was confined to the chapter-house: the matter then slept till the following march, when count de montlivault, attended by the bishop of bayeux, mr. spencer smythe, and other gentlemen, prosecuted his inquiries within the church itself, and, immediately under the spot where her monument stood, discovered a stone coffin, five feet four inches long, by eleven inches deep, and varying in width from twenty inches to eleven. within this coffin was a leaden box, soldered down; and, in addition to the box, the head of an effigy of a monk, in stone, and a portion of a skull-bone filled with aromatic herbs, and covered with a yellowish-white membrane, which proved, upon examination, to be the remains of a linen cloth. the box contained various bones, that had belonged to a person of nearly the same height as matilda is described to have been. no doubt seemed to remain but that the desideratum was discovered. the whole was therefore carefully replaced; and the prefect ordered that a new tomb should be raised, similar to that which was destroyed at the revolution; and that the slab, with the original epitaph, should be laid on the top; that copies of the former inscription, stating how the queen's remains had been re-interred by the abbess, in , should be added to two of the sides; that to the third should be affixed the ducal arms of normandy; and that the fourth should bear the following inscription:-- "ce tombeau renfermant les dépouilles mortelles de l'illustre fondatrice de cette abbaye, renversé pendant les discordes civiles, et déplacé depuis une longue série d'années, a été restauré, conformément au voeu des amis de la religion, de l'antiquité et des arts, . casimir, comte de montlivault, conseiller d'état, préfet. léchaudé d'anisy, directeur de l'hospice." the ceremony of the re-interment was performed with great pomp on the fifth of may; and the bishop of bayeux pronounced a speech on the occasion, that does him credit for its good sense and affecting eloquence.] [footnote : _hist. normannorum scriptores_, p. .] letter xxvi. palace of the conqueror--heraldic tiles--portraits of william and matilda--museum--public library--university--academy--eminent men--history of caen. (_caen, august_, .) within the precincts of the abbey of st. stephen are some buildings, which do not appear to have been used for monastic purposes. it is supposed that they were erected by william the conqueror, and they are yet called his palace. only sixty years ago, when ducarel visited caen, these remains still preserved their original character. he describes the great guard-chamber and the barons' hall, as making a noble appearance, and as being perhaps equally worth the notice of an english antiquary as any object within the province of normandy. the walls of these rooms are standing, but dilapidated and degraded; and they have lost their architectural character, which, supposing ducarel's plate to be a faithful representation, must have been very decisive. it is scarcely possible to conceive how any man, with such a specimen of the palace before his eyes, could dream of its being coeval with the norman conquest: every portion is of the pointed style, and even of a period when that style was no longer in its purity. possibly, indeed, other parts of the edifice may have been more ancient; such certainly was the "conqueror's kitchen," a singular octagon building, with four tall slender chimneys capped with perforated cones. this was destroyed many years ago; but ducarel obtained an original drawing of it, which he has engraved. amongst the ruins there is a chimney which perhaps belonged to this building.--the guard-chamber and barons' hall are noble rooms: the former is one hundred and ninety feet in length and ninety in breadth. you remember how admirably the _lay of the last minstrel_ opens with a description of such a hall, filled with knights, and squires, and pages, and all the accompaniments of feudal state. i tried, while standing by these walls, to conjure up the same pictures to my imagination, but it was impossible; so desolate and altered was every thing around, and so effectually was the place of baronial assemblage converted into a granary. the ample fire-place still remains; but, cold and cheerless, it looks as if had been left in mockery of departed splendor and hospitality. i annex a sketch of it, in which you will also see a few scattered tiles, relics of the magnificent pavement that once covered the floor. [illustration: fireplace in the conqueror's palace, at caen] this pavement has been the subject of much learned discussion; because, if the antiquity of the emblazoned tiles could be established, (which it certainly cannot) we should then have a decisive proof of the use of armorial bearings in the eleventh century. nearly the whole of these tiles are now removed. after the abbey was sold, the workmen entirely destroyed the tiles, breaking them with their pick-axes. the abbé de la rue, however, collected an entire set of them; and others have been preserved by m. lair, an antiquary of caen.--ducarel thus describes the pavement when perfect: "the floor is laid with tiles, each near five inches square, baked almost to vitrification. eight rows of these tiles, running from east to west, are charged with different coats of arms, said to be those of the families who attended duke william in his invasion of england. the intervals between each of these rows are filled up with a kind of tessellated pavement, the middle whereof represents a maze or labyrinth, about ten feet in diameter, and so artfully contrived that were we to suppose a man following all the intricate meanders of its volutes, he could not travel less than a mile before he got from one end to the other. the remainder of the floor is inlaid with small squares of different colors, placed alternately, and formed into draught or chess-boards, for the amusement of the soldiers while on guard." such is the general description of the floors of this apartment: with regard to the date of the tiles, ducarel proceeds to state that "it is most probable the pavement was laid down in the latter part of the reign of king john, when he was loitering away his life at caen, with the beautiful isabel of angoulême, his queen; during which period, the custom of wearing coats of arms was introduced."--common tradition assigns the tiles to higher date, making them coeval with the conquest; and this opinion has not been without supporters. it was strenuously defended by mr. henniker major, who, in the year , printed for private distribution, two letters upon the subject, addressed to lord leicester, in which he maintained this opinion with zeal and laborious research. to the letters were annexed engravings of twenty coats of arms, the whole, as he observes, that were represented on the pavement; for though the number of emblazoned tiles was considerable, the rest were all repetitions[ ]. the same observation was found in the inscription attached to a number of the tiles, which the monks kept framed for public inspection, in a conspicuous part of the monastery; and yet some of the armorial bearings in this very selection, differ from any of those figured by mr. henniker major. the abbé de la rue has also many which are not included in mr. henniker major's engravings. in one of the coats the arms are quartered, a practice that was not introduced till the reign of edward iiird. the same quarterings are also found upon an escutcheon, placed over the door that leads to the apartment. this door is a flattened arch, with an ogee canopy, the workmanship probably of the fourteenth century. to the same date i should also refer the tiles; and possibly the whole palace was built at that period. there are no records of its erection; no document connects its existence with the history of the duchy; no author relates its having been suffered to fall into decay. so striking an absence of all proof, and this upon a point where evidence of different kinds might naturally have been expected, may warrant a suspicion how far the building was ever a royal palace, according to the strict import of the town. a friend of mine supposes that these buildings may have been the king's lodgings. during the middle ages it was usual for monarchs in their progresses, to put up at the great abbeys; and this portion of the convent of st. stephen may have been intended for the accommodation of the royal guests. the assigning of a comparatively modern date to the pavement, does not necessarily interfere with the question as to the antiquity of heraldic bearings. the coats of arms which are painted upon the tiles may have been designed to represent those of the nobility who attended duke william on his expedition to england: it is equally possible that they embraced a more general object, and were those of the principal families of the duchy--de thou gives his suffrage in favor of the former opinion, but huet of the latter; and the testimony of the bishop must be allowed, in this case, to outweigh that of the president.--huet also says, that it is matter of notoriety that the tiles were laid down towards the close of the fourteenth century. he mentions, however, no authority for the assertion; and less credit perhaps will be given to it than it deserves, from his having stated just before, that the abbey and palace were contemporary structures. upon the outside wall of a chapel that is supposed to have belonged to the same palace, were ancient fresco paintings of william and matilda, and of their sons, robert and william rufus. they are engraved by montfaucon[ ], and are supposed by him, probably with reason, to be coeval with the personages they represent. the figures are standing upon animals, the distribution of which is the most remarkable circumstance connected with the portraits. to the king is assigned a dog; to the queen a lion: the eldest son has the same symbol as his father; the younger rests upon a two-bodied beast, half swine, half bird, the bodies uniting in a female head.--upon the same plate, montfaucon has given a second whole-length picture of the conqueror, which represents him with the crown upon his head, and the sceptre in his hand. considering the costume, he observes with justice that it cannot have been painted earlier than the latter part of the fourteenth century. ducarel, who, as usual, has copied the benedictine's engravings, says that, in his time, the same portrait existed in fresco over a chimney-piece in the porter's lodge.--we saw two copies of it; the one in the sacristy of the abbey church, the other in the museum, an establishment which may, without injustice to the honors of caen, be dismissed with the brief observation, that, though three rooms are appropriated to the purpose, there is a very scanty assortment of pictures, and their quality is altogether ordinary. the public library is a handsome apartment, one hundred and thirty feet in length, and it contains about twenty thousand volumes, mostly in good condition; but a great proportion of the books are of a description little read, being old divinity. to the students of the university, this establishment is of essential service; and on this account it is to be regretted, that the very scanty revenue with which it is endowed, amounting only to twelve hundred francs per annum, prevents the possibility of any material increase to the collection, except in the case of such books as the liberality of the state contributes. and these are principally works of luxury and great expence, which might advantageously be exchanged for the less costly productions of more extensive utility. we inquired in vain after manuscripts and specimens of early typography. none were to be found; and yet they might surely have been expected here; for a public library has existed in caen from an early part of the last century, and, previous to the revolution, it was enriched with various donations. m. de colleville presented to it the whole of the collection of the celebrated bochart; cavelier, printer to the university, a man known by several treatises on roman antiquities, added a donation of two thousand volumes; and cardinal de fleury, who considered it under his especial protection, gave various sums of money for the purchase of books, and likewise provided a salary for the librarian. i suspect that no small proportion of the more valuable volumes, have been dispersed or stolen. round the apartment hang portraits of the most eminent men of caen: tablets are also suspended, for the purpose of commemorating those who have been benefactors to the library; but the tablets at present are blank. for its university caen is indebted to henry vith, who, anxious to give éclat and popularity to british rule, founded a college by letters patent, dated from rouen, in january, . the original charter restricted the objects of the university to education in the canon and civil law; but, five years subsequently, the same king issued a fresh patent, adding the faculties of theology and the arts; and, in the following year, he still farther added the faculty of medicine.--to give permanency to the work thus happily begun, the states of normandy preferred their petition to pope eugene ivth, who issued two bulls, dated the thirtieth of may, , and the nineteenth of may, , by which the new university received the sanction of the holy see, and was placed upon the same footing as the other universities of the kingdom. the bishop of bayeux was at the same time appointed chancellor; and sundry apostolical privileges were conceded, which have been confirmed by subsequent pontiffs.--thus normandy, as is admitted by de bourgueville, owed good as well as evil to her english sovereigns; but charles viith had no sooner succeeded in expelling our countrymen from the province, than jealousy arose in his breast, at finding them in possession of such a title to the gratitude of the people, and he resolved to run the risk of destroying what had been done, rather than lose the opportunity of gratifying his personal feeling. the university was therefore dissolved in , that a new one might hereafter be founded by the new sovereign. the king thought it necessary to vary in some degree from the example of his predecessor; and for this purpose he had recourse to the extraordinary expedient of abolishing the faculty of law. a petition, however, from the states, induced him to replace the whole upon its original footing in , and it continued till the time of the revolution to have all the five faculties, and to be the only one in france that retained them. two years only intervened between the dates of the patents issued by charles viith, upon the subject of this university; yet there is a remarkable difference in their language. the first of them, which is obviously intended to disparage caen, styles it a large town, scantily inhabited, without manufactures or commerce, and destitute of any great river to afford facilities towards the transport of the produce of the country. the second was designed to have an opposite tendency; and in this, the people of caen are praised for their acuteness, and the town for its excellent harbor and great rivers. the patent also adds, that the nearest university, that of paris, is fifty leagues distant. in the estimation, at least, of the inhabitants, the university of caen ranks at present the third in france; paris and strasbourg being alone entitled to stand before it. the faculty of law retains its old reputation, and the legal students are quite the pride of the university. since the peace, many young jurisprudents from jersey and guernsey have resorted to it. medical students generally complete their education at paris, where it is commonly considered in france, that, both in theory and practice, the various branches of this faculty have nearly attained the acmè of perfection. the students, who amount to just five hundred, are under the care of twenty-six professors, many of them men of distinguished talents. the abbé de la rue fills the chair of history; m. lamouroux, that of the natural sciences. they receive their salaries wholly from the government; their emoluments continue the same, whether the students crowd to hear their courses, or whether they lecture to empty benches. it is strictly forbidden to a student to attempt to make any remuneration to a professor, or even to offer him a present of any kind. the whole of the dues paid by the scholars go to the state; and the state in its turn, defrays the expences of the establishment. there is likewise at caen an academy of sciences, arts and belles lettres, which has published two volumes; not, strictly speaking, of its transactions, but exhibiting a brief outline of the principal papers that have been read at the meetings. the antiquarian dissertations of the abbé de la rue, which they contain, are of great merit; and it is much to be regretted, that they have not appeared in a more extended form. a chartered academy was first founded here in the year ; and it continued to exist, till it was suppressed, like all others throughout france, at the revolution. the present establishment arose in , under the auspices of general dugua, then prefect of the department, who had been urged to the task by the celebrated chaptal, minister of the interior.--some interesting, letters are annexed to the second part of the poems of mosant de brieux, in which, among much curious information relative to caen, he describes the literary meetings that led to the foundation of the first academy. the town at that time could boast an unusual proportion of men of talents. bochart, author of _sacred geography_; graindorge, who had published _de principiis generationîs_; huet, a man seldom mentioned, without the epithet _learned_ being attached to his name; and halley and ménage, authors almost equally distinguished, were amongst those who were associated for the purposes of acquiring and communicating information. indeed, caen appears at all times to have been fruitful in literary characters. huet enumerates no fewer than one hundred and thirty-seven, whom he considers worthy of being recorded among the eminent men of france. the greater part of them are necessarily unknown to us in england; and allowance must be made for a man who is writing upon a subject, in which self-love may be considered as in some degree involved; the glory of our townsmen shining by reflection upon ourselves. a portion, however, of the number, are men whose claims to celebrity will not be denied.--such, in the fifteenth century, were the poets john and clement marot; such was the celebrated physician, dalechamps, to whom naturalists are indebted for the _historia plantarum_; such the laborious lexicographer, constantin; and, not to extend the catalogue needlessly, such above all was malherbe. the medal that has been struck at caen in honor of this great man, at the expence of monsieur de lair, bears for its epigraph, the three first words of boileau's eulogium--"enfin malherbe vint."--the same inscription is also to be seen upon the walls of the library. so expressive a beginning prepares the reader for a corresponding sequel; and i should be guilty of injustice towards this eminent writer, were i not to quote to you the passage at length.-- "enfin, malherbe vint, et le premier en france fit sentir dans les vers une juste cadence: d'un mot mis en sa place enseigna le pouvoir, et reduisit la muse aux règles du devoir. par ce sage écrivain, la langue repareé, n'offrit plus rien de rude à l'oreille épureé. les stances avec grâce apprirent à tomber, et le vers sur le vers n'osa plus enjamber." wace and baudius, though not born at caen, have contributed to its honor, by their residence here. baudius was appointed to the professorship of law in the university, by the president de thou; but he disagreed with his colleagues, and soon removed to leyden, where he filled the chair of history till his death. some of his earlier letters, in the collection published by elzevir, are dated from caen. his iambi, directed against his brethren of this university, are scarcely to be exceeded for severity, by the bitterest specimens of a style proverbially bitter. their excessive virulence defeated the writer's aim; but there is an elegance in the latinity of baudius, and a degree of feeling in his sentiments, which will ensure a permanent existence to his compositions, and especially to his poems.--he it was who called forth the severe saying of bayle, that "many men of learning render themselves contemptible in the places where they live, while they are admired where they are known only by their writings."--wace was a native of jersey, but an author only at caen. the most celebrated of his works is _le roman de rou et des normans_, written in french verse. he dedicated this romance to our henry iind, who rewarded him with a stall in the cathedral at bayeux. [illustration: profile of m. lamouroux] quitting the departed for the living, i send you a profile of m. lamouroux, the professor of natural history at this university, to whom we have been personally indebted for the kindest attention. his name is well known to you, as that of a man who has, perhaps, deserved more than any other individual at the hands of every student of marine botany. his treatises upon the _classification of the submersed algæ_, have been honored with admission in the _mémoires du muséum d'histoire naturelle_, and have procured him the distinction of being elected into the national institute: his subsequent publication on the _corallines_, is an admirable manual, in a very difficult branch of natural history; and he is now preparing for the press, a work of still greater labor and more extensive utility, an arrangement of the organized fossils found in the vicinity of caen. the whole of this neighborhood abounds in remains of the antediluvian world: they are found not only in considerable quantity, but in great perfection. in the course of last year; a fossil crocodile was dug up at allemagne, a village about a mile distant, imbedded in blue lias. other specimens of the same genus, comprising, as it appears, two species, both of them distinct from any that are known in a living state, had previously been discovered in a bed of similar hard blue limestone, near havre and honfleur, as well as upon the opposite shores of england. but the caen specimen is the most interesting of any, as the first that has been seen with its scales perfect; and the naturalists here have availed themselves of the opportunity thus afforded them, to determine it by a specific character, and give it the name of _crocodilus cadomensis_. the civil and ecclesiastical history of caen will be amply illustrated in the forthcoming volumes of the abbé de la rue, as he is preparing a work on the subject, _à l'instar_ of the essays of st. foix. in the leading events of the duchy, we find the town of caen had but little share. it is only upon the occasion of two sieges from our countrymen, the one in , the other in , that it appears to have acted a prominent part. the details of the first siege are given at some length by froissart.--edward iiird, accompanied by the black prince, had landed at la hogue; and, meeting with no effectual resistance, had pillaged the towns of barfleur, cherbourg, carentan, and st. lô, after which he led his army hither. caen, as froissait tells us, was at that time "large, strong, and full of drapery and all other sorts of merchandize, rich citizens, noble dames and damsels, and fine churches." in its defence were assembled the constable of france, with the counts of eu, guignes, and tancarville. but the wisdom of the generals was defeated by the impetuosity of the citizens. they saw themselves equal in number to the invaders, and, without reflecting how little numerical superiority avails in war against experience and tactics, they required to be led against the foe. they were so, and were defeated. the conquerors and conquered entered the city pell-mell; and edward, enraged at the citizens for shooting upon his troops from the windows, issued orders that the inhabitants should be put to the sword, and the town burned. the mandate, however, was not executed: sir godfrey de harcourt, with wise remonstrances, assuaged the anger of the sovereign, and diverted him from his purpose.--immense were the riches taken on the occasion. the english fleet returned home loaded with cloth, and jewels, and gold, and silver plate, together with sixty knights, and upwards of three hundred able men, prisoners. this gallant exploit was shortly afterwards followed by the decisive battle of crécy. caen suffered still more severely upon the occasion of its second capture; when henry ivth marched upon the town immediately after landing at touques. the siege was longer, and the place, taken by assault, was given up to indiscriminate plunder. even the churches were not spared: that of the holy sepulchre was demolished, and, among its other treasures, a crucifix was carried away, containing a portion of the real cross, which, as we are told, testified by so many miracles its displeasure at being taken to england, that the conquerors were glad to restore it to its original destination. from this time to the year , our countrymen kept undisturbed possession of caen. in the latter year they capitulated to the count de dunois, after a gallant resistance. but though the town has thenceforward remained, without interruption, subject to the crown of france, it has not therefore been always free from the miseries of warfare. a dreadful riot took place here in , occasioned by the disorderly conduct of a body of six thousand german mercenaries, whom louis xiith introduced, by way of garrison, to guard against any sudden attack from henry viiith. the character given by de bourgueville of these _lansquenets_ is, that they were "drunkards who guzzle wine, cider, and beer, out of earthen pots, and then fall asleep upon the table." three hundred lives were lost upon this occasion, on the part of the germans alone.--in the middle of the same century, happened the civil wars, originating in the reformation: and in the course of these, caen suffered dreadfully from the contending parties. friend and foe conspired alike to its ruin: what was saved from the violence of the huguenots, was taken by the treachery of the catholics, under the plausible pretext of its being placed in security. thus, after the calvinists had already seized on every thing precious that fell in their way, the duke de bouillon, the governor of the town, commanded all the reliquaries, shrines, church-plate, and ecclesiastical ornaments, to be carried to him at the castle; and he had no sooner got them into his possession, than "all holy, rich, and precious, as they were, he caused them to be melted down, and converted into coin to pay his soldiers; and he scattered the relics, so that they have never been seen more."--loosen but the bands of society, and you will find that, in all ages of the world, the case has been nearly the same; and, as upon the banks of the simoeis, so upon the plains of normandy,-- "seditione, dolis, scelere, atque libidine, et irâ, _iliacos_ extra muros peccatur et intra." * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : engravings of the same tiles, and of some others, chiefly with fanciful patterns, are to be found in the _gentleman's magazine_ for march , lix. p. , plates , . the subjects of the latter plate are those tiles which were hung in a gilt frame, on the walls of the cloister of the abbey, with an inscription, denoting whence they were taken.] [footnote : _monumens de la monarchie française_, i. p. , t. .] letter xxvii. vieux--la maladerie--chesnut timber--caen stone--history of bayeux--tapestry. (_bayeux, august_, .) letters just received from england oblige us to change our course entirely: their contents are of such a nature, that we could not prolong our journey with comfort or satisfaction. we must return to england; and, instead of regretting the objects which we have lost, we must rejoice that we have seen so much, and especially that we have been able to visit the cathedral and tapestry of bayeux. at the same time, i will not deny that we certainly could have wished to have explored the vicinity of caen, where an ample harvest of subjects, both for the pen and pencil, is to be gathered; but the circumstances that control us would not even allow of a pilgrimage to the shrine of our lady of la délivrande, on the border of the english channel, or of an excursion to the village of vieux, in the opposite direction.--antiquaries have been divided in opinion, concerning the nature and character of the buildings which anciently occupied the site of this village.--the remains of a roman aqueduct are still to be seen there, and the foundations of ancient edifices are distinctly to be traced. in the course of the last century, a gymnasium was likewise discovered, of great size, constructed according to the rules laid down by vitruvius, and a hypocaust, connected with a fine stone basin, twelve feet in diameter, surrounded by three rows of seats. abundance of medals of the upper empire, among others, of crispina, wife to commodus, and latin inscriptions and sarcophagi, are frequently dug up among its ruins[ ]. hence, a belief has commonly prevailed that during the roman dominion in gaul, vieux was a city, and that caen, which is only six miles distant, arose from its ruins. this opinion was strenuously combated by huet; yet it subsequently found a new advocate in the abbé le beuf[ ]. the bishop contends that the extent of the buildings rather denotes the ruins of a fortified camp, than of a city; and he therefore considers it most probable, that vieux was the site of an encampment, raised near the orne, for the purpose of defending the passage of the river, at the point where it was crossed by the military road that led from the district of the bessin, to that of the hiesmois.--portions of the causeway, may still be traced, constructed of the same kind of brick as the aqueduct; and the name of the village so far tends to corroborate the conjecture, that _vieux_ originally denoted a ford; and the word _vé_, which is most probably a corruption from it, retains this signification in norman french.--the abbé, at the same time that he does not pretend to contradict the argument deduced from etymology, maintains that a careful comparison of the position of vieux, with the distances marked on the _tabula peutingeriana_, and with what ptolemy relates of certain towns adjoining the viducassian territory, will support him in the assertion, that vieux was the ancient _augustodurum_ the viducassian capital; and that bayeux was probably the site of _arigenus_ another of the towns of that tribe.--the red, veined marble of vieux is much esteemed in france; as are also the other marbles of this department, which vary in color from a dull white, through grey, to blue. the quarries, as is generally believed, were first opened and worked by the romans. vieux marble is to be seen at paris, where it was employed by cardinal richelieu, in the construction of the chapel of the sorbonne. at about a mile from caen, on the road to bayeux, stands the village of st. germain de blancherbe, more commonly called in the neighborhood _la maladerie_, a name derived from the lazar-house in it, the _léproserie de beaulieu_, founded by henry iind, in .--robert du mont terms the building a wonderful work. it was a princely establishment, designed for the reception of lepers from all the parishes of caen, except four, whose patients had an especial right to be admitted into a smaller hospital in the same place. the great hospital is now used as a house of correction. seen from the road, it appears to be principally of modern architecture though still retaining a portion of the ancient structure; the same, probably, as is mentioned by ducarel, who says, that "part of the magnificent chapel, which was considered as the parish church for the lepers, and ruined by the english, is turned into a large common hall for the prisoners, and separated from the other part, which is made into a chapel, by means of an iron gate, through which they may have an opportunity of hearing mass celebrated every morning."--within the village street stands a desecrated church of the earliest norman style, with a very perfect door-way. the present parish church, though chiefly modern, deserves attention on account of the west front, which is wholly of the semi-circular style, and is somewhat curious, from having two norman buttresses, that rise from a string-course at the top of the basement story, (in which the arched door-way is contained,) and are thence continued upwards till they unite with the roof. the decorations round its southern entrance are also remarkable: they principally consist of a very sharp chevron moulding, interspersed with foliage and various figures. the quarries in this village, and in that of allemagne, on the opposite side of the orne, supply most of the free-stone, for which caen has, during many centuries, been celebrated. stone of the finest quality is found in strata of different thickness, at the depth of about sixty feet below the surface of the ground. if worked much lower, it ceases to be good. it is brought up in square blocks, about nine feet wide, and two feet thick, by means of vertical wheels, placed at the mouths of the pits. when first dug from the quarry, its color is a pure and glossy white, and its texture very soft; but as it hardens it takes a browner hue, and loses its lustre. in former days this stone was exported in great quantity to our own country. stow, in his _survey of london_, states that london bridge, westminster abbey, and several others of our public edifices were built with it. extracts from sundry charters relative to the quarries are quoted by ducarel, who adds that, in his time, though many cargoes of the stone were annually conveyed by water to the different provinces of the kingdom, the exportation of it out of france was strictly prohibited, insomuch that, when it was to be sent by sea, the owner of the stone, as well as the master of the vessel on board of which it was shipped, was obliged to give security that it should not be sold to foreigners.--we omitted to inquire how far the same prohibitions still continue in force. at but a short distance from st. germain de blancherbe, stands the ruined abbey of ardennes, now the residence of a farmer; but still preserving the features of a monastic building. the convent was founded in , for canons of the præmonstratensian order. its celtic name denotes its antiquity, as it also tends to prove that this part of the country was covered with timber. the word, _arden_, signified a forest, and was thence applied, with a slight variation in orthography, to the largest forest in england, and to the more celebrated forest in the vicinity of liege. according to tradition, the norman ardennes consisted: of chesnut-trees. de bourgueville tells us that timber of this description is the principal material of most of the houses in the town. john evelyn relates the same of those in london; and in our own counties wherever a village church has been so fortunate as to preserve its ancient timber cieling, the clerk is almost sure to state that the wood is chesnut. either this tree therefore must formerly have abounded in places where it has now almost ceased to exist, or oak timber must have been commonly mistaken for it: and we may equally adopt both these conjectures. the yew and the service, as well as the chesnut, are occasionally mentioned in old charters, and are admitted by botanists to be indigenous in england. i should doubt, however, if any one of them could now be found in a wild state; and there is a fashion in planting as well as in every thing else, which renders peculiar trees more or less abundant at different times. about half way between caen and bayeux, is the village of bretteville l'orgueilleuse, the lofty tower of whose church, perforated with long lancet windows, and surmounted by a high spire, excites curiosity. churches are numerous in this neighborhood, and there is no other part of normandy, in which, architecturally considered, they are equally deserving of notice. scarcely one is to be seen that is not marked by some peculiarity. i know not why bretteville acquired the epithet attached to its name; and i am equally at a loss for the derivation of the word _bretteville_ itself; but the term must have some signification in normandy, at least eleven villages in the duchy being so called. the first part of the road to bayeux passes through a flat and open district, resembling that on the other side of caen; in the remaining half, the country is enclosed, with a more varied surface. apple-trees again abound; and the old custom of suspending a bush over the door of an inn is commonly practised here. for this purpose misletoe is almost always selected. throughout the whole of this district and the neighboring province of brittany, the ancient attachment of the druids to misletoe continues to a certain degree to prevail. the commencement of the new year is hailed by shouts of "au gui; l'an neuf;" and the gathering of the misletoe for the occasion is still the pretext for a merry-making, if not for a religious ceremony. bayeux was the seat of an academy of the druids. ausonius expressly addresses attius patera pather, one of the professors at bordeaux, as being of the family of the priesthood of this district:-- "doctor potentum rhetorum, tu bajocassis stirpe druidarum satus;" and tradition to this hour preserves the remembrance of the spot that was hallowed by the celebration of their mystic rites. this spot, an eminence adjoining the city, has subsequently served for the site of a priory dedicated to st. nicholas _de la chesnaye_, thus commemorating by the epithet, the oaks that formed the holy grove. near it stood the famous temple of mount phaunus, which was flourishing in the beginning of the fourth century, and, according to rivet, was considered one of the three most celebrated in gaul. belenus was the divinity principally worshipped in it; but, according to popular superstition, adoration was also paid to a golden calf, which was buried in the hill, and still remains entombed there. even within the last fifty years, two laborers have lost their lives in a fruitless attempt to find this hidden treasure. tombs, and urns, and human bones, are constantly discovered; yet neither druidic temples, nor pillars of stone, nor cromlechs or celtic remains of any description exist, at least, at present, in the neighborhood of bayeux. roman relics, however, abound. the vases and statues dug up near this city, have afforded employment to the pen and the pencil of count caylus, who, judging from the style of art, refers the greater part of them to the times of julius and augustus cæsar. medals of the earliest emperors have likewise frequently been detected among the foundations of the houses of the city; and even so recently as in the beginning of the present century, mutilated cippi, covered with latin inscriptions, have been brought to light. these discoveries all tend to shew the roman origin of bayeux, and two roman causeways also join here; so that, notwithstanding the arguments of the abbé le beuf, most antiquaries still believe that bayeux was the city called by ptolemy the _næomagus viducassium_.--the term _viducasses_ or _biducasses_ was in early ages changed to _bajocasses_; and the city, following the custom that prevailed in gaul, took the appellation of _bajocæ_, or, as it was occasionally written, of _baiæ_ or _bagicæ_. its name in french has likewise been subject to alterations.--during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, it was _baex_ and _bajeves_; in the fourteenth _bajex_; in the sixteenth _baieux_; and soon afterwards it settled info the present orthography. pursuing the history of bayeux somewhat farther, we find this city in the _notitia galileæ_ holding the first rank among the towns of the _secunda lugdunensis_. during the merovingian and carlovingian dynasties, its importance is proved by the mint which was established here. golden coins, struck under the first race of french sovereigns, inscribed _hbajocas_, and silver pieces, coined by charles the bald, with the legend _hbajocas-civitas_, are mentioned by le blanc. bayeux was also in those times, one of the head-quarters of the high functionaries, entitled _missi dominici_, who were annually deputed by the monarchy for the promulgation of their decrees and the administration of justice. two other cities only in neustria, rouen and lisieux, were distinguished with the same privilege.--nor did bayeux suffer any diminution of its honors, under the norman dukes: they regarded it as the second town of the duchy, and had a palace here, and frequently made it the seat of their _aula regio_. the destruction of the roman bayeux is commonly ascribed, like that of the roman lisieux, to the saxon invasion. no traces of the viducassian capital are to be found in history, subsequently to the reign of constantine; no medals, no inscriptions of a later period, have been dug up within its precincts. during the earliest incursions of the saxons in gaul, they seem to have made this immediate neighborhood the seat of a permanent settlement. the abbé le beuf places the district, known by the name of the _otlingua saxonia_, between bayeux and isigny; and gregory of tours, in his relation of the events that occurred towards the close of the sixth century, makes repeated mention of the _saxones bajocassini_, whom the early norman historians style _saisnes de bayeux_. under the reign of charlemagne, a fresh establishment of saxons took place here. that emperor, after the bloody defeat of this valiant people, about the year , caused ten thousand men, with their wives and children, to be delivered up to him as prisoners, and dispersed them in different parts of france. some of the captives were colonized in neustria; and, among the rest, witikind, son of the brave chief of the same name, who had fought so nobly in defence of the liberty of his country, had lands assigned to him in the bessin. hence, names of saxon origin commonly occur throughout the diocese of bayeux; sometimes alone and undisguised, but more frequently in composition. thus, in _estelan_, you will have little difficulty in recognizing _east-land: cape la hogue_ will readily suggest the idea of a lofty promontory; its appellation being derived from the german adjective, _hoch_, still written _hoog_, in flemish: the saxon word for the almighty enters into the family names of _argot_, _turgot_, _bagot_, _bigot_, &c.; and, not to multiply examples, the quaking sands upon the sea-shore are to the present hour called _bougues_, an evident corruption of our own word _bogs_. when, towards the middle of the same century, the saxons were succeeded by the normans, the country about bayeux was one of the districts that suffered most from the new invaders. two bishops of the see, sulpitius and baltfridus, were murdered by the barbarians; and bayeux itself was pillaged and burned, notwithstanding the valiant resistance made by the governor, berenger. this nobleman, who was count of the bessin, was personally obnoxious to rollo, for having refused him his daughter, the beautiful poppea, in marriage. but, on the capture of the town, poppea was taken prisoner, and compelled to share the conqueror's bed. bayeux arose from its ruins under the auspices of botho, a norman chieftain, to whom rollo was greatly attached, and who succeeded to the honors of berenger. by him the town was rebuilt, and filled with a norman population, the consequence of which was, according to dudo of st. quintin, that william longa-spatha, the successor of rollo, who hated the french language, sent his son, duke richard, to be educated at bayeux, where danish alone was spoken. and the example of the duke continued for some time to be imitated by his successors upon the throne; so that bayeux became the academy for the children of the royal family, till they arrived at a sufficient age to be removed to the metropolis, there to be instructed in the art of government. the dignity of count of the bessin ceased in the reign of william the conqueror, in consequence of a rebellion on the part of the barons, which had well nigh cost that sovereign his life. from that time, till the conquest of normandy by the french, the nobleman, who presided over the bessin, bore the title of the king's viscount; and, under this name, you will find him the first cited among the four viscounts of lower normandy, in the famous parliament of all the barons of this part of the duchy, convened at caen by henry iind, in .--when philip augustus gained possession of normandy, all similar appointments were re-modelled, and viscounts placed in every town; but their power was restricted to the mere administration of justice, the rest of their privileges being transferred to a new description of officers, who were then created, with the name of bailiffs. the bailiwicks assigned to these bore no reference to the ancient divisions of the duchy; but the territorial partition made at that time, has ever since been preserved, and caen, which was honored by philip with a preference over bayeux, continues to the present day to retain the pre-eminence. after these troubles, bayeux enjoyed a temporary tranquillity; and, according to the celebrated historical tapestry and to the _roman de rou_, this city was selected for the place at which william the conqueror, upon being nominated by edward, as his successor to the crown of england, caused harold to attend, and to do homage to him in the name of the nation. the oath was taken upon a missal covered with cloth of gold, in the presence of the prelates and grandees of the duchy; and the reliques of the saints were collected from all quarters to bear witness to the ceremony. bayeux was also the spot in which henry ist was detained prisoner by his eldest brother, and it suffered for this unfortunate distinction; for henry had scarcely ascended the english throne, when, upon a shallow pretext, he advanced against the city, laid siege to it, and burned it to the ground; whether moved to this act of vengeance from hatred towards the seat of his sufferings, or to satisfy the foreigners in his pay, whom the length of the siege had much irritated. he had promised these men the pillage of the city, and he kept his word; but the soldiers were not content with the plunder: they set fire to the town, and what had escaped their ravages, perished in the flames.[ ] in , under the reign of edward iiird, bayeux experienced nearly the same fate from our countrymen; and in the following century it again suffered severely from their arms, till the decisive battle of formigny, fought within ten miles of the city, compelled henry vith to withdraw from normandy, carrying with him scarcely any other trophies of his former conquests, than a great collection of norman charters, and, among the rest, those of bayeux, which are to this hour preserved in the tower of london. during the subsequent wars occasioned by the reformation, this town bore its share in the common sufferings of the north of france. the horrors experienced by other places on the occasion were even surpassed by the outrages that were committed at bayeux; but it is impossible to enter into details which are equally revolting to decency and to humanity. of late years, bayeux has been altogether an open town. the old castle, the last relic of its military character, a spacious fortress flanked by ten square towers, was demolished in ; and, as the poet of bayeux has sung[ ],-- "... gaulois, romains, saxons, oppresseurs, opprimés, colliers, faisceaux, blasons, tout dort. du vieux château la taciturne enceinte expire. par degrés j'ai vu sa gloire éteinte. j'ai marché sur ses tours, erré dans ses fossés: tels qu'un songe bientôt ils vont être effacés." and in truth, they are so effectually _effaced_, that not a single vestige of the walls and towers can now be discovered. bayeux is situated in the midst of a fertile country, particularly rich in pasturage. the aure, which washes its walls, is a small and insignificant streamlet, and though the city is within five miles of the sea, yet the river is quite useless for the purposes of commerce, as not a vessel can float in it. the present population of the town consists of about ten thousand inhabitants, and these have little other employment than lace-making.--bayeux wears the appearance of decay: most of the houses are ordinary; and, though some of them are built of stone, by far the greater part are only of wood and plaster. in the midst, however, of these, rises the noble cathedral; but this i shall reserve for the subject of my next letter, concluding the present with a few remarks upon that matchless relic, which, "... des siècles respecté, en peignant des héros honore la beauté." the very curious piece of historical needle-work, now generally known by the name of the _bayeux tapestry_, was first brought into public notice in the early part of the last century, by father montfaucon and m. lancelot, both of whom, in their respective publications, the _monumens de la monarchie française_[ ], and a paper inserted in the _mémoires de l'académie des inscriptions_[ ], have figured and described this celebrated specimen of ancient art. montfaucon's plates were afterwards republished by ducarel[ ], with the addition of a short dissertation and explanation, by an able antiquary of our own country, smart lethieuilier. these plates, however, in the original, and still more in the copies, were miserably incorrect, and calculated not to inform, but to mislead the inquirer. when therefore the late war was concluded and france became again accessible to an englishman, our society of antiquaries, justly considering the tapestry as being at least equally connected with english as with french history, and regarding it as a matter of national importance, that so curious a document should be made known by the most faithful representation, employed an artist, fitted above all others for the purpose, by his knowledge of history and his abilities as a draughtsman, to prepare an exact fac-simile of the whole. under the auspices of the society, mr. c.a. stothard undertook the task; and he has executed it in the course of two successive visits with the greatest accuracy and skill. the engravings from his drawings we may hope shortly to see: meanwhile, to give you some idea of the original, i enclose a sketch, which has no other merit than that of being a faithful transcript. it is reduced one half from a tracing made from the tapestry itself. by referring to montfaucon, you will find the figure it represents under the fifty-ninth inscription in the original, where "a knight, with a _private_ banner, issues to mount a led horse." his beardless countenance denotes him a norman; and the mail covering to his legs equally proves him to be one of the most distinguished characters. [illustration: figure from the bayeux tapestry] within the few last years this tapestry has been the subject of three interesting papers, read before the society of antiquaries. the first and most important, from the pen of the abbé de la rue[ ], has for its object the refutation of the opinions of montfaucon and lancelot, who, following the commonly received tradition, refer the tapestry to the time of the conquest, and represent it as the work of queen matilda and her attendant damsels. the abbé's principal arguments are derived from the silence of contemporary authors, and especially of wace, who was himself a canon of bayeux;--from its being unnoticed in any charters or deeds of gift connected with the cathedral;--from the improbability that so large a roll of such perishable materials would have escaped destruction when the cathedral was burned in ;--from the unfinished state of the story;--from its containing some saxon names unknown to the normans;--and from representations taken from the fables of Æsop being worked on the borders, whereas the northern parts of europe were not made acquainted with these fables, till the translation of a portion of them by henry ist, who thence obtained his surname of _beauclerk_.--these and other considerations, have led the learned abbé to coincide in opinion with lord littleton and mr. hume, that the tapestry is the production of the empress maud, and that it was in reality wrought by natives of our own island, whose inhabitants were at that time so famous for labors of this description, that the common mode of expressing a piece of embroidery, was by calling it _an english work_. the abbé shortly afterwards found an opponent in another member of the society, mr. hudson gurney, who, without following his predecessor through the line of his arguments, contented himself with briefly stating the three following reasons for ascribing the tapestry to matilda, wife to the conqueror[ ].--_first_, that in the many buildings therein pourtrayed, there is not the least appearance of a pointed arch, though much pointed work is found in the ornaments of the running border; whilst, on the contrary, the features of norman architecture, the square buttress, flat to the walls, and the square tower surmounted by, or rather ending in, a low pinnacle, are therein frequently repeated.--_secondly_, that all the knights are in ring armour, many of their shields charged with a species of cross and five dots, and some with dragons, but none with any thing of the nature of armorial bearings, which, in a lower age, there would have been; and that all wear a triangular sort of conical helmet, with a nasal, when represented armed.--and, _thirdly_, that the norman banner is, invariably, _argent_, a cross, _or_, in a bordure _azure_; and that this is repeated over and over again, as it is in the war against conan, as well as at pevensey and at hastings; but there is neither hint nor trace of the later invention of the norman leopards.--mr. gurney's arguments are ingenious, but they are not, i fear, likely to be considered conclusive: he however, has been particularly successful in another observation, that all writers, who had previously treated of the bayeux tapestry, had called it a _monument of the conquest of england_; following, therein, m. lancelot, and speaking of it as an unfinished work, whereas, it is in fact an _apologetical history of the claims of william to the crown of england, and of the breach of faith and fall of harold_, in a perfect and finished action.--with this explanation before us, aided by the short indication that is given of the subjects of the seventy-two compartments of the tapestry, a new light is thrown upon the story. the third memoir is from the pen of mr. amyot, and concludes with an able metrical translation from wace. it is confined almost exclusively to the discussion of the single historical fact, how far harold was really sent by the confessor to offer the succession to william; but this point, however interesting, in itself, is unconnected with my present object: it is sufficient for me to shew you the various sources from which you may derive information upon the subject. supposing the bayeux tapestry to be really from the hands of the queen, or the empress, (and that it was so appears to me proved by internal evidence,) it is rather extraordinary that the earliest notice which is to be found of a piece of workmanship, so interesting from its author and its subjects, should be contained in an inventory of the precious effects deposited in the treasury of the church, dated . it is also remarkable that this inventory, in mentioning such an article, should call it simply _a very long piece of cloth, embroidered with figures and writing, representing the conquest of england_, without any reference to the royal artist or the donor. observations of this nature will suggest themselves to every one, and the arguments urged by the abbé de la rue are very strong; and yet i confess that my own feelings always inclined to the side of those who assign the highest antiquity to the tapestry. i think so the more since i have seen it. no one appears so likely to have undertaken such a task as the female most nearly connected with the principal personage concerned in it, and especially if we consider what the character of this female was: the details which it contains are so minute, that they could scarcely have been known, except at the time when they took place: the letters agree in form with those upon matilda's tomb; and the manners and customs of the age are also preserved.--mr. stothard, who is of the same opinion as to the date of the tapestry, very justly observes, that the last of these circumstances can scarcely be sufficiently insisted upon; for that "it was the invariable practice with artists in every country, excepting italy, during the middle ages, whatever subject they took in hand, to represent it according to the costume of their own times." till the revolution, the tapestry was always kept in the cathedral, in a chapel on the south side, dedicated to thomas à becket, and was only exposed to public view once a year, during the octave of the feast of st. john on which occasion it was hung up in the nave of the church, which it completely surrounded. from the time thus selected for the display of it, the tapestry acquired the name of _le toile de saint jean_; and it is to the present day commonly so called in the city. during the most stormy part of the revolution, it was secreted; but it was brought to paris when the fury of vandalism had subsided. and, when the first consul was preparing for the invasion of england, this ancient trophy of the subjugation of the british nation was proudly exhibited to the gaze of the parisians, who saw another _conqueror_ in napoléon bonaparté; and many well-sounding effusions, in prose and verse, appeared, in which the laurels of duke william were transferred, by anticipation, to the brows of the child and champion of jacobinism. after this display, bonaparté returned the tapestry to the municipality, accompanied by a letter, in which he thanked them for the care they had taken of so precious a relic. from that period to the present, it has remained in the residence appropriated to the mayor, the former episcopal palace; and here we saw it. it is a piece of brownish linen cloth, about two hundred and twelve feet long, and eighteen inches wide, french measure. the figures are worked with worsted of different colors, but principally light red, blue, and yellow. the historical series is included between borders composed of animals, &c. the colors are faded, but not so much so as might have been expected. the figures exhibit a regular line of events, commencing with edward the confessor seated upon his throne, in the act of dispatching harold to the court of the norman duke, and continued through harold's journey, his capture by the comte de ponthieu, his interview with william, the death of edward, the usurpation of the british throne by harold, the norman invasion, the battle of hastings, and harold's death. these various events are distributed into seventy-two compartments, each of them designated by an inscription in latin. ducarel justly compares the style of the execution to that of a girl's sampler. the figures are covered with work, except on their faces, which are merely in outline. in point of drawing, they are superior to the contemporary sculpture at st. georges and elsewhere; and the performance is not deficient in energy. the colors are distributed rather fancifully: thus the fore and off legs of the horses are varied. it is hardly necessary to observe that perspective is wholly disregarded, and that no attempt is made to express light and shadow. great attention, however, is paid to costume; and more individuality of character has been preserved than could have been expected, considering the rude style of the workmanship. the saxons are represented with long mustachios: the normans have their upper lip shaven, and retain little more hair upon their heads than a single lock in front.--historians relate how the english spies reported the invading army to be wholly composed of ecclesiastics; and this tapestry affords a graphical illustration of the chroniclers' text. not the least remarkable feature of the tapestry, in point of costume, lies in the armor, which, in some instances, is formed of interlaced rings; in others, of square compartments; and in others, of lozenges. those who contend for the antiquity of duke william's equestrian statue at caen, may find a confirmation of their opinions in the shape of the saddles assigned to the figures of the bayeux tapestry; and equally so in their cloaks, and their pendant braided tresses. the tapestry is coiled round a cylinder, which is turned by a winch and wheel; and it is rolled and unrolled with so little attention, that if it continues under such management as the present, it will be wholly ruined in the course of half a century. it is injured at the beginning: towards the end it becomes very ragged, and several of the figures have completely disappeared. the worsted is unravelling too in many of the intermediate portions. as yet, however, it is still in good preservation, considering its great age, though, as i have just observed, it will not long continue so. the bishop and chapter have lately applied to government, requesting that the tapestry may be restored to the church. i hope their application will be successful. * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : the most interesting relic of roman times yet found at vieux, is a cippus of variegated marble, about five feet high by two feet wide, and bearing inscriptions upon three of its sides. it generally passes in france by the name of the _torigny marble_, being preserved at the small town of the latter name, whither it was carried in , the very year when it was dug up. the abbé le beuf has made it the subject of a distinct paper in the _mémoires de l'académie des inscriptions_. this cippus supported a statue raised in honor of titus sennius sollemnis, a viducassian by birth, and one of the high priests of the town. the statue was erected to him after his death, in the viducassian capital, upon a piece of ground granted by the senate for the purpose, in pursuance of a general decree passed by the province of gaul. the inscriptions set forth the motives that induced the nation to bestow so marked a distinction upon a simple individual; and, in the foremost rank of his merits, they place the games which he had given to his fellow-citizens, during four successive days.] [footnote : _mémoires de l'académie des inscriptions_, xxi. p. .] [footnote : _archæologia_, xvii. p. .] [footnote : _bayeux et ses environs, par m. delauney_, p. .] [footnote : i. p. - ; pl. - , and ii. p. - ; pl. - .] [footnote : vi. p. , and viii. p. .] [footnote : _anglo-norman antiquities_, appendix, no. .] [footnote : _archæologia_, xvii. p. .] [footnote : _archæologia_, xviii. p. .] [illustration: sculpture at bayeux] letter xxviii. cathedral of bayeux--canon of cambremer--cope of st. regnobert--odo. (_bayeux, august_, .) excepting the tapestry and the cathedral, bayeux, at this time, offers no objects of interest to the curious traveller. its convents are either demolished, or so dilapidated or altered, that they have lost their characteristic features; and its eighteen parish churches are now reduced to four. we wandered awhile about the town, vainly looking after some relic of ancient art, to send you by way of a memento of bayeux. at length, two presented themselves--the entrance of the corn-market, formerly the chapel of st. margaret, a norman arch, remarkable for the lamb and banner, an emblem of the saint, sculptured on the transom stone; and a small stone tablet, attached to an old house near the cathedral. the whimsical singularity of the latter, induced us to give it the preference. it may possibly be of the workmanship of the fourteenth century, and possibly much later. in all probability, it owes its existence merely to a caprice on the part of the owner of the residence, whose crest may be indicated by the tortoises which surmount the columns by way of capitals. still there is merit in the performance, though perhaps for nothing so much as for the accurate resemblance of peeled wood; and this i never saw imitated with equal fidelity in stone. but, however unattractive bayeux may be in other respects, so long as the cathedral is suffered to stand, the city will never want interest. it is supposed that the first church erected here was built by st. exuperius otherwise called st. suspirius, or st. spirius, who, according to the distich subjoined to his portrait, formerly painted on one of the windows of the nave, was not only the earliest bishop of the diocese, but claimed the merit of having introduced the christian faith into normandy,-- "primitùs hic pastor templi fuit hujus et auctor, catholicamque fidem normannis attulit idem." st. exuperius lived in the third century, and his efforts towards the propagation of the gospel were attended with so great success, that his successor, st. regnobert, was obliged to take down the edifice thus recently raised, and to re-construct it on a more enlarged scale, for the purpose of accommodating the increasing congregation. regnobert is likewise reported to have built the celebrated chapel on the sea-coast, dedicated to our lady de la délivrande; and the people believe that a portion at least, of both the one and the other of these original edifices, exists to the present day. the abbé béziers, however, in his _history of bayeux_, maintains, and with truth, that st. regnobert's cathedral was destroyed by the normans; and he adds that, immediately after the conversion of rollo, another was raised in its stead on the same spot, and that this latter was one of those which the chieftain most enriched by his endowments at the period of his baptism. a dreadful fire, in the year , reduced the norman cathedral to ashes; but the episcopal throne was then filled by a prelate who wanted neither disposition nor abilities to repair the damage. hugh, the third bishop of that name, son to ralph, count of the bessin, who, by the mother's side, was brother to duke richard ist, presided at that time over the see of bayeux. jealous for the honor of his diocese, the prelate instantly applied himself to rebuild the cathedral; but he lived to see only a small progress made in his work. it was finished by a prelate of still greater, though evil celebrity, the unruly odo, brother to the conqueror, who, for more than fifty years, continued bishop of this see, and by his unbounded liberality and munificence in the discharge of his high office, proved himself worthy of his princely descent. the conqueror and his queen, attended by their sons, robert and william, and by the archbishops of canterbury and york, as well as by the various bishops and barons of the province, were present at the dedication of the church, which was performed in , by john, archbishop of rouen. odo, on the occasion, enriched his church with various gifts, one of which has been particularly recorded. it was a crown of wood and copper, sixteen feet high and thirty-eight feet in diameter, covered with silver plates, and diversified with other crowns in the shape of towers; the whole made to support an immense number of tapers, that were lighted on high festivals. this crown was suspended in the nave, opposite the great crucifix; and it continued to hang there till it was destroyed by the huguenots, in . it is doubtful how much, or indeed if any portion, of the church erected by odo be now in existence. thirty years had scarcely elapsed from the date of its dedication, when, as i have already mentioned to you, the troops of henry ist destroyed bayeux with fire. the ruin was so complete, that for more than fifty years, no attempt was made to re-construct the cathedral; but it remained in ashes until the year , when bishop, philip of harcourt, determined to restore it. a question has arisen whether the oldest part of what is now standing, be the work of philip or of odo. the lapse of eighty years in those early times, would perhaps occasion no very sensible difference in style; and chroniclers do not afford the means of determining, if, at the time when bayeux suffered so dreadfully in , the church was actually burned to the ground, or only materially damaged. in the _history of the diocese_ we are merely told that philip, having, by means of papal bulls, happily succeeded in regaining possession of all the privileges, honors, and property of the see, began to rebuild his cathedral in , and completed it with great glory and expence.--from that time forward, we hear no more of demolition or of re-edification; but the injuries done by the silent lapse of ages, and the continued desire on the part of the prelates to beautify and to enlarge their church, have produced nearly the same effect as fire or warfare. the building, as it now stands, is a medley of various ages; and, in the absence of historical record, it would be extremely difficult to define the several portions that are to be assigned to each. the west front is flanked by two norman towers, bold and massy, with semi-circular arches in the highest stories. the spires likewise appear ancient, though these and the surrounding pinnacles are all gothic. the northern one, according to tradition, was built with the church; the southern, in . they both greatly resemble those of the abbey-church of st. stephen at caen. but the whole centre of this front, and indeed both the sides also, as high as the roof, is faced by a screen divided into five compartments. in the middle is a large, wide, pointed arch, with a square-headed entrance beneath. north and south of this are deep arches, evidently older, but likewise pointed, having their sides above the pillars, and the flat arched part of the door-way, filled with small figures. the door-ways themselves are arches that occupy only one half of the width of those which enclose them. in the two exterior compartments the arches are unpierced, and are flanked by a profusion of clustered pillars. over each of the four lateral arches, rises a crocketed pyramid: the central one is surmounted by a flat balustrade, above which, behind the screen, is a large pointed window, and over it a row of saints, standing under trefoil-headed arches, arranged in pairs, the pediment terminating above each pair of arches in a pyramidal canopy. the outside of the nave is of florid gothic, but it is not of a pure style; nor is the southern portal, which, nevertheless, considered as a whole, is bold and appropriate. on each side of the door-way were originally three statues, whose tabernacles remain, though the saints have been torn out of the niches. over the door is a bas-relief, containing numerous figures disposed in three compartments, and representing some legendary tale, which our knowledge of that kind of lore would not enable us to decipher.--the exterior of the choir is likewise of pointed architecture: it is considerably more simple, and excels, in this respect, the rest of the church. but even here there is a great want of uniformity: some of the windows are deeply imbedded in the walls; others are nearly on a level with their surface.--the cupola, which caps the low central tower, is wretchedly at variance with the other parts of the building. it was erected in the year , at the expence of the bishop, francis de nesmond; and it is, as might be expected from a performance of that period, rather grecian than gothic. whichever style it may be termed, it is a bad specimen of either. and yet, such as it is, we are assured by béziers, that it was built after the designs of a celebrated architect of the name of moussard, and that it excited particular attention, and called forth loud praises, on the part of the maréchal de vauban, who was, probably, a better judge of a modern fortification, than of a gothic cathedral. the interior of the church consists of a wide nave, with side-aisles, and chapels beyond them. the first six piers of the nave are very massy, and faced with semi-circular pillars supporting an entablature. the arches above them are norman, encircled with rich bands, composed chiefly of the chevron moulding and diamonds. on one of them is a curious border of heads, as upon the celebrated door-way at oxford; but the heads at bayeux are of much more regular workmanship and more distinctly defined. had circumstances allowed, i would have sent you an accurate drawing of them; but our time did not permit such a one to be made, and i must beg of you to be contented with the annexed slight sketch. [illustration: border of heads] the wall above the arches is incrusted with a species of tessellated work of free-stone, of varied patterns, some interwoven, others reticulated, as seen in the sketches: the lines indented in the stones, as well as the joints which form the patterns, are filled with a black cement or mastich, so as to form a kind of _niello_. [illustration: tessellated work of free stone] with the sixth arch of the nave begins the pointed style. the capitals of the pillars are complicated, and the carving upon them is an evident attempt at an imitation of the grecian orders. in this part of the church there is no triforium; but a row of small quartrefoils runs immediately above the ornaments of the spandrils; and above the quatrefoils is a cornice of an antique pattern, which is surmounted by a light gallery in front of the windows of the clerestory, the largest windows i remember to have seen in a similar situation. they extend almost from the roof to the line of the old norman basement. their magnitude is rendered still more remarkable by their being arranged in pairs, each separate pair inclosed within a pointed arch, and its windows parted only by a clustered pillar. the very lofty arches that support the central tower, are likewise pointed; as are those of the transepts, the choir, the side-aisles, and the chapels. in short, excepting the arches immediately beneath the northern and southern towers, which are most probably relics of odo's cathedral, the part of the nave, which i first described, is all that is left above-ground of the semi-circular style; and this is of a very different character from whatever else i have seen of norman architecture. the circular ornaments inserted in the spandrils of the arches of the choir, possess, as a friend of mine observes, somewhat of the moorish, or, perhaps, tartarian character; being nearly in the style of the ornaments which are found in the same situation in the mogul mosques and tombs, though here they have much more flow and harmony in the curves. some are merely in bas-relief: in others the central circles are deeply perforated, whilst the ribs are composed of delicate tracery.--there are so many peculiarities both in the arrangement and in the details of this cathedral[ ], that it is quite impossible to convey an adequate idea of them by a verbal description; and i can only hope that they will be hereafter made familiar to the english antiquarian by the pencil of mr. cotman or mr. stothard. [illustration: ornaments in the spandrils of the arches in bayeux cathedral] the screen that separates the nave from the choir is grecian, and is as much at variance with the inside of such a church, as the cupola, which is nearly over it, is with the exterior.--upon the roof of the choir, are still to be seen the portraits of the first twenty-one bishops of bayeux, each with his name inscribed by his side. the execution of the portraits is very rude, particularly that of the twelve earliest, whose busts are represented. the artist has contented himself with exhibiting the heads only, of the remaining nine. common tradition refers the whole of these portraits to the time of odo; but it is hardly necessary to observe, that the groined and pointed vaulting is subsequent to his date.--bayeux cathedral abounded in works of this description of art: the walls of the chapels of the choir were covered with large fresco-paintings, now nearly obliterated.--it is believed, and with every appearance of probability, that the lady-chapel was erected at a time posterior to the rest of the building; but there is no certain account of its date. before the revolution, it served as a burial-place for some of the bishops of the see, and for a duke of the noble family of montemart. their tombs ornamented the chapel, which now appears desolate and naked, retaining no other of its original decorations, than a series of small paintings, which represent the life of the holy virgin, and are deserving of some attention from the character of expression in the faces, though the drawing in general is bad. over the altar is a picture, in which an angel is pointing out our savior and the virgin to a dying man, whose countenance is admirable.--the stalls of the choir display a profusion of beautiful oak carving; and beneath them are sculptured _misereres_, the first which we have observed in normandy.--very little painted glass is to be found in any part of the church; but the glazing of the windows is composed of complicated patterns. this species of ornament was introduced about the time of louis xivth; and felibien, who has given several pattern plates in his treatise on architecture, observes, that it was intended to supply the place of painted glass, which, as it was then thought, excluded the light. beneath the choir is a subterraneous chapel dedicated to st. maimertus, otherwise called st. manvieu. its character is so similar to that of the crypt at the abbey of the holy trinity at caen, that there would be little risk in pronouncing it to be part of odo's church. it is supported on twelve pillars, disposed in two rows, the last pillar of each row being imbedded in the wall. the capitals of the pillars are carved, each with a different design from the rest. their sculpture bears a strong resemblance to some of what is seen in similar situations in the egyptian temples; indeed, so strong, that a very able judge tells me he has been led to suspect that the model might have been introduced by an anchorite from the desert. take the following as a specimen. [illustration: capital of pillar] the walls of the crypt are covered with paintings, probably of the fifteenth century; but those upon the springing of the arches above the pillars, appear considerably older. each spandril contains an angel, holding a trumpet or other musical instrument. the outlines of these figures are strongly drawn in black.--upon the right-hand side, on entering the chapel, is the altar-tomb of john de boissy, who was bishop at the beginning of the fifteenth century; and, on the opposite side, stands that of his immediate predecessor, nicolas de bosc. their monuments were originally ornamented with bas-reliefs and paintings, all which were mutilated and effaced during the religious wars. de boissy's effigy, however, remains, though greatly injured; and the following epitaph to his memory is preserved in a perfect state, over the only window that gives light to this crypt. the inscription is curious, as recording the discovery of the chapel, which had been forgotten and unknown for centuries. "en l'an mil quatre cens et douze tiers jour d'avril que pluye arrouse les biens de la terre, la journée que la pasques fut célébrée noble homme et révérend père jehan de boissy, de la mère eglise de bayeux pasteur rendi l'âme à son créateur et lors en foillant la place devant le grant autel de grâce trova l'on la basse chapelle dont il n'avoit esté nouvelle ou il est mis en sépulture dieu veuille avoir son âme en cure,--amen." this inscription is engraved as prose: verse is very frequently written in this manner in ancient manuscripts, which custom, as joseph ritson conjectured, arose "from a desire of promoting the salvation of parchment." i must also add, that the initial letters are colored red and blue, so that the whole bears a near resemblance to a manuscript page. there is another epitaph, engraved in large letters, upon the exterior of the southern tower, which is an odd specimen of the spirit of the middle ages. it is supposed to have been placed there in the twelfth century. "quarta dies pasche fuerat cum clerus ad hujus que jacet hic vetule venimus exequias: letitieque diem magis amisisse dolemus quam centum tales si caderent vetule." some authors contend, that the old lady alluded to was the mistress of one of the dukes of normandy: others believe her to have been the _chère amie_ of robert, earl of gloucester, illegitimate son to henry ist. till lately, there was an epitaph within the church, which, without containing in itself any thing remarkable, strange, or mysterious, had a legend connected: with it, that supplied the verger with an inexhaustible fund of entertainment for the curious and the credulous. the epitaph simply commemorated john patye, canon of the prebend of cambremer, who died in ; but upon the same plate of copper with the inscription, was also engraved the virgin, with john patye at her feet, kneeling, and apparently in the act of reading from a book placed on a fald-stool. behind the priest stood st. john the baptist, the patron saint of the prebend, having one hand upon his votary's neck, while with the other he pointed to a lamb.--in all this, there was still nothing remarkable: unfortunately, however, the artist, wishing perhaps to add importance to the saint, had represented him of gigantic stature; and hence originated the story, which continues to the present day, to frighten the old women, and to amuse the children of bayeux.-- once upon a time, the wicked canons of the cathedral murdered their bishop; in consequence of which foul deed, they and their successors for ever, were enjoined, by way of penance, annually to send one of their number to rome, there to chaunt the epistle at the midnight mass. in the course of revolving centuries, this vexatious duty fell to the turn of the canon of cambremer, who, to the surprise of the community, testified neither anxiety nor haste on the occasion.--christmas-eve arrived, and the canon was still in his cell: christmas-night came, and still he did not stir. at length, when the mass was actually begun, his brethren, more uneasy than himself, reproached him with his delay; upon which he muttered his spell, called up a spirit, mounted him, reached rome in the twinkling of an eye, performed his task, and, the service being ended, he stormed the archives of the vatican, where he burned the compulsory act, and then returned by the same conveyance to bayeux, which he reached before the mass was completed, and, to the unspeakable joy of the chapter, announced the happy tidings of their deliverance. so idle and unmeaning is the tale, that i should scarcely have thought it worth while to have repeated it, but for the latin distich, which, as the story goes, was extemporized by the demon, at the moment when they were flying over the tuscan sea, and by which he sought to mislead his rider, and to cause him to end his journey beneath the deep.--the sense of the verses is not very perspicuous, but they are remarkable for reading forwards and backwards the same; and though to you they may appear a childish waste of intellect, you will, i am sure, admit them to be ingenious, and they may amuse some of the younger members of your family:-- "signa te, signa, temerè me tangis et angis; roma tibi subito motibus ibit amor."-- i must dismiss the canon of cambremer, by stating, that i am informed by a friend, that the same story is also found in the lives of sundry other wizards and sorcerers of the good old times. bayeux cathedral, like the other neustrian churches, has been deprived of its sainted relics, and its most precious treasures, in consequence of the successive spoliations which have been inflicted upon it by heathen normans, heretical calvinists, and philosophical jacobins. the body of st. exuperius was carried, in the ninth century, for safety to corbeil, and the chapter have never been able to recover it: that of st. regnobert was in after times stolen by the huguenots. many are the attempts that have been made to regain the relics of the first bishop of the see; but the town of corbeil retained possession, whilst the bajocessians attempted to console themselves by antithetical piety.--"referamus deo gratias, nec inde aliquid nos minus habere credamus, quòd corbeliensis civitas pignus sacri corporis vindicavit. teneant illi tabernaculum beatæ animæ in cineribus suis; nos ipsam teneamus animam in virtutibus suis: teneant illi ossa, nos merita: apud illos videatur remansisse quod terræ est, nos studeamus habere quod coeli est: amplectantur illi quod sepulchre, nos quod paradiso continetur. meminerit et beatior ille vir, utrique quidem loco, sed huic speciali se jure deberi."--st. regnobert's _chasuble_ is however, left to the church, together with his maniple and his stole, all of them articles of costly and elaborate workmanship. they were found in his coffin, when it was opened by the calvinists; and they are now worn by the bishop, on the anniversary of the saint, as well as on five other high festivals, during the year; at which times, the faithful press with great devotion to kiss them. when not in use, they are kept in an ivory chest, magnificently embossed with solid silver, and bearing an inscription in the cufic character, purporting that whatever honor men may have given to god, they cannot honor him so much as he deserves. father tournemine, the jesuit, is of opinion, that this box was taken by the french troops, under charles martel, in their pillage of the saracen camp, at the time of the memorable defeat of the infidels; and that it was afterwards presented to charles the bald, whose queen, hermentrude, devoted it to the pious purpose of holding the relics of regnobert, in gratitude for a cure which the monarch had received through the intercession of the saint. but this is merely a conjecture, and it is not improbable but that the chest may have been brought from sicily, which abounded with arabic artificers, at the time when it was occupied by the normans. st. regnobert, who was one of the most illustrious bishops of bayeux, is placed second on the list, in the _history of the diocese_; but in the _gallia christiana_ he stands twelfth in order. it was customary before the revolution, and it possibly may be so at present, for the inhabitants of the city, upon the twenty-fourth of october, the anniversary of his feast, to bring their domestic animals in solemn procession to the church, there to receive the episcopal benediction, in the same manner as is practised by the romans with their horses, on the feast of st. anthony.--st. lupus, the fourth bishop, and st. lascivus, the tenth, are remarkable for their names. st. lupus is said to have been so called from his having destroyed the wolves in the vicinity of bayeux[ ]; and the other is reported to have been descended from the same person, whom ausonius addresses in the following stanza, which has likewise been applied to this bishop. "iste _lascivus_ patiens vocari, nomen indignum probitate vitae abnuit nunquam; quia gratum ad aures esset amicas."-- but neither among her ancient nor her modern prelates can bayeux boast of a name equally distinguished as that of odo. many were unquestionably the misdeeds of this great man, and many were probably his crimes, but no one who wore the episcopal mitre, ever deserved better of the see. as a statesman, odo bore a leading part in all the principal transactions of the times: as a soldier, he accompanied the conqueror to england, fought by his side at hastings, and by his eloquence and his valor, contributed greatly to the success of that memorable day. nor was william tardy in acknowledging the merits of his brother; for no sooner did he find himself seated firmly on the throne, than he rewarded odo with the earldom of kent, and appointed him his viceroy in england, whilst he himself crossed the channel, to superintend his affairs in normandy. but the mind which was proof against difficulties, yielded, as too commonly happens, to prosperity. nothing less than the papacy could satisfy the ambition of odo: he abused the power with which he was invested in a flagrant manner; and william, finally, disgusted with his proceedings, arrested him with his own hand, and committed him prisoner to the old palace at rouen, where he continued till the death of the monarch.--the sequel of the story is of the same complexion: more plots, attended now with success, and now with disgrace; till at length the prelate resolved to expiate his sins by a pilgrimage to the holy land, and died on his journey, at palermo.--such was odo in his secular character: as a churchman, historians unanimously agree that he was most zealous for the honor of his diocese, indefatigable in re-building the churches which time or war had destroyed, liberal in endowments, munificent in presents, and ever anxiously intent upon procuring a supply of able ministers, establishing regular discipline, and reforming the morals of the flock committed to his charge. the bishop of bayeux has at all times claimed the distinction of being regarded the first among the suffragan bishops of the norman church. in the absence of the archbishop, he presides at, the ecclesiastical assemblies and councils. his revenue, before the revolution, was estimated at one hundred thousand livres: per annum. the see, in point of antiquity, even contests for the priority with rouen. from time immemorial, the chapter has enjoyed the right of mintage; and they appear to have used it till the year , at which time their coin was so much counterfeited, that they were induced to recal it by public proclamation. their money, which was of the size of a piece of two sous, was stamped, on one side, with a two-headed eagle, and the legend _moneta capituli_; and on the obverse, with the letter v, surrounded by the word _bajocensis_. the eagle was probably adopted, in allusion to the arms of the see, which were, _gules_; an eagle displayed with two heads, _or_[ ].--another privilege of the chapter was, that no person of illegitimate birth could be allowed to hold place in it, under any pretext or dispensation whatever.--among their peculiar customs, they imitated that of the see of rouen, in the annual election of a boy-bishop upon innocents'-day; a practice prevalent in many churches in spain and germany, and notoriously in england at salisbury. the young chorister took the crozier in his hands, during the first vespers, at the verse in the _magnificat_, "he has put down the mighty from their seats, and has exalted the humble and meek;" and he resigned his dignity at the same verse in the second vespers.--the ceremony was abolished in . * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : the following are the dimensions of the church, in french measure, according to béziers. feet. height of the central tower ditto of the two western ditto length of the interior of the church width of ditto height of ditto length of the nave width of ditto ditto of side-aisles ditto of chapels length of the transepts width of ditto length of the choir width of ditto ] [footnote : a new st. lupus is now wanted for the see; for wolves are by no means extinct in the neighborhood of bayeux. we saw a tame one, kept near the cathedral, which had been taken in the woods, about a year ago, when it was quite young. wild boars are likewise found in considerable numbers, and the breed is encouraged for the purposes of hunting.] [footnote : in its origin, the _baiocco_ of naples seems to have been the two-penny piece of bayeux, its denomination being abbreviated from the last word in the legend. it has been supposed that the coin was struck and named by lusty joan, as a token of her affection towards a frisick warrier, who, in his own country, was called the _boynke_, or the squire; but we think that our etymology is the most natural one.] letter xxix. church and castle of creully--falaise--castle--churches-fair of guibray. (_falaise, august_, .) previously to quitting bayeux, we paid our respects to m. pluquet, a diligent antiquary, who has been for some time past engaged in writing a history of the city. his collections for this purpose are extensive, and the number of curious books which he possesses is very considerable. amongst those which he shewed to us, the works relating to normandy constituted an important portion. his manuscript missals are numerous and valuable. i was also much pleased by the inspection of an old copy of aristophanes, which had formerly belonged to rabelais, and bore upon its title-page the mark of his ownership, in the hand-writing of the witty, though profligate, satirist himself. m. pluquet's kindness allowed me to make the tracing of the signature, which i send you.-- [illustration: rabelais hand-writing] such an addition as we here find to rabelais' name, denoting that the owner of a book considered it as being the property of his friends conjointly with himself, is not of uncommon occurrence. our friend, mr. dibdin, who had been here shortly before us, and had carried off, as we were told, some works of great rarity from this collection, has enumerated more than one instance of the kind in his _bibliographical decameron_; and the valuable library of my excellent friend, mr. sparrow, of worlingham, contains an erasmus, which was the property of sir thomas wotton, and bears, stamped upon its covers, _thomae wotton et amicorum_. from bayeux we returned to caen, by way of creully, passing along bad roads, through an open, uninteresting country, almost wholly cropped with buck-wheat.--the barony of creully was erected by henry ist, in favor of his natural son, the earl of gloucester: it was afterwards held by different noble families, and continued to be so till the time of the revolution. at that period, it gave a title to a branch of the line of montmorenci, whose emigration caused the domain to be confiscated, and sold as national property; but the baronial castle is still standing, and displays, in two of its towers and in a chimney of unusual form, a portion of its ancient character: the rest of the building is modernized into a spruce, comfortable residence, and is at this time occupied by a countryman of our own, general hodgson. the church at creully is one of the most curious we have seen. the nave, side-aisles, and choir, are all purely norman, except at the extremities. the piers are very massy; the arches wide and low; the capitals covered with rude, but most remarkable sculpture, which is varied on every pillar. round the arches of the nave runs a band of the chevron ornament; and over them is a row of lancet windows, devoid of ornament, and sunk in a wall of extraordinary thickness. externally, all is modernized. the view of caen, on entering from this direction, is still more advantageous than that on the approach from lisieux. time would not allow of our making any stop at the town on our return: we therefore proceeded immediately to falaise, passing again through an open and monotonous country, which, thoughtfully cultivated, has a most dreary aspect from the scantiness of its population. we saw, indeed, as we went along, distant villages, thinly scattered, in the landscape, but no other traces of habitations; and we proceeded upwards of five leagues on our way, before we arrived at a single house by the road-side. [illustration: castle of falaise] falaise appeared but the more beautiful, from the impression which the desolate scenery of the previous country had left upon our minds. the contrast was almost equally pleasing and equally striking, as when, in travelling through derbyshire, after having passed a tract of dreary moors, that seems to lengthen as you go, you suddenly descend into the lovely vallies of matlock or of dovedale. not that the vale of falaise may compete with those of derbyshire, for picturesque beauty or bold romantic character; but it has features exclusively its own; and its deficiency in natural advantages is in some measure compensated, by the accessories bestowed by art. the valley is fertile and well wooded: the town itself, embosomed within rows of lofty elms, stretches along the top of a steep rocky ridge, which rises abrupt from the vale below, presenting an extensive line of buildings, mixed with trees, flanked towards the east by the venerable remains of the castle of the norman dukes, and at the opposite extremity, by the church of the suburb of guibray, planted upon an eminence. near the centre stands the principal church of falaise, that of st. gervais; and in front of the whole extends the long line of the town walls, varied with towers, and approached by a mound across the valley, which, as at edinburgh, holds the place of a bridge. the name _falaise_, denotes the position of the town: it is said to be a word of celtic origin; but i should rather suppose it to be derived from the saxon, and to be a modification of the german word, _fels_, a rock, in which conjecture i find i am borne out by adelung: _falesia_, in modern latinity, and _falaise_, in french, signify a rocky shore. hence, brito, at the commencement of his relation of the siege by philip augustus, says, "vicus erat scabrâ circumdatus undique rupe, ipsius asperitate loci falæsa vocatus, normannæ in medio regionis, cujus in altâ turres rupe sedent et mÅ�nia; sic ut ad illam jactus nemo putet aliquos contingere posse."-- the dungeon of falaise, one of the proudest relics of norman antiquity, is situated on a very bold and lofty rock, broken into fantastic and singular masses, and covered with luxuriant vegetation. the keep which towers above it is of excellent masonry: the stones are accurately squared, and put together with great neatness, and the joints are small; and the arches are turned clearly and distinctly, with the key-stone or wedge accurately placed in all of them. some parts of the wall, towards the interior ballium, are not built of squared free-stone; but of the dark stone of the country, disposed in a zigzag, or as it is more commonly called, in a herring-bone direction, with a great deal of mortar in the interstices: the buttresses, or rather piers, are of small projection, but great width. the upper story, destroyed about forty years since, was of a different style of architecture. according to an old print, it terminated with a large battlement, and bartizan towers at the angles. this dungeon was formerly divided into several apartments; in one of the lower of which was found, about half a century ago, a very ancient tomb, of good workmanship, ornamented with a sphynx at each end, but bearing no inscription whatever. common report ascribed the coffin to talbot, who was for many years governor of the castle; and at length an individual engraved upon it an epitaph to his honor; but the fraud was discovered, and the sarcophagus put aside, as of no account. the second, or principal, story of the keep, now forms a single square room, about fifty feet wide, lighted by circular-headed windows, each divided into two by a short and massy central pillar, whose capital is altogether norman. on one of the capitals is sculptured a child leading a lamb, a representation, as it is foolishly said, of the conqueror, whom tradition alleges to have been born in the apartment to which this window belonged: another pillar has an elegant capital, composed of interlaced bands. connected with the dungeon by a stone staircase is a small apartment, very much dilapidated, but still retaining a portion of its original facing of caen stone. it was from the window of this apartment, as the story commonly goes, that duke robert first saw the beautiful arlette, drawing water from the streamlet below, and was enamoured of her charms, and took her to his bed.--according to another version of the tale, the earliest interview between the prince and his fair mistress, took place as robert was returning from the chace, with his mind full of anger against the inhabitants of falaise, for having presumed to kill the deer which he had commanded should be preserved for his royal pastime. in this offence the curriers of the town had borne the principal share, and they were therefore principally marked out for punishment. but, fortunately for them, arlette, the daughter of one verpray, the most culpable of the number, met the offended duke while riding through the street, and with her beauty so fascinated him, that she not only obtained the pardon of her father and his associates, but became his mistress, and continued so as long as he lived. from her, if we may give credence to the old chroniclers, is derived our english word, _harlot_. the fruit of their union was william the conqueror, whose illegitimate birth, and the low extraction of his mother, served on more than one occasion as a pretext for conspiracies against his throne, and were frequently the subject of personal mortification to himself.--the walls in this part of the castle are from eight to nine feet thick. a portion of them has been hollowed out, so as to form a couple of small rooms. the old door-way of the keep is at the angle; the returns are reeded, ending in a square impost; the arch above is destroyed. talbot's tower, thus called for having been built by that general, in and the two subsequent years, is connected with the keep by means, of a long passage with lancet windows, that widen greatly inwards. it is more than one hundred feet high, and is a beautiful piece of masonry, as perfect, apparently, as on the day when it was erected, and as firm as the rock on which it stands. this tower is ascended by a staircase concealed within the substance of the walls, whose thickness is full fifteen feet towards the base, and does not decrease more than three feet near the summit. another aperture in them serves for a well, which thus communicates with every apartment in the tower. most of the arches in this tower have circular heads: the windows are square.--the walls and towers which encircle the keep are of much later date; the principal gate-way is pointed. immediately on entering, is seen the very ancient chapel, dedicated to st. priscus or, as he is called in french, st. prix. the east end with three circular-headed windows retains its original lines: the masonry is firm and good. fantastic corbels surround the summit of the lateral walls. within, a semi-circular arch resting upon short pillars with sculptured capitals, divides the choir from the nave. in other respects the building has been much altered.--henry vth repaired it in , and it has been since dilapidated and restored.--a pile of buildings beyond, wholly modern in the exterior, is now inhabited as a seminary or college. there are some circular arches within, which shew that these buildings belonged to the original structure. altogether the castle is a noble ruin. though the keep is destitute of the enrichments of norwich or castle rising, it possesses an impressive character of strength, which is much increased by the extraordinary freshness of the masonry. the fosses of the castle; are planted with lofty trees, which shade and intermingle with the towers and ramparts, and on every side they groupe themselves with picturesque beauty. it is said that the municipality intend to _restore_ talbot's tower and the keep, by replacing the demolished battlements; but i should hope that no other repairs may take place, except such as may be necessary for the preservation of the edifice; and i do not think it needs any, except the insertion of clamps in the central columns of two of the windows which are much shattered[ ]. from the summit we enjoyed a delightful prospect: at our feet lay the town of falaise, so full of trees, that it seemed almost to deserve the character, given by old fuller to norwich, of _rus in urbe_: the distant country presented an undulating outline, agreeably diversified with woods and corn-fields, and spotted with gentlemen's seats; while within a very short distance to the west, rose another ridgy mass of bare brown rock, known by the name of mont mirat, and still retaining a portion of the intrenchments, raised by our countrymen when they besieged falaise, in .--by this eminence the castle is completely commanded, and it is not easy to understand how the fortress could be a tenable position; as the garrison who manned the battlements of the dungeon and talbot's tower, must have been exposed to the missiles discharged from the catapults and balistas planted on mont mirat. the history of the castle is inseparably connected with that of the town: its origin may safely be referred to remote antiquity, the time, most probably, of the earliest norman dukes. if, however, we could agree with the fanciful author just quoted, it would claim a much earlier date. the very fact of its having a dungeon-tower, he maintains to be a proof of its having been erected by julius cæsar inasmuch as the word, _dungeon_, or, as it is written in french, _donjon_, is nothing but a corruption of _domus julii_! more than once in the course of this correspondence, i have called your attention to the fancies, or, to speak in plain terms, the absurdities, of theoretical antiquaries. the worthy priest, to whom we are indebted for the _recherches historiques sur falaise_, "out-herods herod." writers of this description are curious and amusing, let their theories but rest upon the basis of fair probability. even when we reject their reasonings, we are pleased with their ingenuity; and they serve, to borrow an expression from horace, "the purpose of a whetstone." but m. langevin has nothing farther to offer, than gratuitous assertion or vague conjecture; and yet, upon the faith of these, he insists upon our believing, that the foundation of falaise took place very shortly after the deluge; that its name is derived from _felé_, the cat of diana, or from the less pure source of _phaloi-isis_; that the present site of the castle was that of a temple, dedicated to belenus and abraxas; and that every stone of remarkable form in the neighborhood, was either so shapened by the druids, (notwithstanding it is the character of rocks, like those at falaise, to assume fantastic figures,) or was at least appropriated by the celtic priesthood to typify the sun, or moon, or stars. various tombs, stone-hatchets, &c., have been dug up at tassilly, a village within six miles of falaise, and fragments of mosaic pavements have been discovered in the immediate vicinity of the castle[ ]; but history and tradition are alike silent as to the origin of these remains.--the first historical mention of falaise is in the year ; during the reign of the fifth norman duke, richard iiird, at which period this town was one of the strong holds of the duchy, and afforded shelter to robert, the father of the conqueror, when he rebelled against his elder brother. falaise on that occasion sustained the first of the nine sieges, by which it has procured celebrity in history.--fourteen years only elapsed before it was exposed to a second, through the perfidy of toustain de goz, count of hiesmes, who had been intrusted with the charge of the castle, and who, upon finding that his own district was ravaged by the forces of the king of france, voluntarily offered to surrender to that monarch the fortress under his command, on condition that his territory, the hiesmois, should be spared. but duke william succeeded in retaking the place of his birth before the traitor had an opportunity of introducing the troops of his new ally.--in the years and , falaise opposed a successful resistance to the armies of henry ist, and of geoffrey plantagenet. upon the first of these occasions, the count of maine, the general of the english forces, retired with shame from before the walls; and henry was foiled in all his attempts to gain possession of the castle, till the battle of tinchbray had invested him with the ducal mantle, and had induced robert himself to deliver up the fortress in person to his more fortunate brother. on the second occasion, robert marmion, lord of the neighboring barony of marmion le fontenay, a name equally illustrious in norman and in english story, held falaise for eustace of boulogne, son to stephen, and twice repelled the attacks of the husband of the empress maud.--the fourth siege was conducted with different success, by philip augustus: for seven days the citizens quietly witnessed the preparations of the french monarch; and then, either alarmed by the impending conflict, or disgusted by the conduct of their own sovereign, who had utterly deserted them, they opened their gates to the enemy.--in the case was far otherwise, though the result was the same. henry vth attacked falaise upon the fourth of november, and continued to cannonade it till the middle of the following february; and, even then, the surrender was attributed principally to famine. great injuries were sustained by the town in the course of this long siege; but, to the credit of our countrymen, the efforts made towards the reparation of them were at least proportionate. the fortifications were carefully restored; the chapel was rebuilt and endowed afresh; talbot's tower was added to the keep; and a suite of apartments, also named after that great captain, was erected in the castle.--the resistance made by the english garrison of falaise in , at the time when we were finally expelled from the duchy, was far from equal to that which the french, had previously shewn. vigour was indeed displayed in repeated sallies, but six days sufficed to put the french general in possession of the place. disheartened troops, cooped up in a fortress without hope of succour, offer but faint opposition; and falaise was then the last place which held out in normandy, excepting, only domfront and cherbourg, both which were taken almost immediately afterwards.--falaise, from this time forwards, suffered no more from foreign enemies: the future miseries of the town were inflicted by the hands of its own countrymen. in common with many other places in france, it was doomed to learn from hard experience, that "alta sedent civilis vulnera dextræ."--instigated by the count de brissac, governor of the town, and one of the most able generals of the league, the inhabitants were immoveable in their determination to resist the introduction of tenets which they regarded as a fatal variance from the catholic faith. the troops of henry iiird, in alliance with those of his more illustrious successor, were vainly brought against falaise in , by the duc de montpensier; a party of enthusiastic peasants, called _gautiers_, from the name of a neighboring village, where their association originated, harassed the assailants unremittingly, and rendered such effectual assistance to the garrison, that the siege was obliged to be raised.--but it was only raised to be renewed at the conclusion of the same year, by henry of bourbon, in person, whom the tragical end of his late ally had placed upon the throne of france. brissac had now a different enemy to deal with: he answered the king's summons to surrender, by pleading his oath taken upon the holy sacrament to the contrary; and he added that, if it should ultimately prove necessary for him to enter into any negotiation, he would at least delay it for six months to come. "then, by heavens!" replied henry, "i will change his months into days, and grant him absolution;" and; so saying, he commenced a furious cannonade, which soon caused a breach, and, in seven days, he carried the town by assault. brissac, who, on the capture of the fortress, had retired into the keep, found himself shortly afterwards obliged to capitulate; and i am sorry to add, that the terms which he proposed and obtained, were not of a nature to be honorable to his character. the security of his own life and of that of seven of his party, was the principal stipulation in the articles. the rest of the garrison were abandoned to the mercy of the conqueror, who contented himself with hanging seven of them in memorial of the seven days of the siege; but, if we may believe the french historians, always zealous for the honor of their monarchs, and especially of this monarch, henry selected the sufferers from among those, who, for their crimes, had, subjected themselves to the pain of death. from these various attacks, but principally from those of and , the fortifications of falaise have suffered materially; and since the last no care has been taken to repair them. the injuries sustained at that period, and the more fatal, though less obvious ones, wrought by the silent operation of two centuries of neglect, have brought the walls and towers to their present state of dilapidation. the people of falaise are commonly supposed to be normans καÏ� εξοÏ�ην [english. not in original: pre-eminently, especially, above all]; and when a norman is introduced upon the french stage, he calls himself a falesian, just as any irishman, in an english farce, is presumed to come from tipperary. the town in the french royal calendar is stated to contain about fourteen thousand inhabitants; but we are assured that the real number does not exceed nine thousand. its staple trade is the manufacture of stockings, coarse caps, and lace. the streets are wide; and the public fountains, which are continually playing, impart a freshness, which, at the present burning season, is particularly agreeable.--the town now retains only four churches, two within its precincts, and two in the suburbs. the revolution has deprived it of eight others. of those which are now standing, the most ancient is that situated near the castle, and dedicated to the holy trinity. langevin assures us that it was built upon the ruins of the temple of felé, isis, belenus, and the heavenly host of constellations, and that in the fifth century it changed its heathen for its christian patrons. the oldest part (a very small one it is) of the present structure, appertains to a building which was consecrated in , by the archbishop of rouen, in the presence of henry ist, but which was almost entirely destroyed by the cannonade in the fifteenth century. an inscription in gothic letters, near the entrance, relates, that after this desolation, a beginning was made towards the re-building of the church, "in , a year of war, and death, and plague, and famine;" but it is certain that not much of the part now standing can be referred even to that period. the choir was not completed till the middle of the sixteenth century, nor the lady-chapel till the beginning of the following one. architecturally considered, therefore, the church is a medley of various styles and ages. the larger church, that of st. gervais and st. protais, is said to have been originally the ducal chapel, and to stand in the immediate vicinity of the site of the conqueror's palace, now utterly destroyed. according to an ancient manuscript, this church was consecrated at the same time as that of the trinity. the intersecting circular-headed arches of its tower are curious. the norman corbel-table and clerestory windows still remain; and the exterior of the whole edifice promises a gratification to a lover of architectural antiquity, which the inside is little calculated to realize.--an invading army ruined the church of the trinity; civil discord did the same for that of st. gervais. the huguenots, not content with plundering the treasure, actually set fire to the building, and well nigh consumed it: hence, the choir is the work of the year , and the southern wall of the nave is a more recent construction. we see falaise to a great advantage: every inn is crowded; every shop is decked out; and the streets are full of life and activity; all in preparation for the fair, which commences in three days, on the fifteenth of this month, the anniversary of the assumption of the holy virgin. this fair, which is considered second to no other in france, excepting that of beaucaire, is held in the suburbs of guibray, and takes its name from the place where it is held. for the institution, falaise is indebted to william the conqueror; and from it the place derives the greatest share of its prosperity and importance. during the fourteen days that the fair continues, the town is filled with the neighboring gentry, as well as with merchants and tradesmen of every description, not only from the cities of normandy, but from paris and the distant provinces, and even from foreign countries. the revolution itself respected the immunities granted to the fair of guibray, without, at the same time, having the slightest regard, either to its royal founder, or its religious origin.--an image of the virgin, discovered under-ground by the scratching and bleating of a lamb, first gave the stamp of sanctity to guibray. miraculous means had been employed for the discovery of this statue; miraculous powers were sure to be seated in the image. pilgrims crowded from all places to witness and to adore; and hawkers, and pedlars, and, as i have seen inscribed upon a hand-bill at paris, "the makers of he-saints and of she-saints," found guibray a place of lucrative resort. their numbers annually increased, and thus the fair originated.--we are compelled to hasten, or we would have stopped to have witnessed the ceremonies, and joined the festivities on the occasion. already more than one field is covered with temporary buildings, each distinguished by a flag, bearing the name and trade of the occupant; already, too, the mountebanks and showmen have taken their stand for the amusement of the company, and the relaxation of the traders; and, what is a necessary consequence of such assemblages, you cannot stir without being pestered with crowds of boys, proffering their services to transport your wares. the church of guibray, like the others of falaise, offers specimens of norman architecture, strangely altered and half concealed by modern innovations. in the first syllable of the name of the place, you will observe the french word for misletoe, and may thence infer, and probably not without reason, the antiquity of the station; the latter syllable, albeit in england sheep are not wont to _bray_, is supposed by the pious to have reference to the bleating of the lamb, which led to the discovery of the miraculous image.--etymology is a wide district in a pleasant country, strangely intersected by many and deceitful paths. he that ventures upon the exploring of it, requires the utmost caution, and the constant control of sober reason: woe will be sure to betide the unfortunate wight, who, in such a situation, gives the reins to fancy, and suffers imagination to usurp the place of judgment, without reflecting, as has been observed by the poet on a somewhat similar occasion, that "tis more to curb than urge the generous steed, restrain his fury, than provoke his speed." * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : the outline of the castle is egg-shaped; and the following are its dimensions, in french measure, according to m. langevin.--length, feet; mean width, ; quantity of ground contained within the walls, two acres and a perch.] [footnote : _recherches historiques sur falaise_, p. xix. and xxix.] letter xxx. rock and chapel of st. adrien--pont-de-l'arche--priory of the two lovers--abbey of bonport--louviers--gaillon--vernon. (_mantes, august_, ) the last letter which i wrote to you, was dated from falaise. look in the map and you will see that you now receive one from a point completely opposite. in four days we have passed from one of the most western towns of the province, to a place situated beyond its eastern frontier; and in four more, we may almost hope to be with you again. in this hasty journey we travelled through a district which has not yet become the subject of description to you; and though we travelled with less comfort of mind, than in the early part of our tour, i am yet enabled to send you a few details respecting it. from falaise we went in a direct line to croissanville: the road, which we intended to take by st. pierre sur dive to lisieux, was utterly impracticable for carriages. from croissanville to rouen we almost retraced our former steps: we did not indeed again make a _détour_ by bernay; but the straight road from lisieux to brionne is altogether without interest. there are two ways from rouen to paris: the upper, through ecouis, magny, and pontoise; the lower, by the banks of the seine. having travelled by both of them before, we could appreciate their respective advantages; and we knew that the only recommendation of the former was, that it saved some few miles in distance; while the latter is one of the most beautiful rides in france, and the towns, through which it passes, are far from being among the least interesting in normandy. in such an alternative, there was no difficulty in fixing our choice, and we proceeded straight for pont-de-l'arche. the chalk cliffs, which bounded the road on our left, for some distance from rouen, break near the small village of port st. ouen, into wild forms, and in one spot project boldly, assuming the shape of distinct towers. these projections are known by the name of the rock of st. adrien; thus called from the patron saint of a romantic chapel, a place of great sanctity, and of frequent resort with pilgrims, situated nearly mid-way up the cliff.--the chapel is indeed little more than an excavation, and is altogether so rude, that its workmanship affords no clue to discover the date of the building. its south side and roof are merely formed of the bare rock. to the north it is screened by an erection, which, were it not for the windows and short square steeple, might easily be mistaken for a pent-house. the western end appears to display some traces of norman architecture. the hill, which leads to this chapel, commands a view of rouen, the most picturesque, i think, of all that we have seen of this city, so picturesque from various points. you can scarcely conceive the eagerness with which we endeavored to catch the last glimpse, as the prospect gradually vanished from our sight, or the pleasure with which we still dwell, and shall long continue so to do, upon the recollection. all round the chapel, the bare chalk is at this time tinged with a beautiful glow, from the blue flowers of the _viola rothomagensis_: the _isatis tinctoria_, the _true woad_, is also common on the steep sides of the cliff. this plant, which is here indigenous, became, during the reign of napoléon, an object of attention with the government, as a succedaneum for indigo, at the same time that beet-root was destined to supply the continent with sugar, and salsafy, or parched wheat, to hold the place of coffee. the restoration of peace has caused the isatis to be again neglected; but the _reseda luteola_, or, _dyer's woad_, is much cultivated in the neighborhood, as is the _teasel_ for the use of the cloth manufactory. pont-de-l'arche, though now a small mean town, may boast of high antiquity, if it be rightly believed to be the ancient _pistae_, the seat of the palace erected by charles the bald, in which that sovereign convened councils in the years and , and held assemblies of his nobles in and ; and from which, his edicts promulgated in those years, are dated. the same monarch also built here a magnificent bridge, defended at one extremity by a citadel upon a small island.--from this there seems every reason to believe that the town has derived its name; for, in a diploma issued by our henry iind, he calls the place _pontem arcis_; and its present appellation is nothing but its latin name translated into french. the fortress at the head of the bridge was demolished about thirty years ago, at the time when millin published his[ ] account of the town. the plate attached to that account, represents one of the towers as still standing.--though deprived of its citadel, pont-de-l'arche retains to the present day its walls, flanked by circular towers; and its bridge, which is the lowest stone bridge down the seine, is a noble one of twenty-two arches, through which the river at a considerable depth below, rolls with extraordinary rapidity. in the length of this bridge are some mills, which are turned by the stream; and the current is moderated under one of the arches, by a lock placed on the down-stream side, into which barges pass, and so proceed with security; the bridge, with its mills, forms a very picturesque object. at a short distance from the bridge, to the left, looking towards paris, is the _colline des deux amans_, formerly surmounted by the priory of the same name. of the history of the monastery nothing is known with certainty, nor is even the date of its foundation ascertained, though it is stated by millin to be one of the most ancient in normandy[ ]. but the traditionary tale connected with this convent, forms the subject of one of the lays of _mary of france_; and it has been elegantly translated by the late mr. ellis, in the introduction to his _history of our ancient metrical romances_;--du plessis[ ] is, however, of opinion, that the name of the priory is nothing more than a corruption from the words, _deux monts_, in allusion to the twin hills, on one of which it stands; or, if _lovers_ must have any thing to do with the appellation, he piously suggests that divine love may have been intended, and that the parties were no other than our savior and the virgin, whose images were placed over the door of the conventual church. on the opposite side of the bridge of pont-de-l'arche, stand the remains of a far richer abbey, that of bonport, of the cistertian order, founded by richard coeur-de-lion, in , as an _ex voto_. the monarch, then just in possession of his crown, was indulging with his courtiers in the pleasures of the chace, and, carried away by the natural impetuosity of his temper, had plunged in pursuit of the deer into the seine, whose rapid current brought his life into imminent danger; and he accordingly vowed, if he escaped with safety, to erect a monastery upon the spot where he should reach the shore. hence, according to le brasseur[ ], the foundation, and hence the name. i ought, however, to add, that no record of the kind is preserved in the _neustrta pia_, nor even by millin, who has described and figured such of the monastic buildings and monuments as had been spared at the early part of the revolution[ ]. another view of the ruins has since been published by langlois, in the first number of a work which was intended to have comprised a long series of norman antiquities, but was discontinued for want of encouragement. the author, whose portrait i have sent you in the course of this correspondence, is himself a native of pont-de-l'arche, and has subjoined to his fas-ciculus a couple of plates, illustrative of the costume and customs of the neighborhood.--in one of these plates, an itinerant male fortune-teller is satisfying a young peasant as to the probability of her speedy marriage, by means of a pack of cards, from which he has turned up the king and queen and ace of hearts. in the other, _a cunning woman_ is solving a question by a book and key. the poor girl's sweetheart is an absent soldier, and fears and doubts are naturally entertained for his safety. to unlock the mysteries of fate, the key is attached to the mass-book, and suspended from the tip of the finger of the sybil, who reads the first chapter of the gospel of st. john; and the invocation is answered by the key turning of _its own accord_, when she arrives at the verse beginning, "and the word was made flesh[ ]."--a fine rose-window in the church of the abbey of bonport, and two specimens of painted glass from its windows, the one representing angels holding musical instruments, supposed to be of the thirteenth century, the other containing a set of male and female heads of extraordinarily rich color, probably executed about a century later, are given by _willemin_ in his very beautiful _monumens français inédits_. in the same work, you will likewise find two still more interesting painted windows from pont-de-l'arche; some boatmen and their wives in the norman costume of the end of the sixteenth century, and a citizen of the town with his lady, praying before a fald-stool, bearing the date, . the church of pont-de-l'arche, though greatly dilapidated, is a building worth notice, in a fine style of the decorated gothic. the nave is very lofty; the high altar richly carved and gilt; the oak pulpit embossed with saints; and the font covered with curious, though not ancient, sculpture. rich tracery abounds in the windows, which are also filled with painted glass, some of it of very good quality. scripture history and personages occupy, as usual, the principal part; but in one of the windows we noticed a representation of the seine full of islands, and the town of pont-de-l'arche, with a number of persons quitting it with their horses, baggage, &c. in apparent confusion. so shattered, however, is the window, that the story is no longer intelligible in its details; and fragments, quite illegible, are all that remain of the inscriptions formerly beneath it. it is probable, that the intention of the artist was to give a picture of the miseries experienced by the inhabitants at the burning of the town by our troops under edward iiird.--on the south side of the church the buttresses are enriched with canopies and other sculpture; and there was originally a highly-wrought balustrade, ornamented with figures of children, a part of which remains.--pont-de-l'arche claims the merit of having been the first town in france, which acknowledged henry ivth as its lawful sovereign, after the assassination of his predecessor, in . on leaving this place, we passed through the forest of the same name, an extensive tract covered with young trees, principally beech, oak, and birch. the soil, a mixture of chalk and gravel, is poor, and offers but little encouragement to the labors of the plough. all around us, the distant prospect was pleasantly varied with gentle hills, upon one of which, nearly in front, we soon saw louviers, a busy manufacturing town, of about seven thousand inhabitants, who are chiefly employed in making the fine cloth of the district, which is considered superior in quality to any other in france. spanish wool is almost exclusively used for the purpose. throughout the vicinity of louviers, are the most undoubted symptoms of commercial prosperity; new houses every where erecting, and old ones undergoing improvement. but the streets of the town itself are, as usual, dirty and narrow, and the people of the lower orders more than commonly ragged and beggarly. it was impossible to mistake the nature of their occupations; so many of them had their faces and hands, and every part of their limbs and bodies that was visible, died of a bright blue.--the church at louviers is very much injured, but very handsome; and though reduced to a nave with its four aisles it is still a spacious edifice. the south porch, which projects boldly in the form of a galilee, is scarcely to be excelled as a specimen of pointed architecture at its highest pitch of luxuriant beauty. yet, even in this, the saints have been torn from their pedestals by the wanton violence of the calvinists or democrats. the central tower is square and short: it is, however, handsome. two windows, very similar to those of the tower of st. romain, in rouen cathedral, light it on either side; and saints, placed under canopies, ornament the angles behind the buttresses.--the great western door is closed, and the front defaced: the eastern end, likewise, is altogether modern.--within, the same kind of architecture prevails as in the exterior, but the whole is so concealed, and degraded by ornaments in the worst of taste, and by painted saints in the most tawdry dresses, that the effect is disgusting. i never saw so great an array of wretched representations of the heavenly host: the stone images collected round the holy sepulchre, are even worse than those at dieppe. near the chapel of the sepulchre, however, are four bas-reliefs, attached to the wall, exhibiting different events in our savior's life of good execution, and not in had taste: an open gallery of fillagree stone-work, under the central tower on the south side, is an object really deserving of admiration. m. langlois has engraved the gable end of an old house at louviers, said to have belonged to the knights templars. we found it used as an engine-maker's shop; and neither within nor without, could we discover any thing to justify his opinion, that it is a building of the twelfth or thirteenth century. on the contrary, the windows, which are double, under a flatly-pointed arch, and are all of them trefoil-headed, would rather cause it to be considered as erected two centuries later. the town of louviers, though never fortified, is noticed on several occasions in history. it was the seat of the conferences between richard coeur-de-lion and philip augustus, which ended in the treaty of , defining new limits to normandy.--it was, as i have already mentioned, one of the items of the compensation made by the same duke to the archbishop of rouen, for the injury done to the church, by the erection of château gaillard.--during the wars of edward iiird, "louviers," to use the language of old froissart, "after the battle of caen, was soon entered by the englishmen, as it was not closed; and they over-ran, and spoiled, and robbed it without mercy, and won great riches; for it was the chief place in all normandy for drapery, and was full of merchandize."--and, in the subsequent warfare of the fifteenth century, this town, like the others in the duchy, was taken by our countrymen, under henry vth, and lost by them under his successor.--hither the norman parliament retired when the huguenots were in possession of rouen; and here they remained till the recapture of the capital.--it was probably owing in a great measure to this circumstance, that louviers was induced to distinguish itself by a devoted attachment to the party of the league, for which it suffered severely in , when it was captured and pillaged by the royalists shortly after their victory at ivry. the town was then taken through the treachery of a priest of the name of jean de la tour, who received, as a recompence, a stall in the cathedral at evreux, but was so much an object of abhorrence with his brethren, that he scarcely ever ventured to appear in his place. during the holy week, however, he attended; and it once happened, that while he was so officiating, all the canons contrived to leave the church towards the close of the psalm, which immediately precedes the _benedictus_ at _laudes_, so that the anthem, _traditor autem_, which is sung with that hymn, necessarily fell to the part of de la tour, who found himself compelled to chaunt it, to his own extreme confusion, and the infinite amusement of the congregation. irritated and mortified, the poor priest preferred his complaints to the king; but it was one thing to love the treason, and another to love the traitor; and his appeal obtained no redress. from louviers our next stage was gaillon, on our road to which we passed some vineyards, the most northern, i believe, in normandy. the vines cultivated in them are all of the small black cluster grape; and the wine they produce, i am told, is of very inferior quality,--no place can appear at present more poverty-stricken than gaillon; but the case was far otherwise before the glories of royal and ecclesiastical france were shorn by the revolution. ducarel, who visited this town about the year , dwells with great pleasure upon the magnificence of its palace and its carthusian convent and church. of the palace the remains are still considerable; and, after having been suffered to lie in a state of ruin and neglect from an early period in the revolution, they are now fitting up as a prison. the long inscription formerly over the gate might with great propriety be replaced by the hacknied phrase, "sic transit gloria mundi;" for the vicissitudes of the fortune of noble buildings are strikingly illustrated by the changes experienced by this sumptuous edifice, long proverbial throughput france for its splendor. philip augustus conferred the lordship of gaillon upon one of his captains of the name of cadoc, as a reward for his activity in the conquest of normandy. louis ixth afterwards, early in the thirteenth century, ceded the town in perpetuity to the archbishop of rouen. st. louis here received by way of exchange the château of pinterville, which he bestowed upon william d'aubergenville, whose uncle, the bishop of evreux, had, while chancellor of france, done much service to him and to queen blanche, his mother. from that time to the revolution the archbishops had their country seat at gaillon, and enjoyed the sole right of trying civil and criminal causes within the town and its liberties. their palace, which was destroyed during the wars of henry vth, in , was rebuilt about a century afterwards by the munificence of the first cardinal georges d'amboise, one of whose successors in the prelacy, colbert, expended, as it is said, more than one hundred thousand livres towards the embellishment of it.--another archbishop, the cardinal of bourbon, founded the neighboring monastery, in the year . the conventual church was destroyed by fire, through the carelessness of some plumbers, shortly after ducarel visited it; and with it perished the celebrated monument of one of the counts of bourbon soissons, said to have been a master-piece of sculpture. the limits assigned to normandy by the treaty of louviers, made gaillon a frontier town of the duchy; and here therefore i should take my leave of you, but that, in the prouder days of its history, vernon was likewise swayed by the ducal sceptre. vernon also seems peculiarly connected with england, from the noble family of the same name still flourishing, agreeably to their well-known punning motto, on your side of the water. this motto is in the highest degree inapplicable to the present state of the town, whose old and ruinous appearance looks as if it had known neither improvement nor repair for centuries. better things might have been expected from the situation of vernon, on the banks of the seine, in a singularly beautiful valley, and from its climate, which is reported to be so extraordinarily healthy, that instances of individuals attaining in it the age of one hundred are not unfrequent. the royal palace, formerly here, is now wholly swept away; and of the ancient fortifications there remains little more than a tower, remarkable for the height and thickness of its walls, a part of the castle, which, in the reign of henry iind, was held by the service of sixteen knights for its defence[ ].--prior to the revolution, vernon contained five religious houses, three of them founded by st. louis, who is said to have regarded this town with peculiar favor, and probably on that account assigned it as a jointure to his queen, an honor which it has received upon more than one other occasion. the present parish church of vernon was collegiate. it was founded about the year , by william of vernon, and was endowed by him, at the time of its dedication, with the property called, _la couture du pré de giverny_, and with a fourth part of the forest of vernon, all which the dean and canons continued to enjoy till the revolution. this william appears to have been the first of the family who adopted the surname of vernon. his son, richard, by whom the foundation was formally confirmed, attended the conqueror to england, and obtained there considerable grants. one of their descendants ceded the town in to the king of france, accepting in return other lands, according to a treaty still preserved in the royal library at paris. the tombs of the founder, and of his namesake, sir william de vernon, constable of england, who died in , and of many others of the family, among the rest the stately mausoleum of the maréchal de belle isle, were destroyed during the reign of jacobinism and terror. the portraits, however, of the marshal and of the duc de penthièvre, both of them very indifferent performances, were saved, and are now kept in the sacristy. the only monument left to the church is that of marie maignard, whose husband, charles maignard, was lord of bernières and president of the parliament of normandy. she died in . her effigy in white marble, praying before a fald-stool, has also been spared. [illustration: elevation of the west front of _la délivrande_] the church itself is a spacious building, consisting of a nave and two aisles, with chapels beyond, separated by lofty pointed arches, supported on clustered pillars, to each of which is still attached a tabernacle; but the statues have been destroyed. the choir is altogether in a different style of architecture: that portion of it which immediately surrounds the altar, is early norman, and most probably belonged to the original structure. its arches vary remarkably in width. the most narrow among them are more decidedly horseshoe-shaped, than any others which i recollect to have seen.--the west front, though much mutilated, is still handsome. it is flanked by two small, very short turrets, richly ornamented.--the square central tower, capped by a conical roof, does not even equal the height of the nave, which is greatly superior to that of the choir.--upon an eminence in the immediate vicinity of vernon, are the remains of a roman encampment. with vernon we quitted ancient normandy: our ride thence to mantes has been delightful; and this town, for the excellence of its buildings, for neatness, and for a general air of comfort, far excels any other which we have seen in the north of france. the name of mantes also recals the memory of the duc de sully, and recals that of the conqueror, whose life fell a sacrifice to the barbarous outrage of which he was here guilty.--but, i now lay down my pen, and take my leave of normandy, happy, if by my correspondence during this short tour, i have been able to impart to you a portion of the gratification which i have myself experienced, while tracing the ancient history, and surveying the monuments of that wonderful nation, who, issuing from the frozen regions of the north, here fixed the seat of their permanent government, became powerful rivals of the sovereigns of france, saw sicily and the fairest portion of italy subject to their sway, and, at the same time that they possessed themselves of our own island, by right of conquest, imported amongst us their customs, their arts, and their institutions, and laid the basis of that happy constitution, under which, by the blessing of god, britain is at this moment the pride and envy of the world! * * * * * footnotes: [footnote : _antiquités nationales_, iv. no. .] [footnote : _antiquités nationales_, ii. no. .] [footnote : _histoire de la haute normandie_, ii. p. .] [footnote : _histoire d'evreux_, p. .] [footnote : _antiquités nationales_, iv. no. .] [footnote : this mode of divination by the bible and key, is also to be found among the superstitions of our own country.--see _ellis' edition of brand's popular antiquities_, ii. p. .] [footnote : _ducarel's anglo-norman antiquities_, p. .--respecting vernon, see also _millin, antiquités nationales_, iii. no. , in which four plates, and near fifty pages of letter-press, are devoted to this town.] appendix i. * * * * * the printing of this work was just concluded, when the author was favored with drawings, accompanied with short descriptions, of the chapel of our _lady of the délivrande_, near caen, and of an ancient font at magneville, near valognes. for the former he is indebted to mr. cohen, to whom he has so often in the course of the work, had occasion to express his obligations; for the latter, to m. de gerville, an able antiquary at valognes. both these subjects are of such a nature, that he is peculiarly happy to be able to add them to his imperfect account of the antiquities of normandy: the whole duchy does not contain a religious building more celebrated for its sanctity than the chapel; and while ancient fonts of any description are rare in the province, he doubts if another is to be found like that of magneville, ornamented with sculpture and an inscription. * * * * * some historians suppose, that the country situated between caen and the sea, formed at least, a part of the saxon shore of neustria. amongst the other ancient buildings which are found in this district, the chapel of notre dame de la délivrande, to which the normans have resorted in pilgrimage during the last eight hundred years, is, perhaps, the most remarkable. when the philosophers of the revolution envied the religious enjoyments of the common man, all pilgrimages were forbidden, and the road leading to our lady's chapel, and which, indeed, is the only high road in this part of the country, became almost impassable. under the emperor it was thoroughly repaired, and, as they say, by his especial order; and since the accession of the present french king, the fathers of the mission, who lose no favorable opportunity of fostering the spirit of devotion, have erected roods and tabernacles, at due distances, all along the way side. after leaving caen, the traveller will not fail to linger on the little hill which he ascends just after passing by the first crucifix. hence he enjoys a lovely prospect, such as delighted the old masters. in the foreground is the lofty cross, standing on a quadrangular pyramid of steps. the broken hollow path bending upwards round the base, is always occupied by a grotesque group of cripples and beldames, in rags and tatters, laughing and whining and praying. the horizon is bounded by long lines of grey and purple hills, nearer are fields and pastures, whilst the river glitters and winds amidst their vivid tints. nearer still, the city of caen extends itself from side to side, terminated at each extremity by the venerable abbeys of william and matilda. there are no traces of work-shops and manufactories, or of their pollution; but the churches with their towers and spires rise above the houses in bold architectural masses, and the city assumes a character of quiet monastic opulence, comforting the eye and the mind. about four miles farther on from caen, we reached cambre, one of the many seignories which belonged to the very noble family of mathan. there was a serlo de mathan, who appears as a witness to one of the conqueror's charters, and the family is now represented by the present marquis, who has recovered his château, and a fragment of his domain. cambre is also the residence of the abbé de la rue, by whom the marquis was educated. when they both took refuge in england, the abbé was the only protector of his pupil, who now returns the honorable obligation. it is well known that the abbé has devoted his life to the investigation of the antiquities both of normandy and of the anglo-normans. possessing in a high degree the acute and critical spirit of research which distinguished the french archaiologists of the benedictine school, we have only to regret, that the greater part of his works yet remain in manuscript. his _history of anglo-norman poetry_, which is quite ready for the press, would be an invaluable accession to our literature; but books of this nature are so little suited to the taste of the french public, that, as yet, he has not ventured upon its publication. the collections of the abbé, as may be anticipated, are of great value; they relate almost wholly to the history of the duchy. the château escaped spoliation. the portraits of the whole line of the mathans, from the first founder of the race, in his hauberk, down to the last marquis, in his _frisure_, are in good preservation; and they are ancient specimens of the sign-post painting usually found in old galleries. the marquis has also a finely-illuminated missal, which belonged to a dame de mathan, in the fourteenth century, and which has been carefully handed down in the family, from generation to generation. the church of douvre, the next village, is rather a picturesque building. the upper story of the tower has two pointed windows of the earliest date. a pediment between them rests on the archivolt on either side. this is frequently seen in buildings in the circular style. the other stories of the tower, and the west front of the church are norman; the east end is in ruins. the british name of the village may afford ground for much ethnigraphical and etymological speculation. saint exuperius is said to have founded the chapel of la délivrande, some time in the first century. the tradition adds, that the chapel was ruined by the northmen,--and the statue of the virgin, which now commands the veneration of the faithful, remained buried until the appointed time of resuscitation, in the reign of henry ist, when it was discovered, in conformity to established usage and precedent in most cases of miraculous images, by a lamb. baldwin, count of the bessin and baron of douvre, was owner of the flock to which the lamb belonged. the virgin would not remain in the parish church of douvre, in which she was lodged by the baron, but she returned every night to the spot where she was disinterred. baldwin therefore understood that it was his duty to erect a chapel for her reception, and he accordingly built that which is now standing, and made a donation of the edifice to the bishop of bayeux, whose successor receives the mass-pennies and oblations at this very day. some idea of the architecture of the building may be formed from the inclosed sketch of the western front. during the morning mass, the chapel was crowded with women, young and old, who were singing the litany of the virgin in a low and plantive tone. a hymn of praise was also chaunted. it was composed by the learned bishop huet, and it is inscribed upon a black marble tablet, which was placed in the chapel by his direction. the country women of the saxon shore possess a very peculiar physiognomy, denoting that the race is unmixed. the norman-saxon damsel is full and well made, her complexion is very fair, she has light hair, long eyelashes, and tranquil placid features; her countenance has an air of sullen pouting tenderness, such as we often find in the women represented in the sculptures and paintings of the middle ages. and all the girls are so much alike, that it might have been supposed that they all were sisters. as to our lady, she is gaily attired in a cashemire shawl, and completely covered with glaring amber necklaces and beads, and ribband knots, and artificial flowers. many votive offerings are affixed round her shrine. the pilgrim is particularly desired to notice a pair of crutches, which testify the cure of their former owner, who lately hobbled to the virgin from falaise, as a helpless cripple, and who quitted her in perfect health. of course the virgin has operated all the usual standard miracles, including one which may be suspected to be rather a work of supererogation, that of restoring speech to a matron who had lost her tongue, which had been cut out by her jealous husband. miracles of every kind are very frequently performed, yet, if the truth must be told, they are worked, as it were, by deputy, for the real original virgin suffered so much during the revolution, that it has been thought advisable to keep her in the sacristy, and the statue now seen is a restoration of recent workmanship. in order to conciliate the sailors and fishermen of the coast, the virgin has entered into partnership with st. nicholas, whose image is impressed on the reverse of the medal representing her, and which is sold to the pilgrims. the country about la délivrande is flat, but industriously cultivated and thickly peopled. the villages are numerous and substantial. from a point at the extremity of the green lane which leads onward from la délivrande, six or eight church spires may be counted, all within a league's distance. by the advice of the abbé de la rue, we proceeded to bernieres, which is close to the sea. the mayor of the commune offered his services with great civility, and accompanied us to the church, which, as he told us, was built by duke william. we easily gave credit to the mayor's assertion, as the interior of the nave is good norman. the pillars which support the groining of the roof are square; this feature is rather singular. the tower and spire are copied from saint peter, at caen. those of luc, courseilles, langrune, and the other neighboring villages, are upon the same model. many instances of the same kind of affiliation occur at home, which shew how easily a fashion was set in ecclesiastical architecture. * * * * * [illustration: font at magneville] appendix ii. * * * * * the most remarkable among the ancient inscriptions found in that part of normandy, which is now comprised in the department of la manche, are upon an ancient altar, at ham, on a medallion attached to the outside of the church of ste. croix, at st. lô, and upon the font at magneville, near valognes. the first of these has generally been referred to the seventh century; the second seems to be of the ninth; and the last may with safety be considered as of the latter part of the tenth, or beginning of the eleventh, at which period, the choir of the church of magneville appears also to have been erected. of the sculpture upon the font, as well as of the inscription, an accurate idea may be formed, from the annexed drawing: the most remarkable character of the inscription seems to be in its punctuation. the letters upon the altar, at ham, touch one another, and there is no separation of any kind between the words: here, on the contrary, almost all the words are divided by three or four points placed in a perpendicular direction, except at the end of the phrases, where stops are wholly wanting. at ham, also, the letters are cut into the stone, while at magneville they are drawn with a brush, with a kind of black pigment. g. index. a. _abbey_, of ardennes, bec, bernay, bonport, cormeilles, ducler, jumieges, preaux, st. evroul, st. georges de bocherville, st. stephen, at caen, st. taurinus, trinity at caen. _academy of druids_, at bayeux. _academy of sciences_, at caen. _agnes sorel_, buried at jumieges, her statue destroyed by the huguenots, her tomb destroyed at the revolution, inscription upon. _amphitheatre, roman_, found near lisieux. _amyot, mr_. his paper on the bayeux tapestry. _andelys_, origin of the name, history of, seat of an early monastery, great house at, birth-place of poussin. _andromeda polifolia_, found near jumieges. _anselm, archbishop of canterbury_, a monk at bec. _aqueduct, roman_, remains of, at vieux. _archbishops of rouen_, their palace at gaillon. _arches, trefoil-headed_, early specimen of, at jumieges. _ardennes_, abbey of, near caen. _arlette, mother of the conqueror_, native of falaise. _arnulf_, bishop of lisieux. _arthur, prince_, knighted at gournay. _asselin_, forbids the interment of the conqueror. _audinus, bishop of evreux_, authorizes henry ist to burn the city. _augustodurum_, probably the site of, at vieux. b. _bailiffs_, first established in normandy under philip augustus, _baiocco of naples_, named after bayeux, _bas-relief_, in the church of st. georges de bocherville, _baudius_, professor of law for a short time at caen, _bayeux_, seat of an academy of druids, roman relics found near, but no druidic, a roman station, probably the næomagus viducassium, its ancient name, its importance under the early french kings, its history, the place where the norman princes were educated, castle, situation, population, and trade, tapestry, cathedral, _bayeux, roman_, probably destroyed by the saxons, _bec, abbey of_, its present state, former income and patronage, church described by du plessis, founded by hellouin, history, seminary for eminent men, _belenus_, worshipped near bayeux, _berengarius_, his tenets impugned by lanfranc, condemned by the council of brionne, _bernay_, abbey of, church, burial-ground, population and trade, costume of the females, _bernieres_, church of, _blanche, wife of charles the bel_, confined in château gaillard, _bochart_, one of the founders of the academy at caen, _boileau_, his eulogium on malherbe, _bonport_, abbey of, _borghese, princess of_, original letter by, _bouillon, duke of_, lord of evreux, at the revolution, _bourg-achard_, seat of an abbey, dedicated to st. eustatius, leaden font, _bourg-theroude_, _bourgueville_, his antiquities of caen, present at the exhumation of the conqueror's remains, _boy, bishop_, annually elected at caen, _bretteville l'orgueilleuse_, church of, _brionne_, situation of, seat of the council which condemned the tenets of berengarius, castle, _brito_, his account of the siege of gournay, of château gaillard, of the murder of the french garrison of evreux, of caen. _broglie_, church of. _bruce, david_, a resident in château gaillard. _buck-wheat_, much cultivated in lower normandy, etymology of its french name. c. _caen_, arrival at, distant view of, trade and population, situation, grand cours, costume of females, house-rent, foundation, described by brito, etymology of the name, fortifications, château de calix, castle, chapel in the castle, hospital, royal abbeys, college, palace, museum, library, universities, men of eminence, academy, malherbe, history, neighborhood abundant in fossil remains, seen from the road leading to la délivrande. _caen-stone_, large quarries of, formerly much used in england. _cambre_. _cambremer, canon of_, tale respecting, at bayeux. _cannon_, first used in france, at the siege of pont audemer. _canons_, four statues of, at evreux. _castle_, of bayeux, brionne, caen, creully, falaise, gisors, montfort, neufmarché. _cathedral of bayeux_, founded by st. exuperius, history, described, crypt, stripped of its relics, revenue, right of mintage. _cathedral of evreux_, often destroyed, its present state, little injured by the huguenots, founded by st. taurinus. _cathedral of lisieux_, now the parish church of st. peter, described, remarkable tomb in. _cauchon, peter_, bishop of lisieux, president at the trial of joan of arc. _cecily_, daughter of the conqueror, abbess at caen. _chapel_, subterranean, in bayeux cathedral, in the castle at caen, in the castle at falaise, of st. adrian, of la délivrande. _chapel in the castle at caen_, built fronting the east _chapels_, stone-roofed, in ireland, of norman origin _charles the bad_, born in the château de navarre _charters_, of the abbey of st. georges de bocherville _château de navarre_ _château gaillard_, its situation described account of, by brito history _château de calix_, at caen _chesnut-timber_, formerly much used in normandy _church_, of the abbey of bec bernieres bernay bretteville l'orgueilleuse broglie creully ducler ecouis falaise gisors gournay jumieges st. peter's at ditto louviers moulineaux pont audemer pont-de-l'arche st. germain de blancherbe st. gervais, at falaise st. georges de bocherville st. giles, at evreux st. james, at lisieux st. john, at caen st. michael, at ditto st. nicholas, at ditto st. peter, at ditto st. stephen's abbey, at ditto st. stephen, at ditto trinity, at ditto trinity at falaise vernon _cider_, the common beverage, in normandy first introduced by the normans _cocherel_ _coins, golden_, struck at bayeux, under the first french kings _colline des deux amans_, priory of _cormeilles_, abbey of _corneille_, buried at andelys _costume_, at bernay at caen _coupe gorge_, colony established at, by napoléon _creully_, castle church _crocodile fossil_, found near caen _croissanville_ d. _dalechamps_, native of caen _d'amboise, cardinal_, built the palace at gaillon _darnétal_ _de boissy_, bishop of bayeux, his epitaph. _de la rue, abbé_, professor of history at caen, is preparing an account of caen, his paper on the bayeux tapestry. _douce, mr._, his illustration of the sculpture at st. georges de bocherville. _douvre_. _druids_, academy of, at bayeux. _dubois louis_, his discoveries among the ruins of old lisieux, preserved the original m.s. of ordericus vitalis, is preparing the history of lisieux. _ducarel_, his description of a pavement in the palace at caen. _ducler_, convent, parish church. _du perron_, cardinal, bishop of evreux. _du plessis_, his opinion as to turold on the bayeux tapestry, description of the abbey church of bec. e. _ecouis, church of_, burial-place of john and enguerrand de marigny, singular epitaph. _epitaph_, enigmatical at ecouis, of john de boissy, on the exterior of bayeux cathedral. _evreux_, destroyed by henry ist, cathedral, abbey of st. taurinus, history, present appearance. _evreux, old_, a roman station. f. _falaise_, situation of, etymology of the name, castle, talbot's tower, chapel in castle, history, firmly attached to the league, fortifications, inhabitants _true normans_, population and trade, churches. _fastolf, sir john_, governor of caen. _flambart, ralph_, bishop of durham, seizes lisieux. _fleury, cardinal_, abbot at caen. _fonts_, seldom seen in french churches. _font_, curiously sculptured, at magneville. _font, leaden_, at bourg-achard. g. _gaillon_, vineyards near, present state of, ceded to the archbishop of rouen, made by the treaty of louviers the frontier town of the duchy, _gisors_, castle, appearance of, history, place of interview between henry iind, and philip augustus, arms of the town, castle, described, church of, banded column in the church, _glass painted_, at the abbey of bonport, in the church of pont de l'arche, _gournay_, origin of, present appearance, history, siege described by brito, arms of, place where prince arthur was knighted, church, remarkable sculpture on the capitals, _gournay, hugo de_, _guibray_, fair of, _gurney, hudson_, his paper on the bayeux tapestry, h. _harcourt_, castle of, _hellouin_, founder of the abbey of bec, his epitaph, _hennuyer, john_, bishop of lisieux, said to have saved the huguenots, _henry ist_, kept prisoner by robert at bayeux, destroyed the city, _history, ecclesiastical, of ordericus vitalis_, materials for a new edition of, original manuscript, manuscript copies, _holy trinity_, church of, at falaise, _honfleur_, situation of, described, _horses, norman_, present price of, _hospital at caen_, founded in the thirteenth century, _hoveden_, his account of the interview between henry iind, and philip augustus, near gisors, _hubert, archbishop of canterbury_, a monk of bec, _hubert, m._, discovered the site of the neomagus lexoviorum, _huet_, his _origines de caen_, one of the founders of the academy at caen, _huguenots_, destroy the tomb and violate the remains of the conqueror, _hume, david_, his opinion on the bayeux tapestry, _hypocaust, roman_, found at vieux, i. _inscription_, on the font at magneville, _john, king_, murders the french garrison of evreux, _isatis tinctoria_, cultivated in france under napoléon, _jumieges, abbey of_, its foundation, original building, history, church, salle des chevaliers, church of st. peter, monuments, _ivory chest_, in bayeux cathedral, k. _knights, templars_, house of, at louviers, l. _lamouroux, m_. professor of natural history at caen, his publications, _lanfranc_, settled at bec, first schoolmaster in normandy, first abbot of st. stephen's, _langevin, m_., author of the history of falaise, _langlois, m_., his portrait, his work on norman antiquities, _le beuf, abbé_, his opinion of vieux, _le brasseur_, his account of the statues of four canons at evreux, _léproserie de beauîleu_, _letter, original_, from princess borghese, _library, public_, at caen, _lisieux_, situation and trade of, its see suppressed in , cathedral, tomb in cathedral, town probably founded in the sixth century, ancient names of, history of, church of st. jacques, _littleton, lord_, his opinion of the bayeux tapestry, _louviers_, treaty of, population, church, house of knights templars, history, m. _magneville_, font at, _malherbe_, native of caen, _mallet, anthony_, his statement of hennuyer's saving the calvinists, _maréchal de belle isle_, his monument, _margaret of burgundy_, immured in château gaillard, _marigny, enguerrand de_, buried at ecouis, his mausoleum destroyed at the revolution, _marriage ceremony_, in france, _matilda, wife of the conqueror_, supposed portrait of, her seal buried in the church of the trinity, her tomb destroyed by the huguenots, her remains lately found and new tomb raised, _maud, empress_, her expostulations with her father as to the place of her burial, _mazarine, cardinal_, abbot of st. stephen's, _melons_, cultivated on a large scale, near lisieux, _misereres_, sculptured, in bayeux cathedral, _misletoe_, commonly hung over inn-doors, near caen, _money_, struck by the chapter of bayeux, how marked, _montfaucon_, his engravings of the portraits of the conqueror and his family, _montfort_, castle of, _moulineaux_, church of, _mount phaunus_, temple of, near bayeux, _museum_, at caen, _musicians_, sculptured at st. georges de bocherville, n. _napoléon_, establishment formed by him at the pass of _coupe gorge_, his attempt to make a naval station at caen, _navarre, kings of_, lords of evreux, _navarre, château de_, _næomagus viducassium_, probably the modern bayeux, _neomagus lexoviorum_, site of, lately discovered, _neufmarché_, castle of, _normandy_, divided anew, under philip augustus, _notre dame de la délivrande_, chapel of, o. _odo, bishop of bayeux_, rebuilds the cathedral, his life and character. _ordericus vitalis_, his account of the destruction of evreux, his account of st. taurinus, sketch of his life, his ecclesiastical history, his reflections on the death of the conqueror _ornaments_ on the spandrils of the arches in bayeux cathedral. _oxen_, breed of, near caen. p. _paintings, fresco_, in bayeux cathedral. _passports_, regulations respecting, in france. _patye, john, canon of cambremer_, legend concerning, at bayeux. _pays de bray_. _pistae_, the site of, occupied by pont de l'arche. _pont audemer_, its situation, history, churches. _pont de l'arche_, seat of a palace under charles the bald, origin of the name, church. _portraits_, of the conqueror and family. _poussin_, born at andelys, if his example has been favorable to french art. _preaux_, abbey of. _priory, des deux amans_. r. _rabelais_, his autograph. _reseda luteola_, cultivated near rouen. _richelieu, cardinal_, abbot of st. stephen's at caen. _roads in france_, compared with those in england. _robert the devil_, his castle near moulineaux. _romance_, subjects borrowed from, sculptured on a capital in st. peter's, at caen. _rupierre, william of, bishop of lisieux_, resists the power of king john. s. _st. adrian_, chapel of, near rouen. _st. clotilda_, her fountain, at andelys still worshipped there. _st. evroul_, abbey of, founded by william de gerouis, residence of ordericus vitalis. _st. georges de bocherville_, abbey of, founded by ralph de tancarville, its history, abbey church described sculpture in ditto chapter-house. _st. germain_, church of, at pont audemer. _st. germain de blancherbe_, church of. _st. gervais_, church of, at falaise. _st. giles_, church of, at evreux. _st. jacques_, church of at lisieux. _st. john_, church of, at caen. _st. lascivus_, bishop of bayeux. _st. lupus_, bishop of bayeux, so called from destroying the wolves. _st. maimertus_, subterranean chapel dedicated to, in bayeux cathedal. _st. michael_, church of, in the suburb of vaucelles, at caen. _st. nicholas_, church of at caen its roof like those of the irish stone-roofed chapels. _st. peter_, church of at caen sculpture upon the capital of one of the columns. _st. philibert_, founder of jumieges. _st. regnobert_, bishop of bayeux, his chasuble kept in the cathedral, domestic animals blessed on his feast-day. _st. stephen_, church of, at caen. _st. stephen_, abbey of, at caen, its privileges now used as the college. _st. stephen, abbey church of_, at caen, described formed on the the roman model burial-place of the conqueror. _st. taurinus_, founder of evreux cathedral his fight with the devil, his shrine crypt, in which he was buried. _st. taurinus, abbey of_ at evreux its privileges ancient architecture in the church crypt. _st. vitalis_, his feast celebrated annually at evreux. _st. ursinus_, privileges enjoyed by the canons, at lisieux, on his vigil and feast-day. _saxons_, established about bayeux, where many words from their language still exist. _screens_, of rare occurrence in french churches. _sculpture_, in the abbey church of st. georges de bocherville, in the chapter-house of the same abbey, in the abbey church of jumieges, on the capitals in the church at gournay, on a capital in the abbey church at bernay, over the high altar at bernay, on a tomb in lisieux cathedral, on a capital in st. peter's at caen, on the capitals of the pillars in the crypt at bayeux cathedral, _seal_, supposed to belong to matilda, wife of the conqueror, _sheep_, norman breed of, _siege_, of château gaillard, _statues_, in the chapter-house of the abbey of st. georges de bocherville, of william the conqueror, at caen, _stothard, c.a._, his drawings of the bayeux tapestry, his opinion on its antiquity, _string-course_, remarkable, in the church of _notre dame des prés_, at pont audemer, _superstitions_, still remaining in normandy, t. _tancarville, ralph_, chamberlain to the conqueror, and founder of the abbey of st. georges de bocherville, _tapestry, bayeux_, accounts of, published by montfaucon and lancelot, referred by them to matilda, queen of the conqueror, figure from, its antiquity denied by lord littleton, hume, and the abbé de la rue, when first described, reasons for believing in its antiquity, formerly kept at the cathedral, exhibited during the revolution at paris, described, _tassillon_, confined at jumieges, _tassilly_, ancient tombs found at, _theobald, archbishop of canterbury_ a monk of bec, _thomas à becket_, retired during his disgrace to lisieux, _tiles, painted_, in the palace at caen, supposed to prove the antiquity of heraldic bearings, _tombeau des énervez_, at jumieges, _tombs, ancient_, at cocherel, in lisieux cathedral, at tassilly, _torigny marble_, _trinity holy, abbey of the_, at caen, when built, used as a fortress as well as a nunnery its income privileges. _trinity holy, church of the abbey of the_, at caen, now a work-house, described, its spires destroyed by charles, king of navarre. _turnebus_, adrian, native of andelys. _turold_, founder of bourg-theroude, represented on the bayeux tapestry. u. _university of caen_, founded by henry vith, abolished and restored by charles viith, esteemed the third in france. v. _vernon_, its situation, formerly the seat of a royal palace, church. _vieux_, a roman station, etymology of the name. _vines_, formerly cultivated at jumieges, also at caen and lisieux. w. _wace_, a resident at caen. _whales_, formerly caught near jumieges. _william the conqueror_, his statue at caen, supposed figure of him on a capital in the church of the abbey of the trinity, buried in the abbey-church of st. stephen, his epitaph, his death and burial, and the disturbance of his remains, his palace at caen, fresco-paintings of him and his family, born at falaise, receives the homage of the english, as successor to edward, at bayeux. _william of jumieges_, his account of the attachment of the empress maud to bec. team normandy: the scenery & romance of its ancient towns: depicted by gordon home part . preface this book is not a guide. it is an attempt to convey by pictures and description a clear impression of the normandy which awaits the visitor. the route described could, however, be followed without covering the same ground for more than five or six miles, and anyone choosing to do this would find in his path some of the richest architecture and scenery that the province possesses. as a means of reviving memories of past visits to normandy, i may perhaps venture to hope that the illustrations of this book--as far as the reproductions are successful--may not be ineffectual. gordon home epsom, _october_ contents preface list of coloured illustrations list of line illustrations chapter i some features of normandy chapter ii by the banks of the seine chapter iii concerning rouen, the ancient capital of normandy chapter iv concerning the cathedral city of evreux and the road to bernay chapter v concerning lisieux and the romantic town of falaise chapter vi from argentan to avranches chapter vii concerning mont st michel chapter viii concerning coutances and some parts of the cotentin chapter ix concerning st lo and bayeux chapter x concerning caen and the coast towards trouville chapter xi some notes on the history of normandy list of coloured illustrations mont st michel from the causeway on the road between conches and beaumont-le-roger this is typical of the poplar-bordered roads of normandy. the chateau gaillard from the road by the seine the village of le petit andely appears below the castle rock, and is partly hidden by the island. the chalk cliffs on the left often look like ruined walls. a typical reach of the seine between rouen and le petit andely on one side great chalk cliffs rise precipitously, and on the other are broad flat pastures. the church at gisors, seen from the walls of the norman castle the tour de la grosse horloge, rouen it is the belfry of the city, and was commenced in . the cathedral at rouen showing a peep of the portail de la calende, and some of the quaint houses of the oldest part of the city. the cathedral of evreux seen from above on the right, just where the light touches some of the roofs of the houses, the fine old belfry can be seen. a typical farmyard scene in normandy the curious little thatched mushroom above the cart is to be found in most of the norman farms. the bridge at beaumont-le-roger on the steep hill beyond stands the ruined abbey church. in the rue aux fevres, lisieux the second tiled gable from the left belongs to the fine sixteenth century house called the manoir de francois i. the church of st jacques at lisieux one of the quaint umber fronted houses for which the town is famous appears on the left. falaise castle the favourite stronghold of william the conqueror. the porte des cordeliers at falaise a thirteenth century gateway that overlooks the steep valley of the ante. the chateau d'o a seventeenth century manor house surrounded by a wide moat. the great view over the forests to the south from the ramparts of domfront castle down below can be seen the river varennes, and to the left of the railway the little norman church of notre-dame-sur-l'eau. the clock gate, vire a view of mont st michel and the bay of cancale from the jardin des plantes at avranches on the left is the low coast-line of normandy, and on the right appears the islet of tombelaine. distant view of mont st michel the long main street of coutances in the foreground is the church of st pierre, and in the distance is the cathedral. the great western towers of the church of notre dame at st lo they are of different dates, and differ in the arcading and other ornament. the norman towers of bayeux cathedral st pierre, caen ouistreham list of line illustrations the fortified farm near gisors a seventeenth century house at argentan the old market house at ecouche one of the towers in the walls of domfront the chËtelet and la mervfille at mont st michel the dark opening through the archway on the left is the main entrance to the abbey. on the right can be seen the tall narrow windows that light the three floors of abbot jourdain's great work. an ancient house in the rue st malo, bayeux the gateway of the chateau the disused church of st nicholas at caen a courtyard in the rue de bayeux at caen chapter i some features of normandy very large ants, magpies in every meadow, and coffee-cups without handles, but of great girth, are some of the objects that soon become familiar to strangers who wander in that part of france which was at one time as much part of england as any of the counties of this island. the ants and the coffee-cups certainly give one a sense of being in a foreign land, but when one wanders through the fertile country among the thatched villages and farms that so forcibly remind one of devonshire, one feels a friendliness in the landscapes that scarcely requires the stimulus of the kindly attitude of the peasants towards _les anglais_. if one were to change the dark blue smock and the peculiar peaked hat of the country folk of normandy for the less distinctive clothes of the english peasant, in a very large number of cases the frenchmen would pass as english. the norman farmer so often has features strongly typical of the southern counties of england, that it is surprising that with his wife and his daughters there should be so little resemblance. perhaps this is because the french women dress their hair in such a different manner to those on the northern side of the channel, and they certainly, taken as a whole, dress with better effect than their english neighbours; or it may be that the similar ideas prevailing among the men as to how much of the face should be shaved have given the stronger sex an artificial resemblance. in the towns there is little to suggest in any degree that the mediaeval kings of england ruled this large portion of france, and at mont st michel the only english objects besides the ebb and flow of tourists are the two great iron _michelettes_ captured by the french in . everyone who comes to the wonderful rock is informed that these two guns are english; but as they have been there for nearly five hundred years, no one feels much shame at seeing them in captivity, and only a very highly specialised antiquary would be able to recognise any british features in them. everyone, however, who visits normandy from england with any enthusiasm, is familiar with the essential features of norman and early pointed architecture, and it is thus with distinct pleasure that the churches are often found to be strikingly similar to some of the finest examples of the earlier periods in england. when we remember that the norman masons and master-builders had been improving the crude saxon architecture in england even before the conquest, and that, during the reigns of the norman kings, "frenchmen," as the saxons called them, were working on churches and castles in every part of our island, it is no matter for surprise to find that buildings belonging to the eleventh, twelfth, and even the thirteenth century, besides being of similar general design, are often covered with precisely the same patterns of ornament. when the period of decorated gothic began to prevail towards the end of the thirteenth century, the styles on each side of the channel gradually diverged, so that after that time the english periods do not agree with those of normandy. there is also, even in the churches that most resemble english structures, a strangeness that assails one unless familiarity has taken the edge off one's perceptions. though not the case with all the fine churches and cathedrals of normandy, yet with an unpleasantly large proportion--unfortunately including the magnificent church of st ouen at rouen--there is beyond the gaudy tinsel that crowds the altars, an untidiness that detracts from the sense of reverence that stately norman or gothic does not fail to inspire. in the north transept of st ouen, some of the walls and pillars have at various times been made to bear large printed notices which have been pasted down, and when out of date they have been only roughly torn off, leaving fragments that soon become discoloured and seriously mar the dignified antiquity of the stone-work. but beyond this, one finds that the great black stands for candles that burn beside the altars are generally streaked with the wax that has guttered from a dozen flames, and that even the floor is covered with lumps of wax--the countless stains of only partially scraped-up gutterings of past offerings. there is also that peculiarly unpleasant smell so often given out by the burning wax that greets one on entering the cool twilight of the building. the worn and tattered appearance of the rush-seated chairs in the churches is easily explained when one sees the almost constant use to which they are put. in the morning, or even as late as six in the evening, one finds classes of boys or girls being catechised and instructed by priests and nuns. the visitor on pushing open the swing door of an entrance will frequently be met by a monotonous voice that echoes through the apparently empty church. as he slowly takes his way along an aisle, the voice will cease, and suddenly break out in a simple but loudly sung gregorian air, soon joined by a score or more of childish voices; then, as the stranger comes abreast of a side chapel, he causes a grave distraction among the rows of round, closely cropped heads. the rather nasal voice from the sallow figure in the cassock rises higher, and as the echoing footsteps of the person who does nothing but stare about him become more and more distant, the sing-song tune grows in volume once more, and the rows of little french boys are again in the way of becoming good catholics. in another side chapel the confessional box bears a large white card on which is printed in bold letters, "m. le cure." he is on duty at the present time, for, from behind the curtained lattices, the stranger hears a soft mumble of words, and he is constrained to move silently towards the patch of blazing whiteness that betokens the free air and sunshine without. the cheerful clatter of the traffic on the cobbles is typical of all the towns of normandy, as it is of the whole republic, but caen has reduced this form of noise by exchanging its omnibuses, that always suggested trams that had left the rails, for swift electric trams that only disturb the streets by their gongs. in rouen, the electric cars, which the britisher rejoices to discover were made in england--the driver being obliged to read the positions of his levers in english--are a huge boon to everyone who goes sight-seeing in that city. being swept along in a smoothly running car is certainly preferable to jolting one's way over the uneven paving on a bicycle, but it is only in the largest towns that one has such a choice. although the only road that is depicted in this book is as straight as any built by the romans and is bordered by poplars, it is only one type of the great _routes nationales_ that connect the larger towns. in the hilly parts of normandy the poplar bordered roads entirely disappear, and however straight the engineers may have tried to make their ways, they have been forced to give them a zig-zag on the steep slopes that breaks up the monotony of the great perspectives so often to be seen stretching away for great distances in front and behind. it must not be imagined that normandy is without the usual winding country road where every bend has beyond it some possibilities in the way of fresh views. an examination of a good road map of the country will show that although the straight roads are numerous, there are others that wind and twist almost as much as the average english turnpike. as a rule, the _route nationale_ is about the same width as most main roads, but it has on either side an equal space of grass. this is frequently scraped off by the cantoniers, and the grass is placed in great piles ready for removal. when these have been cleared away the thoroughfare is of enormous width, and in case of need, regiments could march in the centre with artillery on one side, and a supply train on the other, without impeding one another. level crossings for railways are more frequent than bridges. the gates are generally controlled by women in the family sort of fashion that one sees at the lodge of an english park where a right-of-way exists, and yet accidents do not seem to happen. the railways of normandy are those of the chemin de fer de l'ouest, and one soon becomes familiar with the very low platforms of the stations that are raised scarcely above the rails. the porters wear blue smocks and trousers of the same material, secured at the waist by a belt of perpendicular red and black stripes. the railway carriages have always two foot-boards, and the doors besides the usual handles have a second one half-way down the panels presumably for additional security. it is really in the nature of a bolt that turns on a pivot and falls into a bracket. on the doors, the class of the carriages is always marked in heavy roman numerals. the third-class compartments have windows only in the doors, are innocent of any form of cushions and are generally only divided half-way up. the second and first-class compartments are always much better and will bear comparison with those of the best english railways, whereas the usual third-class compartment is of that primitive type abandoned twenty or more years ago, north of the channel. the locomotives are usually dirty and black with outside cylinders, and great drum-shaped steam-domes. they seem to do the work that is required of them efficiently, although if one is travelling in a third-class compartment the top speed seems extraordinarily slow. the railway officials handle bicycles with wonderful care, and this is perhaps remarkable when we realize that french railways carry them any distance simply charging a penny for registration. the hotels of normandy are not what they were twenty years ago. improvements in sanitation have brought about most welcome changes, so that one can enter the courtyard of most hotels without being met by the aggressive odours that formerly jostled one another for space. when you realize the very large number of english folk who annually pass from town to town in normandy it may perhaps be wondered why the proprietors of hotels do not take the trouble to prepare a room that will answer to the drawing-room of an english hotel. after dinner in france, a lady has absolutely no choice between a possible seat in the courtyard and her bedroom, for the estaminet generally contains a group of noisy frenchmen, and even if it is vacant the room partakes too much of the character of a bar-parlour to be suitable for ladies. except in the large hotels in rouen i have only found one which boasts of any sort of room besides the estaminet; it was the hotel des trois marie at argentan. when this defect has been remedied, i can imagine that english people will tour in normandy more than they do even at the present time. the small washing basin and jug that apologetically appears upon the bedroom washstand has still an almost universal sway, and it is not sufficiently odd to excuse itself on the score of picturesqueness. under that heading come the tiled floors in the bedrooms, the square and mountainous eiderdowns that recline upon the beds, and the matches that take several seconds to ignite and leave a sulphurous odour that does not dissipate itself for several minutes. chapter ii by the banks of the seine if you come to normandy from southampton, france is entered at the mouth of the seine and you are at once introduced to some of the loveliest scenery that normandy possesses. the headland outside havre is composed of ochreish rock which appears in patches where the grass will not grow. the heights are occupied by no less than three lighthouses only one of which is now in use. as the ship gets closer, a great spire appears round the cliff in the silvery shimmer of the morning haze and then a thousand roofs reflect the sunlight. there are boats from havre that take passengers up the winding river to rouen and in this way much of the beautiful scenery may be enjoyed. by this means, however, the country appears as only a series of changing pictures and to see anything of the detail of such charming places as caudebec, and lillebonne, or the architectural features of tancarville castle and the abbey of jumieges, the road must be followed instead of the more leisurely river. havre with its great docks, its busy streets, and fast electric tramcars that frighten away foot passengers with noisy motor horns does not compel a very long stay, although one may chance to find much interest among the shipping, when such vessels as mr vanderbilt's magnificent steam yacht, without a mark on its spotless paint, is lying in one of the inner basins. if you wander up and down some of the old streets by the harbour you will find more than one many-storied house with shutters brightly painted, and dormers on its ancient roof. the church of notre dame in the rue de paris has a tower that was in earlier times a beacon, and it was here that three brothers named raoulin who had been murdered by the governor villars in , are buried. on the opposite side of the estuary of the seine, lies honfleur with its extraordinary church tower that stands in the market-place quite detached from the church of st catherine to which it belongs. it is entirely constructed of timber and has great struts supporting the angles of its walls. the houses along the quay have a most paintable appearance, their overhanging floors and innumerable windows forming a picturesque background to the fishing-boats. harfleur, on the same side of the river as havre, is on the road to tancarville. we pass through it on our way to caudebec. the great spire of the church, dating from the fifteenth century, rears itself above this ancient port where the black-sailed ships of the northmen often appeared in the early days before rollo had forced charles the simple (he should have been called "the straightforward") to grant him the great tract of french territory that we are now about to explore. the seine, winding beneath bold cliffs on one side and along the edge of flat, rich meadowlands on the other, comes near the magnificent ruin of tancarville castle whose walls enclose an eighteenth century chateau. the situation on an isolated chalk cliff one hundred feet high was more formidable a century ago than it is to-day, for then the seine ran close beneath the forbidding walls, while now it has changed its course somewhat. the entrance to the castle is approached under the shadow of the great circular corner tower that stands out so boldly at one extremity of the buildings, and the gate house has on either side semi-circular towers fifty-two feet in height. above the archway there are three floors sparingly lighted by very small windows, one to each storey. they point out the first floor as containing the torture chamber, and in the towers adjoining are the hopelessly strong prisons. the iron bars are still in the windows and in one instance the positions of the rings to which the prisoners were chained are still visible. there are still floors in the eagle's tower that forms the boldest portion of the castle, and it is a curious feature that the building is angular inside although perfectly cylindrical on the exterior. near the chateau you may see the ruined chapel and the remains of the salle des chevaliers with its big fireplace. then higher than the entrance towers is the tour coquesart built in the fifteenth century and having four storeys with a fireplace in each. the keep is near this, but outside the present castle and separated from it by a moat. the earliest parts of the castle all belong to the eleventh century, but so much destruction was wrought by henry v. in that the greater part of the ruins belong to a few years after that date. the name of tancarville had found a place among the great families of england before the last of the members of this distinguished french name lost his life at the battle of agincourt. the heiress of the family married one of the harcourts and eventually the possessions came into the hands of dunois the bastard of orleans. from tancarville there is a road that brings you down to that which runs from quilleboeuf, and by it one is soon brought to the picturesquely situated little town of lillebonne, famous for its roman theatre. it was the capital of the caletes and was known as juliabona, being mentioned in the iters of antoninus. the theatre is so well known that no one has difficulty in finding it, and compared to most of the roman remains in england, it is well worth seeing. the place held no fewer than three thousand people upon the semi-circular tiers of seats that are now covered with turf. years ago, there was much stone-work to be seen, but this has largely disappeared, and it is only in the upper portions that many traces of mason's work are visible. a passage runs round the upper part of the theatre and the walls are composed of narrow stones that are not much larger than bricks. the great castle was built by william the norman, and it was here that he gathered together his barons to mature and work out his project which made him afterwards william the conqueror. it will be natural to associate the fine round tower of the castle with this historic conference, but unfortunately, it was only built in the fourteenth century. from more than one point of view lillebonne makes beautiful pictures, its roofs dominated by the great tower of the parish church as well as by the ruins of the castle. we have lost sight of the seine since we left tancarville, but a ten-mile run brings us to the summit of a hill overlooking caudebec and a great sweep of the beautiful river. the church raises its picturesque outline against the rolling white clouds, and forms a picture that compels admiration. on descending into the town, the antiquity and the quaintness of sixteenth century houses greet you frequently, and you do not wonder that caudebec has attracted so many painters. there is a wide quay, shaded by an avenue of beautiful trees, and there are views across the broad, shining waters of the seine, which here as in most of its length attracts us by its breadth. the beautiful chalk hills drop steeply down to the water's edge on the northern shores in striking contrast to the flatness of the opposite banks. on the side of the river facing caudebec, the peninsula enclosed by the windings of the seine includes the great forest of brotonne, and all around the town, the steep hills that tumble picturesquely on every side, are richly clothed with woods, so that with its architectural delights within, and its setting of forest, river and hill, caudebec well deserves the name it has won for itself in england as well as in france. just off the road to rouen from caudebec and scarcely two miles away, is st wandrille, situated in a charming hollow watered by the fontanelle, a humble tributary of the great river. in those beautiful surroundings stand the ruins of the abbey church, almost entirely dating from the thirteenth century. much destruction was done during the revolution, but there is enough of the south transept and nave still in existence to show what the complete building must have been. in the wonderfully preserved cloister which is the gem of st wandrille, there are some beautiful details in the doorway leading from the church, and there is much interest in the refectory and chapter house. down in the piece of country included in a long and narrow loop of the river stand the splendid ruins of the abbey of jumieges with its three towers that stand out so conspicuously over the richly wooded country. when you get to the village and are close to the ruins of the great benedictine abbey, you are not surprised that it was at one time numbered amongst the richest and most notable of the monastic foundations. the founder was st philibert, but whatever the buildings which made their appearance in the seventh century may have been, is completely beyond our knowledge, for jumieges was situated too close to the seine to be overlooked by the harrying ship-loads of pirates from the north, who in the year demolished everything. william longue-epee, son of rollo the great leader of these northmen, curiously enough commenced the rebuilding of the abbey, and it was completed in the year of the english conquest. nearly the whole of the nave and towers present a splendid example of early norman architecture, and it is much more inspiring to look upon the fine west front of this ruin than that of st etienne at caen which has an aspect so dull and uninspiring. the great round arches of the nave are supported by pillars which have the early type of capital distinguishing eleventh century work. the little chapel of st pierre adjoining the abbey church is particularly interesting on account of the western portion which includes some of that early work built in the first half of the tenth century by william longue-epee. the tombstone of nicholas lerour, the abbot who was among the judges by whom the saintly joan of arc was condemned to death, is to be seen with others in the house which now serves as a museum. associated with the same tragedy is another tombstone, that of agnes sorel, the mistress of charles vii., that heartless king who made no effort to save the girl who had given him his throne. jumieges continued to be a perfectly preserved abbey occupied by its monks and hundreds of persons associated with them until scarcely more than a century ago. it was then allowed to go to complete ruin, and no restrictions seem to have been placed upon the people of the neighbourhood who as is usual under such circumstances, used the splendid buildings as a storehouse of ready dressed stone. making our way back to the highway, we pass through beautiful scenery, and once more reach the banks of the seine at the town of duclair which stands below the escarpment of chalk hills. there are wharves by the river-side which give the place a thriving aspect, for a considerable export trade is carried on in dairy produce. after following the river-side for a time, the road begins to cut across the neck of land between two bends of the seine. it climbs up towards the forest of roumare and passes fairly close to the village of st martin de boscherville where the church of st george stands out conspicuously on its hillside. this splendid norman building is the church of the abbey built in the middle of the eleventh century by raoul de tancarville who was william's chamberlain at the time of the conquest of england. the abbey buildings are now in ruins but the church has remained almost untouched during the eight centuries and more which have passed during which normandy was often bathed in blood, and when towns and castles were sacked two or three times over. when the forest of roumare, has been left behind, you come to canteleu, a little village that stands at the top of a steep hill, commanding a huge view over rouen, the historic capital of normandy. you can see the shipping lying in the river, the factories, the spire of the cathedral, and the many church towers as well as the light framework of the modern moving bridge. this is the present day representative of the fantastic mediaeval city that witnessed the tragedy of joan of arc's trial and martyrdom. we will pass rouen now, returning to it again in the next chapter. the river for some distance becomes frequently punctuated with islands. large extents of forest including those of rouvray, bonde and elbeuf, spread themselves over the high ground to the west. the view from above elbeuf in spite of its many tall chimney shafts includes such a fine stretch of fertile country that the scene is not easily forgotten. following the windings of the river through pont-de-l'arche and the forest of louviers we come to that pleasant old town; but although close to the seine, it stands on the little river eure. louviers remains in the memory as a town whose church is more crowded with elaborately carved stone-work than any outside rouen. there is something rather odd, in the close juxtaposition of the hotel mouton d'argent with its smooth plastered front and the almost overpowering mass of detail that faces it on the other side of the road. there is something curious, too, in the severe plainness of the tower that almost suggests the unnecessarily shabby clothing worn by some men whose wives are always to be seen in the most elaborate and costly gowns. internally the church shows its twelfth century origin, but all the intricate stone-work outside belongs to the fifteenth century. the porch which is, if possible, richer than the buttresses of the aisles, belongs to the flamboyant period, and actually dates from the year . in the clerestory there is much sixteenth century glass and the aisles which are low and double give a rather unusual appearance. the town contains several quaint and ancient houses, one of them supported by wooden posts projects over the pavement, another at the corner of the marche des oeufs has a very rich though battered piece of carved oak at the angle of the walls. it seems as if it had caught the infection of the extraordinary detail of the church porch. down by the river there are many timber-framed houses with their foundations touching the water, with narrow wooden bridges crossing to the warehouses that line the other side. the place de rouen has a shady avenue of limes leading straight down to a great house in a garden beyond which rise wooded hills. towards the river runs another avenue of limes trimmed squarely on top. these are pleasant features of so many french towns that make up for some of the deficiencies in other matters. we could stay at louviers for some time without exhausting all its attractions, but ten miles away at the extremity of another deep loop of the seine there stands the great and historic chateau-gaillard that towers above le petit-andely, the pretty village standing invitingly by a cleft in the hills. the road we traverse is that which appears so conspicuously in turner's great painting of the chateau-gaillard. it crosses the bridge close under the towering chalk cliffs where the ruin stands so boldly. there is a road that follows the right bank of the river close to the railway, and it is from there that one of the strangest views of the castle is to be obtained. you may see it thrown up by a blaze of sunlight against the grassy heights behind that are all dark beneath the shadow of a cloud. the stone of the towers and heavily buttressed walls appears almost as white as the chalk which crops out in the form of cliffs along the river-side. an island crowded with willows that overhang the water partially hides the village of le petit-andely, and close at hand above the steep slopes of grass that rise from the roadway tower great masses of gleaming white chalk projecting from the vivid turf as though they were the worn ruins of other castles. the whiteness is only broken by the horizontal lines of flints and the blue-grey shadows that fill the crevices. from the hill above the chateau there is another and even more striking view. it is the one that appears in turner's picture just mentioned, and gives one some idea of the magnificent position that richard coeur de lion chose, when in he decided to build an impregnable fortress on this bend of the seine. it was soon after his return from captivity which followed the disastrous crusade that richard commenced to show philippe auguste that he was determined to hold his french possessions with his whole strength. philippe had warned john when the news of the release of the lion-hearted king from captivity had become known, that "the devil was unchained," and the building of this castle showed that richard was making the most of his opportunities. the french king was, with some justification, furious with his neighbour, for richard had recently given his word not to fortify this place, and some fierce fighting would have ensued on top of the threats which the monarchs exchanged, but for the death of the english king in . when john assumed the crown of england, however, philippe soon found cause to quarrel with him, and thus the great siege of the castle was only postponed for three or four years. the french king brought his army across the peninsula formed by the seine, and having succeeded in destroying the bridge beneath the castle, he constructed one for himself with boats and soon afterwards managed to capture the island, despite its strong fortifications. the leader of the english garrison was the courageous roger de lacy, constable of chester. from his knowledge of the character of his new king, de lacy would have expected little assistance from the outside and would have relied upon his own resources to defend richard's masterpiece. john made one attempt to succour the garrison. he brought his army across the level country and essayed to destroy the bridge of boats constructed by the french. this one effort proving unsuccessful he took no other measures to distract the besieging army, and left roger de lacy to the undivided attention of the frenchmen. then followed a terrible struggle. the french king succeeded in drawing his lines closer to the castle itself and eventually obtained possession of the outer fortifications and the village of le petit-andely, from which the inhabitants fled to the protection of the castle. the governor had no wish to have all his supplies consumed by non-combatants, and soon compelled these defenceless folk to go out of the protection of his huge walls. at first the besiegers seemed to have allowed the people to pass unmolested, but probably realizing the embarrassment they would have been to the garrison, they altered their minds, and drove most of them back to the castle. here they gained a reception almost as hostile as that of the enemy, and after being shot down by the arrows of the french they remained for days in a starving condition in a hollow between the hostile lines. here they would all have died of hunger, but philippe at last took pity on the terrible plight of these defenceless women and children and old folks, and having allowed them a small supply of provisions they were at last released from their ghastly position. such a tragedy as this lends terrible pathos to the grassy steeps and hollows surrounding the chateau and one may almost be astonished that such callousness could have existed in these days of chivalry. the siege was continued with rigour and a most strenuous attack was made upon the end of the castle that adjoined the high ground that overlooks the ruins. with magnificent courage the frenchmen succeeded in mining the walls, and having rushed into the breach they soon made themselves masters of the outer courtyard. continuing the assault, a small party of intrepid soldiers gained a foothold within the next series of fortifications, causing the english to retreat to the inner courtyard dominated by the enormous keep. despite the magnificent resistance offered by de lacy's men the besiegers raised their engines in front of the gate, and when at last they had forced an entry they contrived a feat that almost seems incredible--they cut off the garrison from their retreat to the keep. thus this most famous of castles fell within half a dozen years of its completion. in the hundred years' war the chateau-gaillard was naturally one of the centres of the fiercest fighting, and the pages of history are full of references to the sieges and captures of the fortress, proving how even with the most primitive weapons these ponderous and unscalable walls were not as impregnable as they may have seemed to the builders. like the abbey of jumieges, this proud structure became nothing more than a quarry, for in the seventeenth century permission was given to two religious houses, one at le petit-andely and the other at le grand-andely to take whatever stone-work they required for their monastic establishments. records show how more damage would have been done to the castle but for the frequent quarrels between these two religious houses as to their rights over the various parts of the ruins. when you climb up to the ruined citadel and look out of the windows that are now battered and shapeless, you can easily feel how the heart of the bold richard must have swelled within him when he saw how his castle dominated an enormous belt of country. but you cannot help wondering whether he ever had misgivings over the unwelcome proximity of the chalky heights that rise so closely above the site of the ruin. we ourselves, are inclined to forget these questions of military strength in the serene beauty of the silvery river flowing on its serpentine course past groups of poplars, rich pastures dotted with cattle, forest lands and villages set amidst blossoming orchards. down below are the warm chocolate-red roofs of the little town that has shared with the chateau its good and evil fortunes. the church with its slender spire occupies the central position, and it dates from precisely the same years as those which witnessed the advent of the fortress above. the little streets of the town are full of quaint timber-framed houses, and it is not surprising that this is one of the spots by the beautiful banks of the seine that has attained a name for its picturesqueness. with scarcely any perceptible division le grand-andely joins the smaller village. it stands higher in the valley and is chiefly memorable for its beautiful inn, the hotel du grand cerf. it is opposite the richly ornamented stone-work of the church of notre dame and dates chiefly from the sixteenth century. the hall contains a great fireplace, richly ornamented with a renaissance frieze and a fine iron stove-back. the courtyard shows carved timbers and in front the elaborate moulding beneath the eaves is supported by carved brackets. unlike that old hostelry at dives which is mentioned in another chapter, this hotel is not over restored, although in the days of a past proprietor the house contained a great number of antiques and its fame attracted many distinguished visitors, including sir walter scott and victor hugo. in writing of the hotel i am likely to forget the splendid painted glass in the church, but details of the stories told in these beautiful works of the sixteenth century are given in all good guides. there is a pleasant valley behind les andelys running up towards the great plateau that occupies such an enormous area of this portion of normandy. the scenery as you go along the first part of the valley, through the little village of harquency with its tiny norman church, and cottages with thatched roofs all velvety with moss, is very charming. the country is entirely hedge-less, but as you look down upon the rather thirsty-looking valley below the road, the scenery savours much of kent; the chalky fields, wooded uplands and big, picturesque farms suggesting some of the agricultural districts of the english county. when we join the broad and straight national road running towards gisors we have reached the tableland just mentioned. there are perhaps, here and there, a group of stately elms, breaking the broad sweep of arable land that extends with no more undulations for many leagues than those of a sheet of old-fashioned glass. the horizon is formed by simply the same broad fields, vanishing in a thin, blue line over the rim of the earth. [illustration: the fortified farm near gisors] at les thilliers, a small hamlet that, owing to situation at cross-roads figures conspicuously upon the milestones of the neighbourhood, the road to gisors goes towards the east, and after crossing the valley of the epte, you run down an easy gradient, passing a fine fortified farm-house with circular towers at each corner of its four sides and in a few minutes have turned into the historic old town of gisors. it is as picturesque as any place in normandy with the exception of mont st michel. the river epte gliding slowly through its little canals at the sides of some of the streets, forms innumerable pictures when reflecting the quaint houses and gardens whose walls are generally grown over with creepers. near the ascent to the castle is one of the washing places where the women let their soap suds float away on the translucent water as they scrub vigorously. they kneel upon a long wooden platform sheltered by a charming old roof supported upon a heavy timber framework that is a picture in itself. if you stay at the hotel de l'ecu de france you are quite close to the castle that towers upon its hill right in the middle of the town. most people who come to gisors are surprised to find how historic is its castle, and how many have been the conflicts that have taken place around it. the position between rouen and paris and on the frontier of the duchy gave it an importance in the days of the norman kings that led to the erection of a most formidable stronghold. in the eleventh century, when william rufus was on the throne of england, he made the place much stronger. both henry i. and henry ii. added to its fortifications so that gisors became in time as formidable a castle as the chateau gaillard. during the hundred years' war, gisors, which is often spoken of as the key to normandy, after fierce struggles had become french. then again, a determined assault would leave the flag of england fluttering upon its ramparts until again the frenchmen would contrive to make themselves masters of the place. and so these constant changes of ownership went on until at last about the year , a date which we shall find associated with the fall of every english stronghold in normandy, gisors surrendered to charles vii. and has remained french ever since. the outer baileys are defended by some great towers of massive norman masonry from which you look all over the town and surrounding country. but within the inner courtyard rises a great mound dominated by the keep which you may still climb by a solid stone staircase. from here the view is very much finer than from the other towers and its commanding position would seem to give the defenders splendid opportunities for tiring out any besieging force. the concierge of the castle, a genial old woman of gipsy-like appearance takes you down to the fearful dungeon beneath one of the great towers on the eastern side, known as the tour des prisonniers. here you may see the carvings in the stone-work executed by some of the prisoners who had been cast into this black abyss. these carvings include representations of crucifixes, st christopher, and many excellently conceived and patiently wrought figures of other saints. we have already had a fine view of the splendid renaissance exterior of the church which is dedicated to the saints gervais and protais. the choir is the earliest part of the building. it belongs to the thirteenth century, while the nave and most of the remaining portions date from the fifteenth or sixteenth century. it is a building of intense architectural interest and to some extent rivals the castle in the attention it deserves. chapter iii concerning rouen, the ancient capital of normandy when whole volumes have been written on rouen it would be idle to attempt even a fragment of its history in a book of this nature. but all who go to rouen should know something of its story in order to be able to make the most of the antiquities that the great city still retains. how much we would give to have an opportunity for seeing the rouen which has vanished, for to-day as we walk along the modern streets there is often nothing to remind us of the centuries crowded with momentous events that have taken place where now the electric cars sweep to and fro and do their best to make one forget the rouen of mediaeval times. of course, no one goes to the city expecting to find ancient walls and towers, or a really strong flavour of the middle ages, any more than one expects to obtain such impressions in the city of london. rouen, however, contains sufficient relics of its past to convey a powerful impression upon the minds of all who have strong imaginations. there is the cathedral which contains the work of many centuries; there is the beautiful and inspiring church of st ouen; there is the archway of the grosse horloge; there is the crypt of the church of st gervais, that dates from the dim fifth century; and there are still in the narrow streets between the cathedral and the quays along the river-side, many tall, overhanging houses, whose age appears in the sloping wall surfaces and in the ancient timbers that show themselves under the eaves and between the plaster-work. two of the most attractive views in rouen are illustrated here. one of them shows the portail de la calende of the cathedral appearing at the end of a narrow street of antique, gabled houses, while overhead towers the stupendous fleche that forms the most prominent feature of rouen. the other is the grosse horloge and if there had been space for a third it would have shown something of the interior of the church of st ouen. the view of the city from the hill of bon secours forms another imposing feature, but i think that it hardly equals what we have already seen on the road from caudebec. when you come out of the railway station known as the _rive droite_ a short street leads up to one of the most important thoroughfares, the rue jeanne d'arc. it is perfectly straight and contains nothing in it that is not perfectly modern, but at the highest point you may see a marble tablet affixed to a wall. it bears a representation in the form of a gilded outline of the castle towers as they stood in the time of the maid of orleans, and a short distance behind this wall, but approached from another street, there still remains the keep of rouen's historic castle. the circular tower contains the room which you may see to-day where joan was brought before her judges and the instruments of torture by which the saintly maiden was to be frightened into giving careless answers to the questions with which she was plied by her clever judges. this stone vaulted room, although restored, is of thrilling interest to those who have studied the history of joan of arc, for, as we are told by mr theodore cook in his "story of rouen," these are the only walls which are known to have echoed with her voice. those who have made a careful study of the ancient houses in the older streets of rouen have been successful in tracing other buildings associated with the period of joan of arc's trial. the rue st romain, that narrow and not very salubrious thoroughfare that runs between the rue de la republique and the west front of the cathedral, has still some of the old canons' lodgings where some of the men who judged joan of arc actually lived. among them, was canon guillaume le desert who outlived all his fellow judges. there is still to be seen the house where lived the architect who designed the palace for henry v. near mal s'y frotte. mr cook mentions that he has discovered a record which states that the iron cage in which joan of arc was chained by her hands, feet and neck was seen by a workman in this very house. in the quaint and narrow streets that are still existing near the rue st romain, many strange-looking houses have survived to the present day. they stand on the site of the earliest nucleus of the present city, and it is in this neighbourhood that one gets most in touch with the rouen that has so nearly vanished. in this interesting portion of the city you come across the marvellously rich grosse horloge already mentioned. a casual glance would give one the impression that the structure was no older than the seventeenth century, but the actual date of its building is , and the clock itself dates from about , and is as old as any in france. the dial you see to-day is brilliantly coloured and has a red centre while the elaborate decoration that covers nearly the whole surface of the walls is freely gilded, giving an exceedingly rich appearance. the two fourteenth century bells, one known as la rouvel or the silver bell on account of the legend that silver coins were thrown into the mould when it was cast, and the other known as cache-ribaut, are still in the tower, la rouvel being still rung for a quarter of an hour at nine o'clock in the evening. it is the ancient curfew, and the tower de la grosse horloge is nothing more than the historic belfry of rouen, although one might imagine by the way it stands over the street on an elliptical arch, that it had formed one of the gates of the city. at the foot of the belfry is one of those richly sculptured fountains that are to be seen in two or three places in the older streets. the carving is very much blackened with age, and the detail is not very easily discernible, but a close examination will show that the story of arethusa, and alpheus, the river-god, is portrayed. the fountain was given to rouen by the duke of luxembourg early in the eighteenth century. adjoining the imposing rue jeanne d'arc is the fine gothic palais de justice, part of which was built by louis xii. in the year , the central portion being added by leroux, sixteen years later. these great buildings were put up chiefly for the uses of the echiquier--the supreme court of the duchy at that time--but it was also to be used as an exchange for merchants who before this date had been in the habit of transacting much of their business in the cathedral. the historic hall where the echiquier met is still to be seen. the carved oak of the roof has great gilded pendants that stand out against the blackness of the wood-work, and the crucifixion presented by louis xii. may be noticed among the portraits in the chambre du conseille. the earliest portions of the great cathedral of notre dame date from the twelfth century, the north tower showing most palpably the transition from norman work to the early french style of gothic. by the year when louis ix. came to rouen to spend christmas, the choir, transepts and nave of the cathedral, almost as they may be seen to-day, had been completed. the chapel to st mary did not make its appearance for some years, and the side _portails_ were only added in the fifteenth century. the elaborate work on the west front belongs to the century following, and although the ideas of modern architects have varied as to this portion of the cathedral, the consensus of opinion seems to agree that it is one of the most perfect examples of the flamboyant style so prevalent in the churches of normandy. the detail of this masterpiece of the latest phase of gothic architecture is almost bewildering, but the ornament in every place has a purpose, so that the whole mass of detail has a reposeful dignity which can only have been retained by the most consummate skill. the canopied niches are in many instances vacant, but there are still rows of saints in the long lines of recesses. the rose window is a most perfect piece of work; it is filled with painted glass in which strong blues and crimsons are predominant. above the central tower known as the tour de pierre, that was built partially in the thirteenth century, there rises the astonishing iron spire that is one of the highest in the world. its weight is enormous despite the fact that it is merely an open framework. the architect of this masterly piece of work whose name was alavoine seems to have devoted himself with the same intensity as barry, to whom we owe the royal courts of justice in london, for he worked upon it from , the year following the destruction of the wooden spire by lightning, until , the year of his death. the spire, however, which was commenced almost immediately after the loss of the old one, remained incomplete for over forty years and it was not entirely finished until . the flight of eight hundred and twelve steps that is perfectly safe for any one with steady nerves goes right up inside the spire until, as you look out between the iron framework, rouen lies beneath your feet, a confused mass of detail cut through by the silver river. the tower of st romain is on the north side of the cathedral. it was finished towards the end of the fifteenth century, but the lower portion is of very much earlier date for it is the only portion of the cathedral that was standing when richard i. on his way to the holy land knelt before archbishop gautier to receive the sword and banner which he carried with him to the crusade. the tour de beurre is on the southern side--its name being originated in connection with those of the faithful who during certain lents paid for indulgences in order to be allowed to eat butter. it was commenced in , and took twenty-two years to complete. in this great tower there used to hang a famous bell. it was called the georges d'amboise after the great cardinal to whom rouen owes so much, not only as builder of the tower and the facade, but also as the originator of sanitary reforms and a thousand other benefits for which the city had reason to be grateful. the great bell was no less than feet in circumference, its weight being , lbs. the man who succeeded in casting it, whose name was jean le machon, seems to have been so overwhelmed at his success that scarcely a month later he died. at last when louis xvi. came to rouen, they rang georges d'amboise so loudly that a crack appeared, and a few years later, during the revolution, le machon's masterpiece was melted down for cannon. inside the cathedral there are, besides the glories of the splendid gothic architecture, the tombs of henry plantagenet, the eldest son of henry ii., and richard i. there are also the beautifully carved miserere seats in the choir which are of particular interest in the way they illustrate many details of daily life in the fifteenth century. the stone figure representing richard coeur de lion lies outside the railings of the sanctuary. the heart of the king which has long since fallen into dust is contained in a casket that is enclosed in the stone beneath the effigy. the figure of henry plantagenet is not the original--you may see that in the museum, which contains so many fascinating objects that are associated with the early history of rouen. the splendid sixteenth century monument of the two cardinals d'amboise is to be seen in the chapelle de la sainte vierge. the kneeling figures in the canopied recess represent the two cardinals--that on the right, which is said to be a very good portrait, represents the famous man who added so much to the cathedral--the one on the left shows his nephew, the second cardinal georges d'amboise. in the middle of the recess there is a fine sculpture showing st george and the dragon, and most of the other surfaces of the tomb are composed of richly ornamented niches, containing statuettes of saints, bishops, the virgin and child, and the twelve apostles. another remarkable tomb is that of louis de breze, considered to be one of the finest specimens of renaissance work. it is built in two storeys--the upper one showing a thrilling representation of the knight in complete armour and mounted upon his war-horse, but upon the sarcophagus below he is shown with terrible reality as a naked corpse. the sculptor was possibly jean goujon, whose name is sometimes associated with the monument to the two cardinals, which is of an earlier date. the tomb of rollo, the founder of the duchy of normandy, and the first of the normans to embrace the christian religion, lies in a chapel adjoining the south transept. the effigy belongs to the fourteenth century, but the marble tablet gives an inscription which may be translated as follows: "here lies rollo, the first duke and founder and father of normandy, of which he was at first the terror and scourge, but afterwards the restorer. baptised in by francon, archbishop of rouen, and died in . his remains were at first deposited in the ancient sanctuary, at present the upper end of the nave. the altar having been removed, the remains of the prince were placed here by the blessed maurille, archbishop of rouen in the year ." the effigy of william longsword, rollo's son, is in another chapel of the nave, that adjoining the north transept. his effigy, like that of his father, dates from the fourteenth century. it is in surroundings of this character that we are brought most in touch with the rouen of our imaginations. we have already in a preceding chapter seen something of the interior of the church of st ouen, which to many is more inspiring than the cathedral. the original church belonged to the abbey of st ouen, established in the reign of clothaire i. when the northmen came sailing up the river, laying waste to everything within their reach, the place was destroyed, but after rollo's conversion to christianity the abbey was renovated, and in a new church was commenced, which having taken about eighty years to complete was almost immediately burnt down. another fire having taken place a century later, jean roussel, who was abbot in , commenced this present building. it was an enormous work to undertake but yet within twenty-one years the choirs and transepts were almost entirely completed. this great abbot was buried in the mary chapel behind the high altar. on the tomb he is called marc d'argent and the date of his death is given as december , . after this the building of the church went on all through the century. the man who was master mason in this period was alexandre barneval, but he seems to have become jealous of an apprentice who built the rose window that is still such a splendid feature of the north transept, for in a moment of passion he killed the apprentice and for this crime was sentenced to death in the year . st ouen was completed in the sixteenth century, but the west front as it appears to-day has two spires which made their appearance in recent times. the exterior, however, is not the chief charm of st ouen; it is the magnificent interior, so huge and yet so inspiring, that so completely satisfies one's ideas of proportion. wherever you stand, the vistas of arches, all dark and gloomy, relieved here and there by a blaze of coloured glass, are so splendid that you cannot easily imagine anything finer. a notable feature of the aisles is the enormous space of glass covering the outer walls, so that the framework of the windows seems scarcely adequate to support the vaulted roof above. the central tower is supported by magnificent clustered piers of dark and swarthy masonry, and the views of these from the transepts or from the aisles of the nave make some of the finest pictures that are to be obtained in this masterpiece of gothic architecture. the tower that rises from the north transept belongs, it is believed, to the twelfth century church that was burnt. on the western front it is interesting to find statues of william the conqueror, henry ii. and richard coeur de lion among other dukes of normandy, and the most famous archbishops of rouen. besides the cathedral and st ouen there is the splendid church of st maclou. its western front suddenly appears, filling a gap in the blocks of modern shops on the right hand side as you go up the rue de la republic. the richness of the mass of carved stone-work arrests your attention, for after having seen the magnificent facade of the cathedral you would think the city could boast nothing else of such extraordinary splendour. the name maclou comes from scotland, for it was a member of this clan, who, having fled to brittany, became bishop of aleth and died in . since the tenth century a shrine to his memory had been placed outside the walls of rouen. the present building was designed by pierre robin and it dates from between and , but the present spire is modern, having replaced the old one about the time of the revolution. the richly carved doors of the west front are the work of jean goujon. the organ loft rests on two columns of black marble, which are also his work; but although the dim interior is full of interest and its rose windows blaze with fifteenth century glass, it is the west front and carved doors that are the most memorable features of the building. in the place du marche vieux you may see the actual spot where joan of arc was burnt, a stone on the ground bearing the words "jeanne darc, mai, ." to all who have really studied the life, the trial and the death of the maid of orleans--and surely no one should visit rouen without such knowledge--this is the most sacred spot in the city, for as we stand here we can almost hear her words addressed to cauchon, "it is you who have brought me to this death." we can see her confessor holding aloft the cross and we seem to hear her breathe the redeemer's name before she expires. none proofreaders europe, http://dp.rastko.net. this file was produced from images generously made available by the bibliotheque nationale de france (bnf/gallica) at http://gallica.bnf.fr. account of a tour in normandy volume i by dawson turner letters from normandy addressed to the rev. james layton, b.a. of catfield, norfolk. undertaken chiefly for the purpose of investigating the architectural antiquities of the duchy, with observations on its history, on the country, and on its inhabitants. illustrated with numerous engravings. vol. i. london: . preface. the observations which form the basis of the following letters, were collected during three successive tours in normandy, in the summers of , , and ; but chiefly in the second of these years. where i have not depended upon my own remarks, i have endeavored, as far as appeared practicable and without tedious minuteness, to quote my authorities for facts; and i believe that i have done so in most instances, except indeed where i have borrowed from the journals of the companions of my tours,--the nearest and dearest of my connections,--or from that of my friend, mr. cohen, who, at almost the same time, travelled through a great part of normandy, pursuing also very similar objects of inquiry. the materials obtained from these sources, it has been impossible to separate from my own; and, interwoven as they are with the rest of the text, it is only in my power to acknowledge, in these general terms, the assistance which i have thus received.--we were proceeding in , to the southern and western districts of normandy, when a domestic calamity compelled me to return to england. the tour was consequently abridged, and many places of note remained unvisited by us. my narrative is principally addressed to those readers who find pleasure in the investigation of architectural antiquity. without the slightest pretensions to the character either of an architect or of an antiquarian, engaged in other avocations and employed in other studies, i am but too conscious of my inability to do justice to the subject. yet my remarks may at least assist the future traveller, by pointing out such objects as are interesting, either on account of their antiquity or their architectural worth. this information is not to be obtained from the french, who have habitually neglected the investigation of their national monuments. i doubt, however, whether i should have ventured upon publication, if those who have always accompanied me both at home and abroad, had not produced the illustrations which constitute the principal value of my volumes. of the merits of these illustrations i must not be allowed to speak; but it may be permitted me to observe, that the fine arts afford the only mode of exerting the talents of woman, which does not violate the spirit of the precept which the greatest historian of antiquity has ascribed to the greatest of her heroes-- [english. greek in original] "great will be your glory in not falling short of your natural character; and greatest will be hers who is least talked of among the men whether for good or for bad." thucydides' historiae. (book , chapter , paragraph , verses - .) dawson turner. yarmouth, _ th august_ . contents. letter i. arrival at dieppe--situation and appearance of the town--costume of the people--inhabitants of the suburb of pollet. letter ii. dieppe--castle--churches--history of the place--feast of the assumption. letter iii. cæsars camp--castle of arques. letter iv. journey from dieppe to rouen--priory of longueville--rouen-bridge of boats--costume of the inhabitants. letter v. journey to havre--pays de caux--st. vallery--fécamp--the precious blood--the abbey--tombs in it--moutivilliers--harfleur. letter vi. havre--trade and history of the town--eminent men--bolbec--yvetot--ride to rouen--french beggars. letter vii. on the state of affairs in france. letter viii. military antiquities--le vieux château--original palace of the norman dukes--halles of rouen--miracle and privilege of st. romain--château du vieux palais--petit château--fort on mont ste. catherine--priory there--chapel of st. michael--devotee. letter ix. ancient ecclesiastical architecture--churches of st. paul and st. gervais--hospital of st. julien--churches of léry, pavilly, and yainville. letter x. early pointed architecture--cathedral--episcopal palace. letter xi. pointed ecclesiastical architecture--churches of st. ouen, st. maclou, st. patrice, and st. godard. letter xii. palais de justice--states, exchequer, and parliament of normandy--guild of the conards--joan of arc--fountain and bas-relief in the place de la pucelle--tour de la grosse horloge--public fountains--rivers aubette and robec--hospitals--mint. letter xiii. monastic institutions--library--manuscripts--museum--academy--botanic garden--theatre--ancient history--eminent men. list of plates. plate head-dress of women of the pays de caux. plate entrance to the castle at dieppe. plate font in the church of st. remi, at dieppe. plate plan of caesar's camp, near dieppe. plate general view of the castle of arques. plate tower of remarkable shape in ditto. plate church at arques. plate view of rouen, from the grand cours. plate tower and spire of harfleur church. plate bas-relief, representing st. romain. plate sculpture, supposed roman, in the church of st. paul, at rouen. plate circular tower, attached to the church of st. ouen, at rouen. plate interior of the church at pavilly. plate monumental figure of rollo, in rouen cathedral. plate ditto of an archbishop, in ditto. plate monument of ditto. plate equestrian figure of the seneschal de brezé, in rouen cathedral. plate tower of the church of st. ouen, at rouen. plate south porch of ditto. plate head of christ, in ditto, seen in profile. plate ditto, in ditto, seen in front. plate stone staircase in the church of st. maclou, at rouen. plate sculpture, representing the feast of fools. plate bas-relief, from the representations of the champ du drap d'or. plate initial letter from a ms. of the history of william of jumieges. letters from normandy. letter i. arrival at dieppe--situation and appearance of the town--costume of the people--inhabitants of the suburb of pollet. (_dieppe, june_, ) my dear sir, you, who were never at sea, can scarcely imagine the pleasure we felt, when, after a passage of unusual length, cooped up with twenty-four other persons in a packet designed only for twelve, and after having experienced every variety that could he afforded by a dead calm, a contrary wind, a brisk gale in our favor, and, finally, by being obliged to lie three hours in a heavy swell off this port, we at last received on board our french pilot, and saw hoisted on the pier the white flag, the signal of ten feet water in the harbor. the general appearance of the coast, near dieppe, is similar to that which we left at brighton; but the height of the cliffs, if i am not mistaken, is greater. they vary along the shores of upper normandy from one hundred and fifty to seven hundred feet, or even more; the highest lying nearly mid-way between this town and havre, in the vicinity of fécamp; and they present an unbroken barrier, of a dazzling white[ ], except when they dip into some creek or cove, or open to afford a passage to some river or streamlet. into one of these, a boat from the opposite shores of sussex shot past us this afternoon, with the rapidity of lightning. she was a smuggler, and, in spite of the army of douaniers employed in france, ventured to make the land in the broad face of day, carrying most probably a cargo, composed principally of manufactured goods in cotton and steel. the crew of our vessel, no bad authority in such cases, assured us, that lace is also sent in considerable quantities as a contraband article into france; though, as is well known, much of it likewise comes in the same quality into england, and there are perhaps few of our travellers, who return entirely without it. on the same authority, i am enabled to state, what much surprised me, that the smuggled goods exported from sussex into normandy exceed by nearly an hundred fold those received in return. the first approach to dieppe is extremely striking. to embark in the evening at brighton, sleep soundly in the packet, and find yourself, as is commonly the case, early the next morning under the piers of this town, is a transition, which, to a person unused to foreign countries, can scarcely fail to appear otherwise than as a dream; so marked and so entire is the difference between the air of elegance and mutual resemblance in the buildings, of smartness approaching to splendor in the equipages, of fashion in the costume, of the activity of commerce in the movements, and of newness and neatness in every part of the one, contrasted in the other with a strong character of poverty and neglect, with houses as various in their structure as in their materials, with dresses equally dissimilar in point of color, substance, and style, with carriages which seem never to have known the spirit of improvement, and with a general listlessness of manner, the result of indolence, apathy, and want of occupation. with all this, however, the novelty which attends the entrance of the harbor at dieppe, is not only striking, but interesting. it is not thus at calais, where half the individuals you meet in the streets are of your own country; where english fashions and manufactures are commonly adopted; and where you hear your native tongue, not only in the hotels, but even the very beggars follow you with, "i say, give me un sou, s'il vous please." but this is not the only advantage which the road by dieppe from london to paris possesses, over that by calais. there is a saving of distance, amounting to twenty miles on the english, and sixty on the french side of the water; the expence is still farther decreased by the yet lower rate of charges at the inns; and, while the ride to the french metropolis by the one route is through a most uninteresting country, with no other objects of curiosity than amiens, beauvais, and abbeville; by the other it passes through a province unrivalled for its fertility and for the beauty of its landscape, and which is allowed by the french themselves to be the garden of the kingdom. rouen, vernon, mantes, and st. germain, names all more or less connected with english history, successively present themselves to the traveller; and, during the greater part of his journey, his path lies by the side of a noble stream, diversified beyond almost every other by the windings of its channel, and the islands which stud its surface. the only evil to counterbalance the claims of dieppe is, that the packets do not sail daily, although they profess and actually advertise to that effect; but wait till what they consider a sufficient freight of passengers is assembled, so that, either at dieppe or brighton, a person runs the risk of being detained, as has more than once happened to myself, a circumstance that never occurs at dover. there is still a third point of passage upon our southern coast, and one that has of late been considerably frequented, from southampton to havre; but this i never tried, and do not know what it has to recommend it, except to those who are proceeding to caen or to the western parts of france. the voyage is longer and more uncertain, the distance by land between london and paris is also greater, nor does it offer equal facilities as to inns and public carriages. dieppe is situated on a low tongue of land, but from the sea appears to great advantage; characterized as it is by its old castle, an assemblage of various forms and ages, placed insulated upon an eminence to the west, and by the domes and towers of its churches. the mouth of the harbor is narrow, and inclosed by two long stone piers, on one of which stands an elegant crucifix, raised by the fathers of the mission; to the other has lately been affixed a stone, with an inscription, stating that the duchess d'angoulême landed there on her return to her native country; but here is no measure of her foot, no votive pillar, as are to be seen at calais, to commemorate a similar honor done to the inhabitants by the monarch. a small house on the western pier, is, however, more deserving of notice than either the inscription or the crucifix: it was built by louis xvith, for the residence of a sailor, who, by saving the lives of shipwrecked mariners, had deserved well of his sovereign and his country. its front bears, "a j'n. a'r. bouzard, pour ses services maritimes;" but there was originally a second inscription in honor of the king, which has been carefully erased. the fury of the revolution could pardon nothing that bore the least relation to royalty; or surely a monument like this, the reward of courage and calculated to inspire only the best of feelings[ ], might have been allowed to have remained uninjured. the french are wiser than we are in erecting these public memorials for public virtues: they better understand the art of producing an effect, and they know that such gratifications bestowed upon the living are seldom thrown away. we rarely give them but to the dead. capt. manby, to whom above one hundred and thirty shipwrecked mariners are even now indebted for their existence, and whose invention will probably be the means of preservation to thousands, is allowed to live in comparative obscurity; while in france, a mere pilot, for having saved the lives of only eight individuals, had a residence built for him at the public expence, received an immediate gratification of one thousand francs, enjoyed a pension during his life, and, with his name and his exploits, now occupies a conspicuous place in the history of the duchy. within the piers, the harbor widens into a stone basin, capable of holding two hundred vessels, and full of water at the flow of the tide; but at the ebb exhibiting little more than a sheet of mud, with a small stream meandering through it. round the harbor is built the town, which contains above twenty thousand inhabitants, and is singularly picturesque, as well from its situation, backed as it is by the steep cliff to the east, which, instead of terminating here abruptly, takes an inland direction, as from the diversity in the forms and materials of the houses of the quay, some of which are of stone, others of grey flint, more of plaster with their timbers uncovered and painted of different colors, but most of brick, not uncommonly ornamented, with roofs as steep as those of the thuilleries, and full of projecting lucarnes. this remark, however, applies only to the quay: in its streets, dieppe is conspicuous among french towns for the uniformity of its buildings. after the bombardment in , when the english, foiled near brest, wreaked their vengeance upon dieppe, and reduced the whole to ashes, the town was rebuilt on a regular plan, agreeably to a royal ordinance. hence this is commonly regarded as one of the handsomest places in france, and you will find it mentioned as such by most authors; but the unfortunate architect who was employed in rebuilding it, got no other reward than general complaints and the nickname of m. gâteville. the inconveniences arising from the arrangements of the houses which he erected must have been serious; for we find that sixty years afterwards an order of council was procured, allowing the inhabitants to make some alterations that they considered most essential to their comfort. upon the quay there is occasionally somewhat of the activity of commerce; but elsewhere it is as i have observed before, as well with the people as the buildings. as far as the houses are concerned, a little care and paint would remove their squalid aspect: to an english eye it is singularly offensive; but it cannot possibly be so to the french, among whom it seems almost universal. to a painter dieppe must be a source of great delight: the situation, the buildings, the people offer an endless variety; but nothing is more remarkable than the costume of the females of the middle and lower classes, most of whom wear high pyramidal caps, with long lappets entirely concealing their hair, red, blue, or black corsets, large wooden shoes, black stockings, and full scarlet petticoats of the coarsest woollen, pockets of some different die attached to the outside, and not uncommonly the appendage of a key or corkscrew: occasionally too the color of their costume is still farther diversified by a chequered handkerchief and white apron. the young are generally pretty; the old, tanned and ugly; and the transition from youth to age seems instantaneous: labor and poverty have destroyed every intermediate gradation; but, whether young or old, they have all the same good-humored look, and appear generally industrious, though almost incessantly talking. even on sundays or feast-days, bonnets are seldom to be seen, but round their necks are suspended large silver or gilt ornaments, usually crosses, while long gold ear-rings drop from either side of their head, and their shoes frequently glitter with paste buckles of an enormous size. such is the present costume of the females at dieppe, and throughout the whole pays de caux; and in this description, the lover of antiquarian research will easily trace a resemblance to the attire of the women of england, in the xvth and xvith centuries. as to the cap, which the cauchoise wears when she appears _en grand costume_, its very prototype is to be found in _strutt's ancient dresses_. decorated with silver before, and with lace streaming behind, it towers on the head of the stiff-necked complacent wearer, whose locks appear beneath, arrayed with statuary precision. nor is its antiquity solely confined to its form and fashion; for, descending from the great grandmother to the great grand-daughter, it remains as an heir-loom in the family from generation unto generation. in my former visit to normandy, three years ago, we first saw this head-dress at the theatre at rouen, and my companion was so struck with it that he made the sketch, of which i send you a copy. the costume of the females of somewhat higher rank is very becoming: they wear muslin caps, opening in front to shew their graceful ringlets, colored gowns, scarlet handkerchiefs, and black aprons. [illustration: head-dress of women of the pays de caux] but nothing connected with the costume or manners of the people at dieppe is equally interesting as what refers to the inhabitants of the suburb called pollet; and i will therefore conclude my letter, by extracting from the historian of the place[ ] his account of these men, which, though written many years ago, is true in the main even in our days, and it is to be hoped will, in its most important respects, continue so for a length of time to come. "three-fourths of the natives of this part of the town are fishermen, and not less effectually distinguished from the citizens of dieppe by their name of poltese, taken from their place of residence, than by the difference in their dress and language, the simplicity of their manners, and the narrow extent of their acquirements. to the present hour they continue to preserve the same costume as in the xvith century; wearing trowsers covered with wide short petticoats, which open in the middle to afford room for the legs to move, and woollen waistcoats laced in the front with ribands, and tucked below into the waistband of their trowsers. over these waistcoats is a close coat, without buttons or fastenings of any kind, which falls so low as to hide their petticoats and extend a foot or more beyond them. these articles of apparel are usually of cloth or serge of a uniform color, and either red or blue; for they interdict every other variation, except that all the seams of their dress are faced with white silk galloon, full an inch in width. to complete the whole, instead of hats, they have on their heads caps of velvet or colored cloth, forming a _tout-ensemble_ of attire, which is evidently ancient, but far from unpicturesque or displeasing. thus clad, the poltese, though in the midst of the kingdom, have the appearance of a distinct and foreign colony; whilst, occupied incessantly in fishing, they have remained equally strangers to the civilization and politeness, which the progress of letters during the last two centuries has diffused over france. nay, scarcely are they acquainted with four hundred words of the french language; and these they pronounce with an idiom exclusively their own, adding to each an oath, by way of epithet; a habit so inveterate with them, that even at confession, at the moment of seeking absolution for the practice, it is no uncommon thing with them to _swear_ they will be guilty of it no more. to balance, however, this defect, their morals are uncorrupted, their fidelity is exemplary, and they are laborious and charitable, and zealous for the honor of their country, in whose cause they often bleed, as well as for their priests, in defence of whom they once threatened to throw the archbishop of rouen into the river, and were well nigh executing their threats." footnotes: [ ] the chalk in the cliff, in the immediate vicinity of dieppe, is divided at intervals of about two feet each by narrow strata of flint, generally horizontal, and composed in some cases of separate nodules, which are not uncommonly split, in others of a continuous compressed mass, about two or three inches thick and of very uncertain extent, but the strata are not regular. [ ] _goube histoire de normandie_, iii. p. .--in _cadet gassicourt lettres sur normandie_, i. p. , the story of bouzard is given still more at length. [ ] _histoire de dieppe_, ii. p. . [illustration: entrance to the castle at dieppe] letter ii. dieppe--castle--churches--history of the place--feast of the assumption. (_dieppe, june_, .) the bombardment of this town, alluded to in my last, was so effectual in its operation, that, excepting the castle and the two churches, the place can boast of little to arrest the attention of the antiquary, or of the curious traveller. these three objects were indeed almost all that escaped the conflagration; and for this they were indebted to their insulated situations, the first on an eminence unconnected with the houses of the place, the other two in their respective cemeteries. the hill on which the castle stands is steep; and the building, as well from its position, as from its high walls, flanked with towers and bastions, has an imposing appearance. in its general outline it bears a resemblance to the castle of stirling, but it has not the same claims to attention in an architectural point of view. it is a confused mass of various æras, and its parts are chiefly modern: nor is there any single feature that deserves to be particularized for beauty or singularity; yet, as a whole, a picturesque and pleasing effect results from the very confusion and irregularity of its towers, roofs, and turrets; and this is also enhanced by a row of lofty arches, thrown across a ravine near the entrance, supporting the bridge, and appearing at a distance like the remains of a roman aqueduct. what seems to be the most ancient part is a high quadrangular tower with lofty pointed pannels in the four walls; and though inferior in antiquity, an observer accustomed only to the english castellated style, is struck by the variety of numerous circular towers with conical roofs, resembling those which flanked the gates of the town. some of these gates still remain perfect; and one of them, leading to the sea, now serves as a military prison. it was the sieur des marêts[ ], the first governor of the place, who began this castle shortly after the year , when louis the xith, then dauphin, freed dieppe from the dominion of the english, attacking in person, and carrying by assault, the formidable fortress, constructed by talbot, in the suburb of pollet. of this, not a vestige now remains: the whole was levelled with the ground in ; though, at a period of one hundred and twenty years after it was originally taken and dismantled, it had again been made a place of strength by the huguenots, and had been still further fortified under henry ivth, in whose reign the present castle was completed; for it was not till this time that permission was given to the inhabitants to add to it a keep. in its perfect state, whilst defended by this keep, and still further protected by copious out-works and bomb-proof casemates, its strength was great; but the period of its power was of short duration; for the then perturbed state of france naturally gave rise to anxiety on the part of the government, lest fortresses should serve as rallying points to the faction of the league; and the castle of dieppe was consequently left with little more than the semblance of its former greatness. of the churches here, that of st. jaques is considerably the finest building, and is indeed an excellent specimen of what has been called the _decorated english style of architecture_, the style of this church nearly coinciding in its principal lines with that which prevailed in our own country during the reigns of the second and third edward. it was begun about the year , but was little advanced at the commencement of the following century; nor were its nineteen chapels, the works of the piety of individuals, completed before . the roof of the choir remained imperfect till ninety years afterwards, whilst that of the transept is as recent as [ ]. the most ancient work is discernible in the transepts, but the lines are obscured by later additions. a cloister gallery fronted by delicate mullions runs round the nave and choir, and the extent and arrangement of the exterior would induce a stranger, unacquainted with the history of the building, to suppose that he was entering a conventual or cathedral church. the parts long most generally admired by the french, though they have always been miserable judges of gothic architecture, were the vaulted roof, and the pendants of the lady-chapel. the latter were originally ornamented with female figures, representing the sibyls, made of colored terra cotta, and of such excellent workmanship, that cardinal barberini, when he visited this chapel in , declared he had seen nothing of the kind, not even in italy, superior to them for the beauty and delicacy of their execution; but they are now gone, and, according to noel[ ], were destroyed at the time of the bombardment. the state, however, of the roof does not seem to warrant this observation; and, contrary also to what he says, the pendants between the lady-chapel and the choir are still perfect, and serve, together with numerous small canopies in the chapel itself, to give a clear idea of what the whole must have been originally. one of the most elegant of the decorations of the church is a spirally-twisted column, elaborately carved, with a peculiarly fanciful and beautiful capital, placed against a pillar that separates the two south-eastern chapels of the choir. the richest object is a stone-screen to a chantry on the north side, which is divide into several canopies, whose upper part is still full of a profusion of sculpture, though the lower is sadly mutilated. i could not ascertain its history or use; but i do not suppose it is of earlier date than the age of francis ist, as the roman or italian style is blended with the gothic arch. the chapel of the sepulchre, is not uncommonly pointed out as an object of admiration. there is certainly some, handsome sculpture round the portal; but it is not this for which your admiration is required: you are told that the chapel was made in , at the expence of a traveller, then just returned from palestine, and that it offers a faithful representation of the holy sepulchre itself at jerusalem; by which if we are to understand that the wretched, grisly, painted, wooden figures of the three maries, and other holy women and holy men, assembled round a disgusting representation of the dead saviour, have their prototype in judea, i can only add i am sorry for it: for my own part, putting aside all question of the propriety or effect of symbolical worship, and meaning nothing offensive to the romish faith, i must be allowed to say that most assuredly i can conceive nothing less qualified to excite feelings of devotion, or more certain to awaken contempt and loathing, than the images of this description, the tinselled virgins, and the wretched daubs, nick-named paintings, which abound in the churches of picardy and normandy, the only catholic provinces which i have yet visited; so that, if the taste of the inhabitants is to be estimated by the decoration of the religious buildings, this faculty must be rated very low indeed. the exterior of the church is as richly ornamented as the inside; and not a buttress, arch, or canopy is without the remains of crumbled carving, worn by time, or disfigured by the ruder hand of calvinistic or revolutionary violence. tradition refers the erection of this edifice to the english. from the certainty with which a date may be assigned to almost every part, it is very interesting to the lover of architecture. the lady-chapel is also perhaps one of the last specimens of gothic art, but still very pure, except in some of the smaller ornaments, such, as the niches in the tabernacles, which end in escalop shells. [illustration: font in the church of st. remi, at dieppe] the other church is dedicated to st. remi, and is a building of the xviith century; though, judging from some of its pillars, it would be pronounced considerably more ancient. those of the transept and of the central tower are lofty and clustered, and of extraordinary thickness; the rest are circular and plain, and not very unlike the columns of our earliest norman or saxon churches, though of greater proportionate altitude. the capitals of those in the choir are singularly capricious, with figures, scrolls, &c.; but it is the capriciousness of the gothic verging into grecian, not of the norman. on the pendants of the nave are painted various ornaments, each accompanied by a mitre. the eastern has only a mitre and cross, with the date ; the western the same, with ; denoting the æra of the edifice, which was scarcely finished, when a bomb, in , destroyed the roof of the choir, and this remains to the present hour incomplete. the most remarkable object in the church is a _bénitier_ of coarse red granite, on whose basin is an inscription, to me illegible. the annexed sketches will give you some idea of it: [illustration: sketch of inscription] in the letters one looks naturally for a date: the figures that alternate with them are probably mitres, and, like those on the roof, indicate the supreme jurisdiction of the archbishop of rouen in the place. dieppe itself is, by its own historians[ ], said to boast an origin as early as the days of charlemagne[ ], who is reported to have built a fortress on the scite of the present town, and to have called it bertheville, in honor of the berthas, his mother and his daughter. bertheville was one of the first places taken by the normans, by whom the appellation was changed to dyppe or dieppe, a word which in their language is said to signify a good anchorage. other writers[ ], however, treat the whole of the early chronicle of dieppe as a fiction, and maintain, that even at the beginning of the xith century the town had no existence, and the place was only known as the port of arques, within whose territory it was comprehended; nor was it till the end of the same century that the inhabitants of arques were, partly from the convenience of the fisheries, and partly from the advantages of the salt trade, induced to form this settlement. whatever date may be assigned to the foundation of dieppe, it is frequently contended that william the conqueror embarked here for the invasion of england, and it seems undoubted that he sailed hence for his new kingdom in the next year, agreeably to the following passage from ordericus vitalis, (p. ) by which you will observe, that the river had at that time the same name as the town, "deinde sextâ nocte decembris ad ostium amnis deppæ ultra oppidtim archas accessit, primâque vigiliâ gelidæ noctis austro vela dedit, et mane portum oppositi littoris, (quem vvicenesium vocitant) prospero cursu arripuit." in , our henry ii built a castle upon the same hill on which the present fortress stands. this strong hold, however, afforded little protection; for we find that, in , philip augustus of france, entering normandy with an hostile army, laid siege to dieppe, and set fire not only to the town, but also to the shipping in the harbor. two years subsequently to this event, dieppe ceased to form a part of the demesne of the sovereign of the duchy. richard the ist had given great offence to walter, archbishop of rouen, by persisting in the erection of château gaillard, in the vicinity of andelys, which belonged to the archbishop in right of his see; and though our lion-hearted monarch was not appalled either by the papal interdict or by the showers of blood that fell upon his workmen, yet at length he thought it advisable to purchase at once the forgiveness of the prelate and the secular seignory of andelys, by surrendering to him, as an equivalent, the towns and lordships of dieppe and louviers, the land and forest of alihermont, the land and lordship of bouteilles, and the mills of rouen. this exchange was regarded as so great a subject of triumph to the archbishop, that he caused the memory of it to be perpetuated by inscriptions upon crosses in various parts of rouen, some of which remained as late as , when taillepied wrote his _recueil des antiquitéz et singularitéz de la ville de rouen_. the following lines are given as one of these inscriptions in the _gallia christiana_[ ]: "vicisti, galtere, tui sunt signa triumphi deppa, locoveris, alacris-mons, butila, molta, deppa maris portus, alacris-mons locus amoenus, villa locoveris, rus butila, molta per urbem. hactenus hæc regis richardi jura fuere; hæc rex sancivit, hæc papa, tibique tuere[ ]." nor was this the only memorial of the fact; for the advantages of the exchange were so generally recognized, that the name of walter became proverbial; and to this day it is said in normandy of a man who over-reaches another, "c'est un fin gautier." it might be inferred from the terms of the bargain in which dieppe merely appears as one of the items of the account, that it was then a place of little consequence; yet, one of the old chroniclers speaks of it at the time it was taken by the french under philip augustus, as "portus famâ celeberrimus atque villa potens opibus." these historians, however, of former days are not always the most accurate; but from this period the annals of the place are preserved, and at certain epochs it is far from unimportant in french history: as, when talbot raised in the fortress called the bastille, a defence so strong and in so well-chosen a situation, that even vauban honored its memory by lamenting its destruction; when the inhabitants fought with the flemings in the channel, in ; when henry ivth, with an army of less than four thousand men, fled hither in , as to his last place of refuge, winning the hearts of the people by his frank address:--"mes amis, point de cérémonie, je ne demande que vos coeurs, bon pain, bon vin, et bon visage d'hôtes;" and when, as i have already mentioned, the town sustained from our fleet a bombardment of three days' duration, and was reduced by it to ashes. for the excellence of its sailors, dieppe has at all times been renowned: no less an authority than the president de thou has pronounced them to be men, "penes quos præcipua rei nauticæ gloria semper fuit;" and they have proved their claims to this encomium, not only by having supplied to the navy of france the celebrated abraham du quesne, the successful rival of the great ruyter, but still more so by having taken the lead in expeditions to florida[ ]; by having established a colony for the promotion of the fur trade in canada, if indeed they were not the original discoverers of that country; and by having been the first christians who ever made a settlement on the coast of senegal. this last-mentioned event took place, according to french writers, at as early a period as the xivth century; and, though the establishment was not of long duration, its effects have been permanent; for it is owing to the consignments of ivory then made to dieppe, that many of the inhabitants were induced to become workers in that substance; a trade which they preserve to the present time, and carry the art to such perfection that they have few rivals. this and the making of lace are the principal employments of such of the natives as are not engaged in the fishery. in the earlier ages of the duchy, the inhabitants of the pays de caux found a more effectual and important employment in the salt-works which were then very numerous on the coast, but which have long since been suffered to fall into decay. ancient charters, recorded in the _neustria pia_, trace these works on the coast of dieppe, and at bouteilles on the right of the valley of arques, to as remote a period as ; and they at the same time prove the existence of a canal between dieppe and bouteilles, by which in vessels loaded with salt were wont to pass. but here, as in england, such works have been abandoned, from the greater facility of communication between distant places, and of obtaining salt by other means. at present the only manufacture on the beach is that of kelp, for which a large quantity of the coarser sea-weeds is burned; but the fisheries, which are not carried on with equal energy in any other port of france, are the chief support of the place. the sailors of dieppe were not confined to their own seas; for they used to pursue the cod fishery on the coast of newfoundland with considerable success. the herring fishery however was a greater staple; and previously to the revolution, when alone a just estimate could be formed of such matters, the quantity of herrings caught by the boats belonging to dieppe averaged more than eight thousand lasts a year, and realized above £ , . this fishery is said to have been established here as early as the xith century[ ]. from sixty to eighty boats, each of about thirty tons and carrying fifteen men, were annually sent to the eastern coast of england about the end of august; and then, again, in the middle of october nearly double the quantity of vessels, but of a smaller size, were engaged in the same pursuit on their own shores, where the fish by this time repair. the mackerel fishery was an object of scarcely less importance than that of herrings, producing in general about one hundred and seventy thousand barrels annually. great quantities of these fish are eaten salted and dried, in which state they afford a general article of food among the lower classes in normandy. surely this would be deserving of the attention and imitation of our merchants at home. during the war with england this branch of trade necessarily suffered; but napoléon did every thing in his power to assist the town, by giving it peculiar advantages as to ships sailing under licences. he succeeded in his views; and, thus patronized, dieppe flourished exceedingly, and the gains brought in by the privateers connected with the port, added not a little to its prosperity. hence to this hour the inhabitants regret the peace, although the town cannot fail to be benefitted by the fresh impulse given to the fisheries, and the quantity of money circulated by the travellers who are continually passing. napoléon intended also to bestow an additional boon upon the place. a canal had been projected many years ago, in the time of the maréchal de vauban, and was to have extended to pontoise, through the fertile districts of gournay and neufchâtel, and to have communicated by different branches with the seine and oise. this plan, which had been forgotten during so many reigns, napoléon determined to carry into effect, and the excavations were actually begun under his orders. but the events which succeeded his russian campaign put a stop to this, as to all similar labors: the plan is now, however, again in agitation, and, if performed, dieppe will soon become one of the most important ports in france. by the revolution dieppe was emancipated from the dominion of the archbishop of rouen, who, by virtue of the cession made by richard coeur de lion, exercised a despotic sway, even until the dissolution of the _ancien régime_. his privileges were oppressive, and he had and made use of the right of imposing a variety of taxes, which extended even to the articles of provision imported either by land or sea. yet it must be admitted that the progress of civilization had previously done much towards the removal of the most obnoxious of the abuses. the times, happily, no longer existed, when, as in the xiith century, the prelate, with a degree of indecency scarcely to be credited, especially under an ecclesiastical government, did not scruple to convert the wages of sin into a source of revenue, as scandalous in its nature as it must have been contemptible in its amount, by exacting from every prostitute a weekly tax of a farthing, for liberty to exercise her profession[ ]. many uncouth and frivolous ecclesiastical rites and ceremonies of the middle ages, which good sense had banished from most other parts of france, where they once were common, still lingered in the archbishop's seignory. thus, at no very remote period, it was customary on the feast of pentecost to cast burning flakes of tow from the vaulting of the church; this stage-trick being considered as a representation of the descent of the fiery tongues. the virgin, the great idol of popery, was honored by a pageant, which was celebrated with extraordinary splendor; and as i must initiate you in the mysteries of catholicism, i think you will be well pleased to receive a detailed account of it. the ceremony i consider as curiously illustrative of the manners of the rulers, of the ruled, and of the times; and i will only add, by way of preface, that it was instituted by the governor, des marêts, in , in honor of the final expulsion of the english, and that he himself consented to be the first master of the _guild of the assumption_, under whose auspices and direction it was conducted.--about midsummer the principal inhabitants used to assemble at the hôtel de ville, and there they selected the girl of the most exemplary character, to represent the virgin mary, and with her six other young women, to act the parts of the daughters of sion. the honor of figuring in this holy drama was greatly coveted; and the historian of dieppe gravely assures us, that the earnestness felt on the occasion mainly contributed to the preservation of that purity of manners and that genuine piety, which subsisted in this town longer than in any other of france! but the election of the virgin was not sufficient: a representative of st. peter was also to be found among the clergy; and the laity were so far favored that they were permitted to furnish the eleven other apostles. this done, upon the fourteenth of august the virgin was laid in a cradle of the form of a tomb, and was carried early in the morning, attended by her suite of either sex, to the church of st. jacques; while before the door of the master of the guild was stretched a large carpet, embroidered with verses in letters of gold, setting forth his own good qualities, and his love for the holy mary. hither also, as soon as _laudes_ had been sung, the procession repaired from the church, and then they were joined by the governor of the town, the members of the guild, the municipal officers, and the clergy of the parish of st. remi. thus attended, they paraded the town, singing hymns, which were accompanied by a full band. the procession was increased by the great body of the inhabitants; and its impressiveness was still farther augmented by numbers of the youth of either sex, who assumed the garb and attributes of their patron saints, and mixed in the immediate train of the principal actors. they then again repaired to the church, where _te deum_ was sung by the full choir, in commemoration of the victory over the english, and high mass was performed, and the sacrament administered to the whole party. during the service, a scenic representation was given of the assumption of the virgin. a scaffolding was raised, reaching nearly to the top of the dome, and supporting an azure canopy intended to emulate the "spangled vault of heaven;" and about two feet below the summit of it appeared, seated on a splendid throne, an old man as the image of the father almighty, a representation equally absurd and impious, and which could alone be tolerated by the votaries of the worst superstitions of popery. on either side four pasteboard angels of the size of men floated in the air, and flapped their wings in cadence to the sounds of the organ; while above was suspended a large triangle, at whose corners were placed three smaller angels, who, at the intermission of each office, performed upon a set of little bells the hymn of "_ave maria gratiâ dei plena per secula_," &c. accompanied by a larger angel on each side with a trumpet. to complete this portion of the spectacle, two others, below the old man's feet, held tapers, which were lighted as the services began, and extinguished at their close; on which occasions the figures were made to express reluctance by turning quickly about; so that it required some dexterity to apply the extinguishers. at the commencement of the mass, two of the angels by the side of the almighty descended to the foot of the altar, and, placing themselves by the tomb, in which a pasteboard figure of the virgin had been substituted for her living representative, gently raised it to the feet of the father. the image, as it mounted, from time to time lifted its head and extended its arms, as if conscious of the approaching beatitude, then, after having received the benediction and been encircled by another angel with a crown of glory, it gradually disappeared behind the clouds. at this instant a buffoon, who all the time had been playing his antics below, burst into an extravagant fit of joy; at one moment clapping his hands most violently, at the next stretching himself out as if dead. finally, he ran up to the feet of the old man, and hid himself under his legs, so as to shew only his head. the people called him _grimaldi_, an appellation that appears to have belonged to him by usage, and it is a singular coincidence that the surname of the noblest family of genoa the proud, thus assigned by the rude rabble of a sea-port to their buffoon, should belong of right to the sire and son, whose _mops_ and _mowes_ afford pastime to the upper gallery at covent-garden. thus did the pageant proceed in all its grotesque glory, and, while-- "these labor'd nothings in so strange a style amazed the unlearned, and made the learned smile," the children shouted aloud for their favorite grimaldi; the priests, accompanied with bells, trumpets, and organs, thundered out the mass; the pious were loud in their exclamations of rapture at the devotion of the virgin; and the whole church was filled with "un non so che di rauco ed indistinto".--but i have told you enough of this foolish story, of which it were well if the folly had been the worst. the sequel was in the same taste and style, and ended with the euthanasia of all similar representations, a hearty dinner. footnotes: [ ] _description de la haute normandie_, i. p. . [ ] _histoire de dieppe_, ii. p. . [ ] _essals sur le département de la seine inférieure_, i. p. . [ ] _histoire de dieppe_, i. p. . [ ] another author, mentioned by the abbé fontenu, in the _mémoires de l'académie des inscriptions_, x. p. , carries the antiquity of the place still eight centuries higher, representing it as the _portus ictius_, whence julius cæsar sailed for britain. [ ] _description de la haute normandie_, i. p. . [ ] vol. xi. p. . [ ] the deed itself under which this exchange was made is also preserved in _duchesne's scriptores normanni_, and in the _gallia christiana_, xi. _instr_. p. , where it is entitled "_celebris commutatio facta inter richardum i, regem angliæ et walterium archiepisc. rotomagensem_." it is worth remarking, in illustration of the feudal rights and customs, how much importance is attached in this instrument to the mills and the seignorage for grinding: the king expressly stipulates that every body "tam milites quàm clerici, et omnes homines, tam de feodis militum quàm de prebendis, sequentur molendina de _andeli_, sicut consueverunt et debent, et moltura erit nostra. archiepiscopus autem et homines sui de _fraxinis_ (a manor specially reserved,) molent ubi idem archiepiscopus volet, et si voluerit molere apud _andeli_, dabunt molturas suas, sicut alii ibidem molentes. in escambium autem ... concessimus ... omnia molendina quæ nos habuimus rotomagi, quando hæc permutatio facta fuit, integrè cum omni sequelâ et molturâ suâ, sine aliquo retinemento eorum quæ ad molendinam pertinent vel ad molturam, et cum omnibus libertatibus et liberis consuetudinibus quas solent et debent habere. nec alicui alii licebit molendinum facere ibidem ad detrimentum prædictorum molendinorum; et debet archiepiscopus solvere eleemosinas antiquitùs statutas de iisdem molendinis." [ ] a very copious and interesting account of the nautical discoveries made by the inhabitants of dieppe, and of their merits as sailors, is given by goube, in his _histoire du duché de normandie_, iii, p. - . [ ] _goube, histoire de normandie_, iii, p. . [ ] _noel, essais sur le département de la seine inférieure_, i. p. . letter iii. cÆsar's camp--castle of arques. (_dieppe, june_, ) after having explored dieppe, i must now conduct you without the walls, to the castle of arques and to cæsar's camp, both of which are in its immediate neighborhood. at some future time you may thank me for pointing out these objects to you, for should you ever visit dieppe, your residence may be prolonged beyond your wishes, by the usual mischances which attend the traveller. and in that case, a walk to these relics of military architecture will furnish a better employment than thumbing the old newspaper of the inn, or even than the contemplation of the diligences as they come in, or of the packets as they are not going out, for i am anticipating that you are becalmed, and that the pennons are flagging from the mast. with respect to my walk, let me be allowed to begin by introducing you to a friend of mine at dieppe, m. gaillon, an obliging, sensible, and well-informed young man, as well as an ardent botanist, my companion in this walk, and the source of much of the information i possess respecting these places. the intrenchment, commonly known by the name of cæsar's camp, or even more generally in the country by that of "_la cité de limes_," and in old writings, of "_civitas limarum_," is situated upon the brink of the cliff, about two miles to the east of dieppe, on the road leading to eu, and still preserves in a state of perfection its ancient form and character; though necessarily reduced in the height of its vallum by the operation of time, and probably also diminished in its size by the gradual encroachments of the ocean. upon its shape, which is an irregular triangle, it may be well to make a preliminary observation, that this was necessarily prescribed by the scite; and that, however the romans might commonly prefer a square outline for their temporary encampments, we have abundant proofs that they only adhered to this plan when it was perfectly conformable to the nature of the ground, but that when they fortified any commanding position, upon which a rectangular rampart could not be seated, their intrenchments were made to follow the sinuosities of the hill. in the present instance the northern side, the longest, extending nearly five thousand feet, fronts the channel, and it required no other defence than was afforded by the perpendicular face of the cliff, here more than two hundred feet in height. the western side, the second in length, and not greatly inferior to the first, after running about three thousand feet from the sea, in a tolerably straight line southward, suddenly bends to the east, and forms two semi-circles, of one of which the radius is turned from the camp, and of the other into it. the third side is scarcely more than half the length of the others, and runs nearly straight from south to north, where it again unites with the cliff. of the two last-mentioned sides the first is difficult of access; from its position at the summit of a steep hill; but it is still protected by a vallum from thirty to forty feet high, and between the sea and the entrance nearest to it, a length of about three hundred yards, by a wide exterior ditch with other out-works, as well as by an inner fosse, faint traces of which only now remain. hence to the next and large entrance is a distance of about two thousand feet; and in this space the interior fosse is still very visible; but the great abruptness of the hill forbade an outer one. you, who are not a stranger to the pleasures of botany, would have shared my delight at finding upon the perpendicular side of this entrance the beautiful _caucalis grandiflora_, growing in great luxuriance upon almost bare chalk, and with its snowy flowers resembling, as you look down to it, the common species of _iberis_ of our gardens. the _asperula cynanchica_, and other plants peculiar to a chalky soil, are also found here in plenty, together with the _eryngium campestre_, a vegetable of extreme rarity in england, but most abundant throughout the north of france. _papaver hybridum_ is likewise common in the neighboring corn fields round. returning from this short botanical digression, let me tell you that the position considered by some as the southern side of the fortification, but which i have described as the sinuous part of the western, has its ramparts of less height. not so the eastern: on this, as being the most destitute of all natural defence, (for here there is no hill, and the eye ranges over an immense level tract, stopped only by distant woods,) is raised an agger, full forty-five feet in height, and, at a further distance, is added an outward trench nearly fifty feet wide, though in its present state not more than three feet deep, and now serving for a garden. such is the external appearance of this camp, which, seen from the sea, or on the approach either by the west or south, cannot fail to strike from the boldness of its position; but the effect of the interior is still more striking; for here, while on one side the horizon is lost in the immensity of the ocean, on the other two the view is narrowly circumscribed by the lofty bulwark, at whose feet are almost every where discernible the remains of the trenches i have already noticed, more than thirty feet in width. nor is this the only remarkable circumstance; for it is still more unaccountable to observe, extending nearly across the encampment, the traces of an ancient fosse not less than one hundred and fifty feet wide, and, though in most places shallow, terminating towards the sea in a deep ravine. internally the camp appears to have been also divided into three parts, in one of which it has been supposed, from a heap of stones which till lately remained, that there was originally a place of greater strength; while in another, distinguished by some irregular elevations, it is conjectured that there was a wall, the defence probably to the keep. [illustration: plan of cæsar's camp, near dieppe] but i must tell you that these conjectures are none of my own, nor could i have had any opportunity of making them; the stones and the hillocks having disappeared before the operations of the plough. such as they are, i have borrowed them from a dissertation by the abbé de fontenu[ ], a copy of whose engraving of the place i insert. indebted as i am to him for his hints, i can, however, by no means subscribe to his reasoning, by which he labors with great erudition to prove that, neither the popular tradition which ascribes this camp to cæsar, nor its name, evidently roman, nor some coins and medals of the same nation that have been found here, are at all evidences of its latin origin; but that, as we have no proof that cæsar was ever in the vicinity of dieppe, as the whole is in such excellent preservation, (a point i beg leave to deny,) and as the vallum is full thrice the height of that of other roman encampments in france[ ], we are bound to infer it is a work of far more modern times, and probably was erected by talbot, the cæsar of the english[ ], while besieging dieppe in the middle of the xvth century. this opinion of the learned abbé i quote, principally for the purpose of shewing how far a man of sense and acquirements maybe led astray from truth and probability in support of a favorite theory. nothing but the love of theory could surely have induced him to suppose that this strong hold was erected for a purpose to which it could in no wise be applicable, as the intervening ground prevents all possibility of seeing any part of dieppe from the camp, or to ascribe it to times when earth-works were no longer used. in normandy and picardy are other camps, more evidently of roman construction, which are likewise ascribed to cæsar[ ]; with much the same reason perhaps as every thing wonderful in scotland is referred to fingal, to king arthur in cornwall, and in the north of england and wales to the devil. [illustration: general view of the castle of arques] upon the origin of the castle of arques, it is somewhat unfortunate for the learned that there is not an equal field for ingenious conjecture, its antiquity being incontestible. du moulin, the most comprehensive, though the most credulous of norman historians, one who, not content with dealing in miracles by wholesale, tells us how the devil changed himself into a postillion, to apprize an alehouse-keeper of the fate of the posterity of rollo, may still be entitled to credit, when the theme is merely stone and mortar; and from him we may conclude that arques was a place of importance at the time of william the conqueror, as it gave the title of count to his uncle, who then possessed it, and who, confiding perhaps in the strength of his fortress, and secretly instigated by henry ist, of france, usurped the title of duke of normandy, but was defeated by his nephew, and finally obliged to surrender his castle. this, however, was not till, after a long siege, in which arques proved itself impregnable to every thing but famine. in the following reign, we again find mention made of arques, as a portion given by robert, duke of normandy, to induce helie, son of lambert of st. saen, to marry his illegitimate daughter, and join him in defending the pays de caux against the english. from this period, during the reigns of the anglo-norman sovereigns, it continues to be occasionally noticed. before the walls of arques, according to william of malmesbury, baldwin, count of flanders, received the wound which afterwards proved fatal. arques was the last castle which held out in normandy for king stephen. it was taken in , by our henry iind, and then repaired; was seized by philip augustus during the captivity of richard coeur de lion; was restored to its legitimate sovereign at the peace in ; and was a source of disgrace to its former captor, when in he laid siege to it with a powerful army, and was obliged to retreat from its walls. under the reign of our third edward, we find it again return to the british crown, as one of the castles specified to be surrendered to the english, by the treaty of bretigny, in ; after which, in , it was taken by talbot and warwick, and was finally given up to france by one of the articles of the capitulation of rouen in . more recently, in [ ], it was captured by a party of soldiers disguised like sailors, who, being suffered to approach without distrust, put the sentinels to the sword, and made themselves masters of the fortress; while in it obtained its last and most honorable distinction, as the chief support of henry ivth, at the time of his being received at dieppe, and as having by the cannon from its ramparts, materially contributed to the glorious defeat of the army of the league, commanded by the duke de mayenne, when thirty thousand were compelled to retire before one tenth of the number. i have already mentioned to you the address of this king to the citizens of dieppe: still more magnanimous was his speech to his prisoner, the count de belin, previously to this battle, when, on the captive's daring to ask, how with such a handful of men, he could expect to resist so powerful an army, "ajoutez," he answered, "aux troupes que vous voyez, mon bon droit, et vous ne douterez plus de quel côté sera la victoire." in _sully's memoirs_[ ], as well as in the history of the town of dieppe, you will find these transactions described at much length, and the warrior, as well as the historian, expatiates on the strength of the castle of arques; but how much longer it remained a place of consideration i have no means of knowing: most probably the alteration introduced into the art of war by the use of cannon, caused it to be soon after neglected, and dismantled, and suffered to fall gradually into its present state of ruin. it is now the property of a lady residing in the neighboring town of arques, who purchased it during the revolution, and by her good sense and feeling it has been preserved from further injury. the castle is situated at the extremity of a ridge of chalk hills, which, commencing to the west of dieppe, run nearly parallel to the sea, and here terminate to the east, so that it has a complete command over the valley. standing by its walls, you have to the north-west a full view of the town of dieppe; in an opposite direction the eye ranges uncontrolled over a rich vale of corn and pasturage; and in front, immediately at your feet, lies the town of arques itself, backed by the hills that are covered by the forest of the same name. either this forest, or the neighboring one of eavy, is supposed to have been the ancient arelanum. the little river called the arques flows through the valley, and beneath the walls of the castle is lost in the béthune, under which name the united waters continue their course to dieppe, after receiving the tribute of a third, yet smaller, stream, the eaulne. of the power of the castle an idea may be formed from the extent of the fosse, little less than half a mile in circumference. the outline of the walls is irregularly oval, and the even front is interrupted by towers of various sizes, and placed at unequal distances. on the northern side, where the hill is steepest, there are no towers; but the walls are still farther strengthened by square buttresses, so large that they indeed look like bastions, and with a projection so great as to indicate an origin posterior to the norman æra. the two towers which flank the western entrance, and the towers which stand behind each of the flanking towers in the retiring line of the wall, are much larger than any of the rest. one of the latter towers is of so extraordinary a shape, that i consider it as a non-descript; but, as i should tire both you and myself by endeavoring to describe it, i think it most prudent to refer you to a sketch: perhaps its angular parts may not be coeval with the rest of the building[ ]: on this it would be impossible to decide positively, so shattered, impaired, and defaced are the walls, and so evidently is their coating the work of different periods. i fancied that in some parts i could discern a mode of construction, in layers of brick and stone, similar to that of roman buildings in our own country, while many of the bricks, from their texture and shape, appear also to be roman. tradition, if we follow that delusive guide, teaches us that we are contemplating a work of the middle of the eighth century, and of one of the sons of charles martel. if we follow william of jumieges, the chronicle of st. vandrille, and william of poitiers, we ascribe it to the uncle and rival of the conqueror; other writers tell us that the ruins arose under henry iind. i dare not decide amongst such reverend authorities, but i think i may infer, without the least disrespect towards monks and chroniclers, that the norman arques now occupies the place of a far more early structure, and that a portion of the walls of this latter was actually left in existence. taken, however, as a whole, the castle is evidently a building of different æras; and it would be extremely difficult, if not impossible, to define the parts belonging to each. [illustration: tower of remarkable shape in castle of arques] the principal entrance is to the west, between the two towers first mentioned, over a draw-bridge, whose piers still remain, and through three gateways, whose arches, though now torn and dislocated into shapeless rents, seem to have been circular, and probably of norman erection. one of the towers of the gate-way appears formerly to have been a chapel. hence you pass into a court, whose surface, uneven with the remains of foundations, marks it to have been originally filled with apartments, and, at the opposite end of this, through a square gate-house with high embattled walls, a place evidently of great strength, and leading into a large open space that terminated in the quadrangular and lofty keep. this, which is externally strengthened by massy buttresses, similar to those of the walls, is within divided into two apartments, each of them about fifty feet by twenty. in one of them is a well, communicating with a reservoir below, which is filled by the water of the river, and was sufficiently capacious for watering the horses of the garrison. the greatest part, if not the whole, of the walls seems to have been faced with brick of comparatively modern date. the keep also was coated with brick within, and with stones carefully squared without. the windows are so battered, that no idea can be formed of their original style. the walls of the keep are filled with small square apertures. at rochester, and at many other castles in england, we observe the same; and unless you can give a better guess respecting their use, you must content yourself with mine: that is to say, that they are merely the holes left by the scaffolding. at the foot of the hill to the west is a gate-house, by no means ancient, from which a wall ascends to the castle; and another similar wall connects the fortress with the ground below, on the north-eastern side; but the extent or nature of these out-works can no longer be traced. still less possible would it be to say any thing with certainty as to the excavations, of the length of which, tradition speaks, as usual, in extravagant terms, and mixes sundry marvellous and frightful tales with the recital. in the general plan a great resemblance is to be traced between many castles in wales and its frontiers, especially goodrich castle, and this at arques. yet i do not think that any of ours are of an equal extent; nor can you well conceive a more noble object than this, when seen at a distance: and it is only then that the eye can comprehend the vast expanse and strength of the external wall, with the noble keep towering high above it. [illustration: church at arques] until the revolution, the decaying town of arques was not wholly deprived of all the vestiges of its former honours: the standards of the weights and measures of upper normandy were deposited here. it was the seat of the courts of the archbishop of rouen, and, though the actual session of the municipal courts took place at dieppe, they bore the legal style and title of the courts of arques. since the revolution these traces of its importance have wholly disappeared, nor is there any outward indication of the consequence once enjoyed by this poor and straggling hamlet. the church is a neat and spacious building, of the same kind of architecture as that of st. jacques, at dieppe; and, as it is a good specimen of the florid norman gothic, (i forbid all cavils respecting the employment of this term) i have added a figure of it. my slender researches have not enabled me to discover the date of the building, but it may, have been erected towards the year . a most elegant bracket, formed by the graceful dolphin, deserves the attention of the architect; and i particularize it, not merely on account of its beauty, but because, even at the risk of exhausting your antiquarian patience, i intend to point out all architectural features which cannot be retraced in our own structures; and this is one of them. by the way, arques contributed to increase the bulk of our herbal as well as of our sketch-book, for under the walls of the church is found the rare _erodium moschatum_; and near the castle grow _astragalus glycyphyllos_ and _melissa nepeta_. the field of battle is to the southward of the town. a small walk under the south wall of the castle, near the east end, adjoining a covered way which led to a postern-gate or draw-bridge, is still called the walk of henry the ivth, because it was here that this monarch was wont to reconnoitre the enemy's forces from below. napoléon, towards the conclusion of his reign, visited the field of battle at arques; he ascertained the position of the two armies, and pronounced that the king ought to have lost the day, for that his tactics were altogether faulty. i am willing to suppose that this military criticism arose merely from military pedantry, though it is now said that napoléon was envious of the veneration, which, as the french believe, they feel for the memory of henri quatre. napoléon is accused of having given the title of _le roi de la canaille_ to the bourbon monarch. and when napoléon was in full-blown pride, he might have had the satisfaction of hearing the rabble of paris chaunt his comparative excellence in a parody of the old national song-- "vive bonaparte, vice ce conquérant, ce diable à quatre a bien plus de talent que ce henri quatre et tous ses descendans," footnotes: [ ] _mémoires de l'académie des inscriptions_, x. p. . tab. . [ ] such are the abbé's principal arguments; but he goes on to say, that the height of the ramparts proves almost to demonstration their having been erected since the use of fire-arms, a mode of reasoning that would, i fear, be equally conclusive against the antiquity of a very celebrated earth-work, the devil's-ditch, in cambridgeshire, whose agger is of about the same elevation, but of whose modern origin nobody ever yet dreamed;--that the ramparts opposite dieppe could only be of use against cannon, another position equally untenable;--that, were the camp roman, there would be platforms on the agger for the reception of wooden towers, as if time would not wear away vestiges of this nature;--that the disposition is not in regular order like that of a roman encampment, a matter equally liable to be defaced;--and, finally, that the out-works to the west are fully decisive of a more modern æra, as if intrenchments were not, like buildings, frequently the objects of subsequent alterations;--in his inferences he is followed, and, apparently without any question as to their authenticity, by ducarel, whom i suspect from his description never to have visited the place. the abbé fontenu, in a paper in the same volume, gives it as his opinion that, from the term _civitas limarum_, it might safely be believed there was a _city_ in this place; and he tries to persuade himself that he can trace the foundations of houses. [ ] _noel, essais sur le départment de la seine inférieure_, i. p. . [ ] the same is also notoriously the case in our own country: popular tradition, by a metonymy very easily to be accounted for, from a desire of adding importance to its objects, attributes whatever is roman to julius cæsar, as the most illustrious of the roman generals in england; just as we daily hear smatterers in art referring to raphael any painting, however ordinary, that pretends to issue from the schools of rome or florence, every bolognese one to guido or annibal carracci, every kermes to ostade or teniers, &c. [ ] _noel, essais sur la seine inférieure_, i. p. . [ ] sully, who was himself in this battle, and bore a conspicuous part in it, dwells upon its details completely _con amore_, and evidently regards the issue of this day as decisive of the fate of the monarch, who is reported to have said of himself shortly before the battle, that "he was a king without a kingdom, a husband without a wife, and a warrior without money."--i. p. . [ ] in justice to my readers, i must not here omit to say that such is the opinion of a most able friend of mine, mr. cohen, who visited this castle nearly at the same time with myself, and who writes me on the subject: "i feel convinced that the brick coating of the _wedge-tower_ at arques is recent. such was the impression i had upon the spot; and now i cannot remove it. it appeared to me that the character of the brick-work, and of the stone cordons or fillets, was entirely like that of the fortifications of the xvith century; and i also thought, perhaps erroneously, that the _wedge_ or _bastion_ was _affixed to_ the round tower of the castle, and that it was an after-construction. at the south end of the castle, you certainly see very ancient and singular masonry. the diagonal or herring-bone courses are found in the old church of st. lo, and in the keep at falaise; not in the front of the latter, but on the side where you enter, and on the side which ranges with talbot's tower. the same style of masonry is also seen, according to sir henry englefield, at silchester, which is most undoubtedly a pure roman relic."--it abounds likewise in colchester castle. letter iv. journey from dieppe to rouen--priory of longueville--rouen--bridge of boats--costume of the inhabitants. (_rouen, june_, .) i arrived alone at this city: my companions, who do not always care to keep pace with my constitutional impatience, which sometimes amuses, and now and then annoys them, made a circuit by havre, bolbec, and yvetot, while i proceeded by the straight and beaten track. what i have thus gained in expedition, i have lost in interest. during the whole of the ride, there was not a single object to excite curiosity, nor would any moderate deviation from the line of road have brought me within reach of any town or tower worthy of notice, except the priory of longueville, situate to the right of the road, about twelve miles from dieppe. i did not see longueville, and i am told that the ruins are quite insignificant, yet i regret that i did not visit them. the french can never be made to believe that an old rubble wall is really and truly worth a day's journey: hence their reports respecting the notability of any given ruin can seldom be depended upon. and at least i should have had the satisfaction of ascertaining the actual state of the remains of a building, known to have been founded and partly built in the year , by walter giffard[ ], one of the relations and companions of the conqueror, in his descent upon england, and therefore created earl of buckingham, or, as the french sometimes write it, _bou kin kan_. the title was held by his family only till when, upon the decease of his son without issue, the lands of his barony were shared among the collateral female heirs. he himself died in , and by his will directed that his body should be brought here, which was accordingly done; and he was buried, as ordericus vitalis[ ] tells us, near the entrance of the church, having over him an epitaph of eight lines, "in maceriâ picturis decoratâ." you will find the epitaph, wherein he is styled "templi fundator et ædificator," copied both in the _neustria pia_ and in _ducarel's anglo-norman antiquities_. the latter speaks of it as if it existed in his time; but the doctor seldom states the extent of his obligations towards his predecessors. and in consequence of this his silent gratitude, we can never tell with any degree of certainty whether we are perusing his observations or his transcripts. if he really saw the inscriptions with his own eyes, it is greatly to be regretted that he has given us no information respecting the paintings: did they still exist, they would afford a most genuine and curious proof of the state of norman art at that remote period; and possibly, a search after them among the cottages in the neighborhood might even now repay the industry of some keen antiquary; for the french revolution may well he compared to an earthquake: it swallowed up every thing, ingulphing some so deep that they are lost for ever, but leaving others, like hidden treasures, buried near the surface of the soil, whence accident and labor are daily bringing them to light. the descendants of walter giffard are repeatedly mentioned as persons of importance in the early norman writers; nor are they less illustrious in england, where the great family of clare sprung from one of the daughters; while another, by her marriage with richard granville, gave birth to the various noble families of that name, of which the present marquis of buckingham is the chief. of the priory, we are told in the _neustria pia_[ ], that it was anciently of much opulence, and that a queen of france contributed largely to the endowment of the house. many men of eminence, particularly three of the talbot family, were buried within its walls. peter megissier, a prior of longueville, was in the number of the judges who passed sentence of death upon the unfortunate joan of arc; and the inscription upon his tomb is so good a specimen of monkish latinity, that i am tempted to send it you; reminding you at the same time, that this barbarous system of rhyming in latin, however brought to perfection by the monks and therefore generally called their own, is not really of their invention, but may be found, though quoted to be ridiculed, in the first satire of persius, "qui videt hunc lapidem, cognoscat quòd tegit idem petrum, qui pridem conventum rexit ibidem annis bis senis, tumidis leo, largus egenis, omnibus indigenis charus fuit atque alienis." i believe it is always expected, that a traveller in france should say something respecting the general aspect of the country and its agriculture. i shall content myself with remarking, that this part of normandy is marvellously like the country which the conqueror conquered. when the weather is dull, the normans have a sober english sky, abounding in indian ink and neutral tint. and when the weather is fine, they have a sun which is not a ray brighter than an english sun. the hedges and ditches wear a familiar livery, and the land which is fully cultivated repays the toil of the husbandman with some of the most luxuriant crops of wheat i ever saw. barley and oats are not equally good, perhaps from the stiffness of the soil, which is principally of chalk; but flax is abundant and luxuriant. the surface of the ground is undulated, and sufficiently so to make a pleasing alternation of hill and dale; hence it is agreeably varied, though the hills never rise to such a height as to be an obstacle to agriculture. there is some difficulty in conjecturing where the people by whom the whole is kept in cultivation are housed; for the number of houses by the road-side is inconsiderable; nor did we, for the first two-thirds of the ride, pass through a single village, excepting tôtes, which lies mid-way between dieppe, and rouen, and is of no great extent. yet things in france are materially altered in this respect since , when i remember that, in going through calais by the way of the low countries to paris, and returning by the direct road to boullogne, the whole journey was made without seeing a single new house erecting in a space of four hundred miles. this is now far from being the case; there is every where an appearance of comparative prosperity, and, were it not for the coins, of which the copper bear the impress of the republic, and the gold and silver chiefly that of napoléon, a stranger would meet with but few visible marks of the changes experienced in late years by the government of france. much has been also done of late towards ornamenting the châteaux, of which there are several about tôtes, though in the opinion of an englishman, much also is yet wanting. they are principally the residences of rouen merchants. upon approaching malaunay, about nine miles from rouen, the scene is entirely changed. the road descends into a valley, inclosed between steep hills, whose sides are richly and beautifully clothed with wood, while the houses and church of the village beneath add life and variety to the plain at the foot. here the cotton manufactories begin, and, as we follow the course of the little river cailly, the population gradually increases, and continues to become more dense through a series of manufacturing villages, each larger than the preceding, and all abounding in noble views of hill, wood, and dale; while the tracts around are thickly studded with picturesque residences of manufacturers, and extensive, often picturesque, manufactories. such indeed was the country, till we found ourselves at rouen, shortly before entering which the havre road unites to that from dieppe, and the landscape also embraces the valley of the seine, as well as of the cailly the former broader by far, and grander, but not more beautiful. rouen, from this point of view, is seen to considerable advantage, at least by those who, like us, make a _détour_ to the north, and enter it in that direction: the cathedral, st. ouen, the hospital and church of la madeleine, and the river, fill the picture; nor is the impression in any wise diminished on a nearer approach, when, through a long avenue, formed by four rows of lofty elms, you advance by the side of a stream, at once majestic from its width and eminently beautiful from its winding course. rouen is now unfortified; its walls, its castles, are level with the ground. but, if i may borrow the pun of which old peter heylin is guilty when, describing paris, rouen is still a _strong_ city, "for it taketh you by the nose." the filth is extreme; villainous smells overcome you in every quarter, and from every quarter. the streets are gloomy, narrow, and crooked, and the houses at once mean and lofty. even on the quay, where all the activity of commerce is visible, and where the outward signs of opulence might be expected, there is nothing to fulfil the expectation. here is width and space, but no _trottoir_; and the buildings are as incongruous as can well be imagined, whether as to height, color, projection, or material. most of them, and indeed most in the city, are merely of lath and plaster, the timbers uncovered and painted red or black, the plaster frequently coated with small grey slates laid one over another, like the weather-tiles in sussex. their general form is very tall and very narrow, which adds to the singularity of their appearance; but mixed with these are others of white brick or stone, and really handsome, or, it might be said, elegant. the contrast, however, which they form only makes their neighbors look the more shabby, while they themselves derive from the association an air of meanness. the merchants usually meet upon a small open plot, situated opposite to the quay, inclosed with palisades and fronted with trees. this is their exchange in fine weather; but adjoining is a handsome building, called _la bourse à couvert_, or _le consulte_, to which recourse is always had in case of rain. it was here that napoléon and maria louisa, a very short time previous to their deposition, received from the inhabitants of rouen the oath of allegiance, which so soon afterwards found a ready transfer to another sovereign. about the middle of the quay is placed the bridge of boats, an object of attraction to all strangers, but more so from the novelty and singularity of its construction than from its beauty. utility rather than elegance was consulted by the builder. this far-famed structure is ugly and cumbrous, and a passenger feels a very unpleasing sensation if he happens to stand upon it when a loaded waggon drives along it at low water, at which time there is a considerable descent from the side of the suburbs. an undulatory motion is then occasioned, which goes on gradually from boat to boat till it reaches the opposite shore. the bridge is supported upon nineteen large barges, which rise and fall with the tide, and are so put together that one or more can easily be removed as often as it is necessary to allow any vessel to pass. the whole too can be entirely taken away in six hours, a construction highly useful in a river peculiarly liable to floods from sudden thaws; which sometimes occasion such an increase of the waters, as to render the lower stories of the houses in the adjacent parts of the city uninhabitable. the bridge itself was destroyed by a similar accident, in , for want of a timely removal. its plan is commonly attributed to a monk of the order of st. augustine, by whom it was erected in , about sixty years after the stone bridge, built by the empress matilda in , had ceased to be passable. it seems the fate of rouen to have _wonderful_ bridges. the present is dignified by some writers with the high title of a _miracle of art_: the former is said by taillepied, in whose time it was standing, to have been "un des plus beaux édifices et des plus admirables de la france." a few lines afterwards, however, this ingenuous writer confesses that loaded carriages of any kind were seldom suffered to pass this _admirable edifice_, in consequence of the expence of repairing it; but that two barges were continually plying for the transport of heavy goods. the delay between the destruction of the stone bridge, and the erection of the boat bridge, appears to have been occasioned by the desire of the citizens to have a second similar to the first; but this, after repeated deliberations, was at last determined to be impracticable, from the depth and rapidity of the stream. napoléon, however, seems to have thought that the task which had been accomplished under the auspices of the empress matilda, might be again repeated in the name of the daughter of the cæsars and the wife of the successor of charlemagne; and he actually caused maria-louisa to lay the first stone of a new bridge, at some distance farther to the east, where an island divides the river into two. this, i am told, will certainly he finished, though at an enormous expence, and though it will occasion great inconvenience to many inhabitants of the quay, whose houses will be rendered useless by the height to which it will be necessary to raise the soil upon the occasion. my informant added, that, small as is the appearance yet made above water, whole quarries of stone and forests of wood have been already sunk for the purpose. from the scite of the projected bridge, the view eastward is particularly charming. the bold hill of st. catherine presents its steep side of bare chalk, spotted only in a few places with vegetation or cottages, and seems to oppose an impassable barrier; the mixture of country-houses with trees at its base, makes a most pleasing variety; and, still nearer, the noble elms of the _boulevards_ add a character of magnificence possessed by few other cities. the _boulevards_ of rouen are rather deficient in the parisian accompaniments of dancing-dogs and music-grinders, but the sober pedestrian will, perhaps, prefer them to their namesakes in the capital. here they are not, as at paris, in the centre of the town, but they surround it, except upon the quay, with which they unite at each end, and unite most pleasingly; so that, immediately on leaving this brilliant bustling scene, you enter into the gloom of a lofty embowered arcade, resembling in appearance, as well as in effect, the public walks at cambridge, except that the addition of females in the fanciful norman costume, and of the seine, and the fine prospect beyond, and mont st. catherine above, give it a new interest. on the opposite side of the seine, the inhabitants of rouen have another excellent promenade in the _grand cours_, which, for a considerable space, occupies the bank of the river, turning eastward from the bridge. four rows of trees divide it into three separate walks, of which the central one is by far the widest, and serves for horses and carriages; the other two are appropriated exclusively to foot passengers. in these, on a summer's evening, are to be seen all classes of the inhabitants of rouen, from the highest to the lowest; and the following sketch, which you will easily perceive to be from a pencil more delicate than mine, gives a most lively and faithful picture of them. it may indeed be in some measure in the nature of a treatise _de re vestiariá_, yet such details of gowns and petticoats never fail to interest, at least to interest me, when proceeding from a wearer. [illustration: view of rouen, from the grand cours] "our carriage had scarcely stopped when we were surrounded with beggars, principally women with children in their arms. the poor babes presented a most pitiable appearance, meagre, dirty to the utmost degree, ragged and flea-bitten, so that round the throat there was not the least portion of "carnation" appearing to be free from the insect plague. their hair, too, is seldom cut; and i have seen girls of eight or ten years of age, bearing a growing crop which had evidently remained unshorn, and i may add, uncombed, from the time of their birth. it is impossible not to dread coming into contact with these imps, who, when old, are among the ugliest conceivable specimens of the human race. the women, even those who inhabit the towns, live much in the open air: besides being employed in many slavish offices, they sit at their doors or windows pursuing their business, or lounge about, watching passengers to obtain charity. thus their faces and necks are always of a copper color, and, at an advanced age, more dusky still; so that, for the anatomy and coloring of witches, a painter needs look no further. their wretchedness is strongly contrasted by the gaiety of the higher classes. the military, who, i suppose, as usual in france, hold the first place, appear in all possible variety of keeping and costume, with their well-proportioned figures, clean apparel, decided gait, martial air, and whiskered faces. here and there we see gliding along the well-dressed lady (not well dressed, indeed, as far as becomingness goes, but fashionably), with a gown of triple flounces, whose skirt intrudes even upon the shoulders, obliterating the waist entirely, while her throat is lost in an immense frill of four or more ranks; and sometimes a large shawl over all completes the disguise of the shape. the head of the dame or damsel is usually enveloped in a gauze or silk bonnet, sufficiently large to spread, were it laid upon a table, two feet in diameter, and trimmed with various-colored ribbons and artificial flowers: in the hand is seen the ridicule, a never-failing accompaniment. the lower orders of women at rouen usually wear the cauchoise cap, or an approach to it, rising high to a narrowish point at top, and furnished with immense ears or wings that drop on the shoulder, then opening in front so as to allow to be seen on the forehead a small portion of hair, which divides and falls in two or three spiral ringlets on each side of the face. the remainder of the dress is generally composed of a colored petticoat, probably striped, an apron of a different color, a bodice still differing in tint from the rest, and a shawl, uniting all the various hues of all the other parts of the dress. some of the peasants from the country look still more picturesque, when mounted on horseback bringing vegetables: they keep their situation without saddle or stirrup, and seem perfectly at ease. but the best figures on horseback are the young men who take out their masters' horses to give them exercise, and who are frequently seen on the _grand cours_. they ride without hat, coat, saddle, or saddle-cloth, and with the shirt sleeves rolled up above the elbow. their negligent equipment, added to their short, curling hair, and the ease and elasticity they display in the management of their horses, gives them, on the whole, a great resemblance to the grecian warriors of the elgin marbles. men, as well as women, are frequently seen without hats in the streets, and continually uncravatted; and when their heads are covered, these coverings are of every shape and hue; from the black beaver, with or without a rim, through all gradations of cap, to the simple white cotton nightcap. a painter would delight in this display of forms and these sparkling touches of color, especially when contrasted with the grey of the city, and the tender tints of the sky, water, and distance, and the broad coloring of the landscape." footnotes: [ ] "he was son of osborne de bolebec and aveline his wife, sister to gunnora, duchess of normandy, great-grandmother to the conqueror, and was one of the principal persons who composed the general survey of the realm, especially for the county of worcester. in he adhered to william rufus, against his brother robert courthose, and forfeited his norman possessions on the king's behalf, of whose army there he was a principal commander, and behaved himself very honorably. yet, in the time of henry ist, he took the part of the said courthose against that king, but died the year following,"--_banks' extinct baronagé_, iii. p. . [ ] _duchesne, scriptores normanni_, p. . [ ] p. . letter v. journey to havre--pays de caux--st. vallery--fÉcamp--the precious blood--the abbey--tombs in it--montivilliers--harfleur. (_rouen, june_, .) lest i should deserve to be visited with the censure which i have taken the liberty of passing upon ducarel's tour, i shall begin by premising that my account of the present state of the tract, intended for the subject of this and the following letter, is wholly derived from the journals of my companions. their road by fécamp, havre, bolbec, and yvetot, has led them through the greater part of the pays de caux, a district which, in the time of cæsar, was peopled by the caletes or caleti. antiquaries suppose, that in the name of this tribe, they discover the traces of its celtic origin, and that its radical is no other than the word _kalt_ or _celt_ itself. as a proof of the correctness of this etymology, bourgueville[ ] tells us that but little more than two hundred years have passed since its inhabitants, now universally called _cauchois_, were not less commonly called _caillots_ or _caillettes_; a name which still remains attached to several families, as well as to the village gonfreville la caillotte, and, probably, to some others. i shall, however, waive all celtic theory, "for that way madness lies," and enter upon more sober chorography. the author of the description of upper normandy states, that the territory known by that appellation was limited to the pays de caux and the vexin: the former occupying the line of sea-coast from the brêle to the seine, together with the governments of eu and havre and the pays de brai; the latter comprising the roumois, and the french as well as the norman vexin. all these territorial divisions have, indeed, been obliterated by the state-geographers of the revolution; and normandy, time-honored normandy herself, has disappeared from the map of the dominions of the french king. the ancient duchy is severed into the five departments of the seine inférieure, the eure, the orne, calvados, and the manche. these are the only denominations known to the government or to the law, yet they are scarcely received in common parlance. the people still speak of normandy, and they still take a pleasure in considering themselves as normans: and, i too, can share in their attachment to a name, which transmits the remembrance of actual sovereignty and departed glory. until the re-union of feudal normandy to the crown of its liege lord, the duke was one of the twelve peers of the kingdom; and to his hands that kingdom entrusted the sacred oriflamme, as often as it was expedient to unfurl it in war. normandy also contained several titular duchies, ancient fiefs held of the king as duke of normandy, but which, out of favour to their owners, were "erected," as the french lawyers say, into duchies, after the province had reverted to the crown. this erection, however, gave but a title to the noble owner, without increasing his territorial privileges; nor could any of our richards, or our henries, have allowed a liege man to write himself duke, like his proud feudal suzerein. the recent duchies were alençon, aumale, harcourt, damville, elbeuf, etouteville, and longueville, and three of them were included in the pays de gaux, the inhabitants of which, from the titles connected with it, were accustomed to dignify it with the epithet of _noble_. their claim to the epithet is thus given by an ancient norman poet of the fifteenth century; and if, according to the old tradition, which voltaire has bantered with his usually incredulity, we could admit that yvetot was ever really a kingdom, it must be allowed that few provinces could produce such a titled terrier: "au noble pays de caux y a quatre abbayes royaux, six prieurés conventionaux, et six barons de grand arroi, quatre comtes, trois ducs, un roi." the soil of the district is generally rich; but the farmers frequently suffer from drought, especially in its western part, where they are obliged almost constantly to have recourse to artifical irrigation. the houses and villages are all surrounded with hedges, thickly planted, and each village is also belted in the same manner. these inclosures, which are peculiar to the pays de caux, give a monotonous appearance to the landscape, but they are highly beneficial, for they break the force of the winds, and furnish the inhabitants with fuel. if my memory does not deceive me, the towns either of the ancient gauls or teutons, are described as being thus encompassed in primitive times; but i cannot name my authorities for the assertion. st. vallery, the first stage beyond dieppe, is situated in a valley; and there is an obscure tradition that this valley was once watered by a river, which disappeared some centuries ago. it is conjectured, from the name of the town, that it claims an origin as high as the seventh century, when the disciples of st. vallery were obliged to quit their original monastery and take refuge elsewhere. yet, according to other authorities[ ], it did not receive its present appellation till , when richard coeur de lion, after having destroyed the town and abbey of st. vallery sur somme, carried off the relics of the patron saint, and deposited them in this town. my reporters tell me that it has an air of antiquity and gloom, but that it contains nothing worthy of notice except a crucifix in the churchyard, of stone, richly wrought, dated , and a _bénitier_ of such simple form and rude workmanship, as to appear of considerable antiquity. the place itself is only a wretched residence for four or five thousand fishermen; but still it has a name[ ] in history. hence william sailed for the conquest of england; and its harbor, all poor and small as it is, has always been considered of importance to the country; there being no other between havre and dieppe capable of affording shelter to vessels of even a moderate size. the road to fécamp passes through the little town of cany, situated in a beautiful valley; and there my family met the archbishop of rouen, who, at this moment, is in progress through his diocese, for the purpose of confirmation. the approach of his eminence gave the appearance of a fair to every village: young and old of both sexes were collected in the highways to welcome the prelate. he travelled in considerable state, attended by a military escort of twenty men; and arrayed in the scarlet robe of a roman cardinal, with the brilliant "decoration" of the legion of honor conspicuous upon his breast. for the archbishop is a grand officer of that brotherhood of bastard chivalry; and this ornament, conjoined to his train of whiskered warriors, seemed to render him a very type of the church militant. his eminence is extremely bulky; and my pilgrims were wicked enough to be much amused by the oddity of his pomp and pride. nor did the postillion spare his facetiousness on the occasion; for you are aware that in france, as in most other parts of the continent, the servile classes use a degree of familiarity in their intercourse with their betters, to which we are little accustomed in england, and which has given rise to the italian proverb, that "il francese è fedele, l'italiano rispettoso, l'inglese schiavo[ ]." throughout this part of france, large flocks of sheep are commonly seen in the vicinity of the sea, and, as the pastures are uninclosed, they are all regularly guarded by a shepherd and his black dog, whose activity cannot fail to be a subject of admiration. he is always on the alert and attentive to his business, skirting his flock to keep them from straggling, and that, apparently, without any directions from his master. in the night they are folded upon the ploughed land; and the shepherd lodges, like a tartar in his _kibitka_, in a small cart roofed and fitted up with doors. fécamp, like other towns in the neighborhood, is imbedded in a deep valley; and the road, on approaching it, threads through an opening between hills "stern and wild," a tract of "brown heath and shaggy wood," resembling many parts of scotland. the town is long and straggling, the streets steep and crooked; its inhabitants, according to the official account of the population of france, amount to seven thousand, and the number of its houses is estimated at thirteen hundred, besides above a third of that quantity which are deserted, and more or less in ruins[ ]. fécamp appeared desolate and decaying to its visitors, but they recollected that its very desolation was a voucher of the antiquity from which it derives its interest. it claims an origin as high as the days of cæsar, when it was called _fisci campus_, being the station where the tribute was collected. it is in vain, however, to expect concord amongst etymologists; and, of course, there are other right learned wights who protest against this derivation. they shake their heads and say, "no; you must trace the name, fécamp, to _fici campus_;" and they strengthen their assertion by a sort of _argumentum ad ecclesiam_, maintaining that the _precious blood_, for which fécamp was long celebrated, corroborates and confirms their tale. a chapel in the abbey church attests the sanctity of this relic. the legend states that nicodemus, at the time of the entombment of our saviour, collected in a phial the blood from his wounds, and bequeathed it to his nephew, isaac; who afterwards, making a tour through gaul, stopped in the pays de caux, and buried the phial at the root of a fig-tree[ ]. nor is this the only miracle connected with the church. the monkish historians descant with florid eloquence upon the white stag, which pointed out to duke ansegirus the spot where the edifice was to be erected; the mystic knife, inscribed "in nomine sanctæ et individuæ trinitatis," thus declaring to whom the building should be dedicated; and the roof, which, though prepared for a distant edifice, felt that it would be best at fécamp, and actually, of its own accord, undertook a voyage by sea, and landed, without the displacing of a single nail, upon the sea-coast near the town. all these _contes dévots_, and many others, you will find recorded in the _neustria pia_[ ]. i will only detain you with a few words more upon the subject of the _precious blood_, a matter too important to be thus hastily dismissed. it was placed here by duke richard i.; but was lost in the course of a long and turbulent period, and was not found again till the year , when it was discovered within the substance of a column built in the wall. two little tubes of lead originally contained the treasure; but these were soon inclosed in two others of a more precious metal, and the whole was laid at the bottom of a box of gilt silver, placed in a beautiful pyramidical shrine. thus protected, it was, before the revolution, fastened to one of the pillars of the choir, behind a trellis-work of copper, and was an object of general adoration. i know not what has since become of it; but, as they are now managing these matters better in france, we may safely calculate upon the speedy reappearance of the relic. nor must you refer this legend to the many which protestant incredulity is too apt to class with the idle tales of all ages, the "... quicquid græcia mendax audet in historiâ;" for no less grave an authority than the faculty of theology at paris determined, by a formal decree of the th of may, , that this worship was very proper; for that, to use their words, "non repugnat pietati fidelium credere quòd aliquid de sanguine christi effuso tempore passionis remanserit in terris." the abbey, to which fécamp was indebted for all its greatness and celebrity, was founded in [ ] for a community of nuns, by waning, the count or governor of the pays de caux, a nobleman who had already contributed to the endowment of the monastery of st. wandrille. st. ouen, bishop of rouen, dedicated the church in the presence of king clotaire; and, so rapidly did the fame of the sanctity of the abbey extend, that the number of its inmates amounted in a very short period to three hundred or more. the arrival, however, of the normans, under hastings, in , caused the dispersion of the nuns; and the same story is related of the few who remained at fécamp, as of many others under similar circumstances, that they voluntarily cut off their noses and their lips, rather than be an object of attraction to the lust of their conquerors. the abbey, in return for their heroism, was levelled with the ground, and it did not rise from its ashes till the year , when the piety of duke richard i. built the church anew, under the auspices of his son, robert, archbishop of rouen; but, departing from the original foundation, he established therein a chapter of regular canons, who, however, were so irregular in their conduct, that within ten years they were doomed to give way to a body of benedictine monks, headed by an abbot, named william, from a convent at dijon. from his time the monastery continued to increase in splendor. three suffragan abbies, that of notre dame at bernay, of st. taurin at evreux, and of ste. berthe de blangi, in the diocese of boullogne, owned the superior power of the abbot of fécamp, and supplied the three mitres which he proudly bore on his abbatial shield. kings and princes in former ages frequently paid the abbey the homage of their worship and their gifts; and, in a period nearer to our own, casimir of poland, after his voluntary abdication of the throne, selected it as the spot in which he sought for repose, when wearied with the cares of royalty. the english possessions of fécamp (for like most of the great norman abbeys, it held lands in our island) do not appear to have been large; but, according to an author of our own country[ ] the abbot presented to one hundred and thirty benefices, some in the diocese of rouen, others in those of bayeux, lisieux, coutances, chartres, and beauvais; and it enjoyed so many estates, that its income was said to be forty thousand crowns per annum. fécamp moreover could boast of a noble library, well stored with manuscripts[ ], and containing among its archives many original charters, deeds, &c. of william the conqueror, and several of his successors. this magnificent church is three hundred and seventy feet long and seventy high; the transept, including the chapel of the precious blood, one hundred and twenty feet long; the tower two hundred feet high. a portion of it was burned in , but soon repaired. william de ros, third abbot, rebuilt all the upper part in a better taste, and enlarged the nave, which was not finished till . a successor of his at the beginning of the next century completed the chapels round the choir. the screen was begun by one of the monks about , who erected the chapel dedicated to the death of the virgin, a master-piece of architecture and adorned with historical carving. the cloister was built so late as . cathedral service was performed in the church, in which were the tombs of the first and second of the richards of normandy; of richard, infant son of the former, and of william, third son of the latter; of margaret, betrothed to robert, son of william the conqueror, who died ; of alard, third earl of bretagne, ; of archbishop osmond, and of a lady judith, whose jingling epitaph has given rise to a variety of conjectures, whether she was the wife of duke richard iind, or his daughter, or some other person.-- "illa solo sociata, mariti at jure soluta, judita judicio justificata jacet; et quæ, dante deo, sed judice justificante, primo jus subiit sed modò jura regit." as to duke richard ist, he caused a sarcophagus of stone to be made and placed within this church; and so long as he lived, it was filled with wheat on every friday, and the grain, together with five shillings, distributed weekly among the poor. and when his death approached, he expressly charged his successor, "bury not my body within the church, but deposit it on the outside, immediately under the eaves, that the dripping of the rain from the holy roof may wash my bones as i lie, and may cleanse them of the spots of impurity contracted during a negligent and neglected life." our party could not ascertain whether any of the historical monuments were yet in existence. the church, at the time they were there, was wholly occupied with preparations for the approaching confirmation. young girls in their best dresses, all in white, and holding tapers in their hands, filled the nave, while the chapels were crowded with individuals at prayer, or still more with females waiting for an opportunity of confessing themselves, previously to receiving the expected absolution from the archbishop. under such circumstances nothing could be examined; but there appeared to be in the chapels five or six fine, though mutilated, altar tombs: to whom, however, they belonged, or what was their actual state, it was impossible to tell. accompanying them are also some curious pieces of sculpture. for the same reason no farther remark could be made upon the interior of the building, except that its architecture is imposing, and its roof, supported by tall clustered pillars, has much the general effect of the nave of our cathedral at norwich, one of the purest specimens of norman architecture in england. externally the tower is handsome, and of nearly the earliest pointed style; not altogether so, as its arches, though narrow, contain each a double arch within. the rest of the building seems to have suffered much from alterations and dilapidation; and whatever tracery there may have been originally has disappeared from the windows; nor are there saints or even niches remaining above the doors. the exterior of the church of st. etienne, one of the ten parochial churches of fécamp, before the revolution, is considerably more imposing; but upon this i will not detain you, as you will see it engraved in mr. cotman's _architectural antiquities of normandy_, from a sketch taken by him last year. henry iind, of england, made a donation of the town to the abbey, whose seignorial jurisdiction also extended over many other parishes, as well in this as in the adjoining dioceses. its exclusive privileges were likewise ample. under the first and second race, fécamp was the seat of government of the pays de caux, and the residence of the counts of the district: it was also a residence of the norman dukes. their castle was rebuilt by william longue-epeé, with a degree of magnificence which is said to have been extraordinary. this duke took particular pleasure in the place, and he and his immediate successors frequently lived here. but the palace has long since disappeared[ ]: the continual increase of the monastic buildings gradually occupied its place; and they, in their turn, are now experiencing the revolutions of fortune, the inhabitants being at this very time actively employed in their demolition. the town is at present wholly supported by the fisheries, in which are employed about fourteen hundred sailors[ ]. the herrings of fécamp have always had the same high character in france, as those of lowestoft and yarmouth in england. the armorial lion of our own town ends, as you know, with the tail of a herring; and i really have been often inclined to affix the same appendage to the rump of the lion of normandy. you are not much of an epicure, nor are you very likely to search in the _almanach des gourmands_ for dainties; if you did, you would probably find there the following proverb, which has existed since the thirteenth century,-- "aloses de bourdeaux; esturgeons de blaye; congres de la rochelle; harengs de fécamp; saumons de loire; sêches de coutances." the fortifications of fécamp are destroyed; but, upon the cliffs which command the town, there still remain some slight vestiges of a fort, erected in the time of henry ivth, when the inhabitants espoused the party of the league. the capture of this fort was one of those gallant exploits which the historian delights in recording; and it is detailed at great length in sully's memoirs[ ]. from fécamp to havre the country is well wooded, and much applied to the cultivation of flax, which flourishes in this neighborhood, and has given rise to considerable linen manufactories. the trees look well in masses, but individually they are trimmed into ugliness. near havre the road goes through montivilliers, and, still nearer, through harfleur. the first of these is, like fécamp, a place of antiquity, and derived its name[ ] and importance from a monastery which was founded at the end of the seventh century. its history is headed by the chapter which begins the records of most of the ecclesiastical foundations of the duchy: when the invading heathen normans reached montivilliers, it shared the common fate of destruction, and when they withdrew, the common piety recalled it to existence. richard iind bestowed it upon fécamp, but the same sovereign restored it to its independence, at the request of his aunt, beatrice, who retired hither as abbess, at the head of a community of nuns. a convent, over which an abbess of royal blood had presided, could not fail to enjoy considerable privileges; and it retained them to the period of the revolution. the tower of the church still remains, a noble specimen of the norman architecture of the eleventh century, at which period the building is known to have been erected. the rest of the edifice, though handsome as a whole, is the work of different æras. the archives of the monastery furnish an account of large sums expended in additions and alterations in the years and . the interior contains some elegant stone fillagree-work in the form of a small gallery or pulpit, attached to the west end near the roof, and probably intended to receive a band of singers on high festivals. a gallery of a similar nature, but of wood, and to which the foregoing purpose was assigned by the learned wight, john carter, is yet remaining at the north-west corner of westminster abbey. you and i, who are sadly inclined to admire ugliness and antiquity, would have been better pleased with the capitals of the pillars, which are evidently coeval with the tower. drawings were made of some of these capitals, and i have selected two which appeared to be the most singular. [illustration: capital with angel] in this you observe an angel weighing the good works of the deceased against his evil deeds; and, as the former are far exceeding the avoirdupois upon which satan is to found his claim, he is endeavoring most unfairly to depress the scale with his two-pronged fork. this allegory is of frequent occurrence in the monkish legends.--the saint, who was aware of the frauds of the fiend, resolved to hold the balance himself.--he began by throwing in a pilgrimage to a miraculous virgin.--the devil pulled out an assignation with some fair mortal madonna, who had ceased to be immaculate.--the saint laid in the scale the sackcloth and ashes of the penitent of lenten-time.--satan answered the deposit by the vizard and leafy-robe of the masker of the carnival.--thus did they still continue equally interchanging the sorrows of godliness with the sweets of sin, and still the saint was distressed beyond compare, by observing that the scale of the wicked thing (wise men call him the correcting principle,) always seemed the heaviest. almost did he despair of his client's salvation, when he luckily saw eight little jetty black claws just hooking and clenching over the rim of the golden basin. the claws at once betrayed the craft of the cloven foot. old nick had put a little cunning young devil under the balance, who, following the dictates of his senior, kept clinging to the scale, and swaying it down with all his might and main. the saint sent the imp to his proper place in a moment, and instantly the burthen of transgression was seen to kick the beam. painters and sculptors also often introduced this ancient allegory of the balance of good and evil, in their representations of the last judgment: it was even employed by lucas kranach. the other capital which i send to you is ornamented with groups of centaurs or sagittaries. astronomical sculptures are frequently found upon the monuments of the middle ages. two capitals, forming part of a series of zodiacal sculptures, are preserved in the _musée des monumens français_; and, speaking from memory, i think they bear a near resemblance in style to that which is here represented. [illustration: capital with centaurs or sagittaries] montivilliers itself is a neat little town, beautifully situated in a valley, with a stream of clear water running through it. at this time its trade is trifling; but the case was otherwise in former days, when its cloths were considered to rival those of flanders, and the preservation of the manufacture was regarded of so much consequence, that sundry regulations respecting it are to be found in the royal ordinances. one of them in particular, of the fourteenth century, notices the frauds committed by other towns in imitating the mark of the cloth of montivilliers. the general appearance of harfleur is much like that of montivilliers; but numerous remains of walls and gates denote that it was once of still greater comparative importance. the ancient trade of the place is now transferred to havre de grace, the situation of the latter town being far more elegible. the seine no longer rolls its waves under harfleur; and the desiccated harbor is now seen as a verdant meadow. without the aid of history, therefore, you would in vain inquire into the derivation of the name, in connection with which, the learned huet, bishop of avranches[ ], calls upon us to remark, that the names of many places in normandy end in _fleur_, as barfleur, harfleur, honfleur, fiefleur, vitefleur, &c.; and that, if, as it is commonly supposed, this termination comes from _fluctus_, it must have passed through the saxon, in which language _fleoten_ signifies _to flow_. hence we have _flot_, and from _flot, fleut_ and _fleur_, the last alteration being warranted by the genius of the french language. the bishop further states, that there are two facts, affording a decisive proof of this origin: the one, that the names now terminating in _fleur_, ended anciently _flot_, barfleur being barbeflot, harfleur hareflot, and honfleur huneflot; the other, that all places so called are situated where they are washed by the tide. such is also the position of the towns in holland, whose names terminate in _vliet_, and of those in england, ending in _fleet_, as purfleet, byfleet, &c. the latin word _flevus_ is of the same kind, and is derived from the same source; for, instead of hareflot and huneflot, some old records have hareflou and huneflou, and some others barfleu, terms approaching _flevus_, which is also called by ptolemy, _fleus_, and by mela, _fletio_. it is highly improbable, that these two last terms should have been coined subsequently to the time of the romans becoming masters of gaul, and it is equally unlikely that the saxon _fleoten_ should be derived from the latin. thus far, therefore, the languages appear to have had a common origin, and they are insomuch allied to the celtic, that those towns in britanny, in whose names are found the syllables _pleu_ and _plou_, are also invariably placed in similar situations. if, however, i am fairly embarked in the sea of etymological conjecture, i know not where i shall be carried; and therefore, instead of urging the probability that the root of the celtic _pleu_ is apparently to be found in the pelasgic [greek in original] sail or float, i shall return to harfleur and its history. whilst harfleur was in its glory, it was considered the key of the seine and of this part of france. in it opposed a vigorous resistance to our henry vth, who had no sooner made himself master of it, than, with a degree of contradiction, which teaches man to regard the performance of his duty to god as no reason for his performing it to his fellow-creatures, "the king uncovered his feet and legs, and walked barefoot from the gate to the parish church of st. martin, where he very devoutly offered up his prayers and thanksgivings for his success. but, immediately afterwards he made all the nobles and the men at arms that were in the town his captives, and shortly after sent the greater part out of the place, clothed in their jerkins only, taking down their names and surnames in writing, and obliging them to swear by their faith that they would surrender themselves prisoners at calais on martinmas-day next ensuing. in like manner were the townsmen made prisoners, and obliged to ransom themselves for large sums of money. afterwards did the king banish them out of the town, with numbers of women and children, to each of whom were given five sols and a portion of their garments." monstrelet[ ], from whom i have transcribed this detail, adds, that "it was pitiful to hear and see the sorrow of these poor people, thus driven away from their homes; the priests and clergy were likewise dismissed; and, in regard to the wealth found there, it was not to be told, and appertained even to the king, who distributed it as he pleased." other writers tell us that the number of those thus expelled was eight thousand, and that the conqueror, not satisfied with this act of vengeance, publicly burned the charters and archives of the town and the title-deeds of individuals, re-peopled harfleur with english, and forbad the few inhabitants that remained to possess or inherit any landed property. after a lapse, however, of twenty years, the peasants of the neighboring country, aided by one hundred and four of the inhabitants, retook the place by assault. the exploit was gallant; and a custom continued to prevail in harfleur, for above two centuries subsequently, intended to commemorate it; a bell was tolled one hundred and four times every morning at day-break, being the time when the attack was made. in , the citizens, undismayed by the sufferings of their predecessors, withstood a second siege from our countrymen, whom the town resisted four months, and in whose possession it remained ten years, when charles viiith permanently united it to the crown of france. notwithstanding these calamities, it rose again to a state of prosperity, till the revocation of the edict of nantes gave the death-blow to its commerce; and intolerance completed the desolation which war had begun. at present, it is only remarkable for the elegant tower and spire of its church, connected by flying buttresses of great beauty, the whole of rich and elaborate workmanship. [illustration: tower and spire of harfleur church] at a short distance from harfleur, the seine comes in view, flowing into the sea through a fine rich valley; but the wide expanse of water has no picturesque beauty. the hills around havre are plentifully spotted with gentlemen's houses, few only of which have been seen in other parts in the ride. the town itself is strongly fortified; and, having conducted you hither, i shall leave you for the present, reserving for another letter any particulars respecting havre, and the rest of the road to rouen. footnotes: [ ] _antiquités de normandie_, p. . [ ] _dumoulin, géographie de la france_, ii p. . [ ] _description de la haute normandie_, i. p. . [ ] heylin notices the familiarity of the approach of the french servants, in his delineation of a norman inn. an extract may amuse those who are not familiar with the works of this quaint yet sensible writer. "there stood in the chamber three beds, if at the least it be lawful so to call them; the foundation of them was straw, so infinitely thronged together, that the wool-packs which our judges sit on in the parliament, were melted butter to them; upon this lay a medley of flocks and feathers sewed up together in a large bag, (for i am confident it was not a tick) but so ill ordered that the knobs stuck out on each side like a crab-tree cudgel. he had need to have flesh enough that lyeth on one of them, otherwise the second night would wear out his bones.--let us now walk into the kitchen and observe their provision. and here we found a most terrible execution committed on the person of a pullet; my hostess, cruel woman, had cut the throat of it, and without plucking off the feathers, tore it into pieces with her hands, and afterwards took away skin and feathers together: this done, it was clapped into a pan and fried for supper.--but the principal ornaments of these inns are the men-servants, the raggedest regiment that ever i yet looked upon; such a thing as a chamberlain was never heard of amongst them, and good clothes are as little known as he. by the habits of his attendants a man would think himself in a gaol, their clothes are either full of patches or open to the skin. bid one of them make clean your boots, and presently he hath recourse to the curtains.--they wait always with their hats on, and so do all servants attending on their masters.--time and use reconciled me to many other things, which, at the first were offensive; to this most irreverent custom i returned an enemy; _neither can i see how it can choose but stomach the most patient_ to see the worthiest sign of liberty usurped and profaned by the basest of slaves."--peter then has a learned _excursus de jure pileorum_, wherein _tertullian de spectaculis, erasmus_ his _chiliades_, and many other reverent authorities are adduced; also, giving an account of his successful exertions, as to "the licence of putting on our caps at our public meetings, which privilege, time, and the tyranny of the vice-chancellor, had taken from." after which, he still resumes in ire,--"this french sauciness hath drawn me out of the way; an impudent familiarity, which, i confess, did much offend me; and to which i still profess myself an open enemy. though jacke speak french, i cannot endure jacke should be a gentleman." [ ] _géographie de la france_, ii. p. . [ ] _description de la haute normandie_, i. p. . [ ] p. , , . [ ] _description de la haute normandie_, i. p. .--some other writers date the foundation a.d. . [ ] _gough's alien priories_, i. p. . [ ] this important part of its treasures, we may hope, from the following passage in noel, has been in a measure preserved. "on m'a assuré que cette dernière partie des richesses littéraires de notre pays étoit heureusement conserveé: puisse aujourd'hui ce dépot, honorant les mains qui le possédent, parvenir intégre jusqu'aux tems propères où le génie de l'histoire pourra utiliser sa possession."--_essais sur la seine inférieure_, ii. p. . [ ] i do not know if it be wholly destroyed; for the author of the description of upper normandy and goube both speak of the existence of a square tower within the precincts of the abbey, part of the old palace, and known by the name of the _tower of babel_. [ ] _noel, essais sur la seine inférieure_, ii. p. . [ ] vol. i. p. . [ ] this name, in latin, is _monasterium villare_; in old french records it is called _monstier vieil_. [ ] _origines de caen, nd edit._ p. . [ ] vol. ii. p. . letter vi. havre--trade and history of the town--eminent men--bolbec--yvetot--ride to rouen--french beggars. (_rouen, june_, .) to fécamp and the other places noticed in my last letter, a more striking contrast could not easily be found than havre. it equally wants the interest derived from ancient history, and the appearance of misery inseparable from present decay. and yet even havre is now suffering and depressed. a town which depends altogether upon foreign commerce, could not fail to feel the effects of a long maritime war; and we accordingly find the number of its inhabitants, which twenty years ago was estimated at twenty-five thousand, now reduced to little more than sixteen thousand. the blow, which havre will with most difficulty recover is the loss of st. domingo; for, before the revolution, it almost enjoyed a monopoly of the trade of this important colony, in which upwards of eighty ships, each of above three hundred tons burthen, were constantly employed. with martinique and guadaloupe it had a similar, though less extensive, intercourse. as the natural outlet for the manufactures of rouen and paris, it supplied the french islands in the west indies with the principal part of their plantation stores; and the situation of the port was equally advantageous for the importation of their produce. guinea and the coast of africa afforded a second and important branch of commerce; and this also is little likely entirely to recover. we may add that, happily it is not so; for it depended principally upon the slave-trade, the profits of which were such, that it was calculated a vessel might clear upon an average nearly eight thousand pounds by each voyage[ ]. its whale-fishery has, for more than a century, ceased to exist. this pursuit began with spirit and at as early a period as the year , when the merchants of this port, in conjunction with those of biscay, fitted out the expedition commanded by vrolicq, seized upon a station near spitzbergen, where they would have obtained a permanent establishment, had they not been violently expelled by the danes and dutch. but the coasting-trade with the various ports of france, and the communication with the other countries of europe, is now again in full vigor; and it is to these sources that havre is chiefly indebted for the life and spirit visible in its quays and public places. the appearance of bustle and activity is a striking, at the same time that it is a most pleasing, character, of every great and commercial sea-port, in every part of the world: it is especially so in a climate which is milder than our own, and where not only the loading and unloading of the ships, with the consequent transport of merchandize, is continually taking place before the spectator; but the sides of the shops are commonly set open, sail-makers are pursuing their business in rows in the streets, and almost every handicraft and occupation is carried on in the open air. an acute traveller might also conjecture that the mildness of the atmosphere is comfortable and congenial to the parrots, perroquets, and monkeys, which are brought over as pets and companions by the sailors. great numbers of these exotic birds and brutes are to be seen at the windows, and they almost give to the town of havre the appearance of a tropical settlement. the quays are strongly edged and faced with granite: the streets, of which there are forty, are all built in straight lines, and chiefly at right angles with each other. in them are several fountains, round which picturesque groups of women are continually collected, employed with homeric industry in the task of washing linen. the churches are ugly, their style is a miserable caricature of roman architecture, the interiors are incumbered by dirty and dark chapels, filled up with wood carvings. the principal church has figures of saints, of wretched execution, but of the size of life, ranged round the interior. the harbor is calculated to contain three hundred vessels. the houses are oddly constructed: they are very narrow, and very lofty, being commonly seven stories high, and they are mostly fronted with stripes of tiled slate, and intermediate ones of mortar, so fantastically disposed, that two are rarely seen alike. notwithstanding what is alledged by the author of the _mémoires sur havre_, in his endeavors to give consequence to his native place, by maintaining its antiquity, it appears certain that no mention is made of the town previously to the fifteenth century. even so late as , its scite was occupied by a few hovels, clustered round a thatched chapel, under the protection of notre dame de grace, from whom the place derived the name of havre de grace. francis ist, who was the real founder[ ] of havre, was desirous of changing this name to _françoisville_ or _franciscopole_. but the will of a sovereign, as goube very justly observes, most commonly dies with him: in our days, the national convention, aided by the full force of popular enthusiasm, has equally failed in a similar attempt. the jacobins tried in vain to banish the recollections of good st. denis, by unchristening his vill under the appellation of _franciade_. disobedience to the edict, exposed, indeed, the contravener to the chance of experiencing the martyrdom of the bishop; yet the mandate still produced no effect. nor was napoléon more successful; and history affords abundant proof, that it is more easy to build a city, or even to conquer a kingdom, than to alter an established name. viewed in its present condition, no town in france unites more advantages than havre: it is one of the keys of the kingdom; it commands the mouth of the river that leads direct to the metropolis; and it is at once a great commercial town and a naval station. possessing such claims to commercial and military pre-eminence, it may appear matter of surprise that it should be of so recent an origin; but the cause is to be sought for in the changes which succeeding centuries have induced in the face of the country-- "vidi ego quæ fuerat quondam durissima tellus esse fretum; vidi factas ex æquore terras." the sea continually loses here, and, without great efforts on the part of man to retard the operation of the elements, havre may, in process of time, become what harfleur is. at its origin it stood immediately on the shore; the consequence of which was, that, within a very few years, a high tide buried two-thirds of the houses and nearly all the inhabitants. the remembrance of this dreadful calamity is still annually renewed by a solemn procession on the fifteenth of january. with regard to historical events connected with havre, there is little to be said. it was the spot whence our henry viith embarked, in , aided by four thousand men from charles viiith, of france, to enforce his claim to the english crown. the town was seized by the huguenots, and delivered to our queen elizabeth, in . but it was held by her only till the following year, when charles ixth, with catherine of medicis, commanded the siege in person, and pressed it so vigorously, that the earl of warwick was obliged to evacuate the place, after having sacrificed the greater part of his troops. at the end of the following century, after the bombardment and destruction of dieppe, an attack was made upon havre, but without success, owing to the strength of the fortifications, and particularly of the citadel. for this, the town was indebted to cardinal richelieu, who was its governor for a considerable time, and who also erected some of its public buildings, improved the basin, and gave a fresh impulse to trade, by ordering several large ships of war to be built here. as ship-builders, the inhabitants of havre have always had a high character: they stand conspicuous in the annals of the art, for the construction of the vessel called _la grande françoise_, and justly termed _la grande_, as having been of two thousand tons burthen. her cables are said to have been above the thickness of a man's leg; and, besides what is usually found in a ship, she contained a wind-mill and a tennis-court[ ]. her destination was, according to some authors, the east indies; according to others, the isle of rhodes, then attacked by soliman iind; but we need not now inquire whither she was bound; for, after advantage had been taken of two of the highest tides, the utmost which could be done was to tow her to the end of the pier, where she stuck fast, and was finally obliged to be cut to pieces. her history and catastrophe are immortalized by rabelais, under the appellation of _la grande nau françoise_. it were unpardonable to take leave of havre without one word upon the celebrated individuals to whom it has given birth; and you must allow me also, from our common taste for natural history, to point it out to your notice as a spot peculiarly favorable for the collecting of fossil shells, which are found about the town and neighborhood in great numbers and variety. the abbé dicquemare, a naturalist of considerable eminence, who resided here, may possibly be known to you by his observations on this subject, or still more probably by those upon the aetiniæ; the latter having been translated into english, and honored with a place in the transactions of our royal society. of more extensive, but not more justly merited, fame, are george scudery and his sister magdalen: the one a voluminous writer in his day, though now little known, except for his _critical observations upon the cid_; the other, a still more prolific author of novels, and alternately styled by her contemporaries the sappho of her age, and "un boutique de verbiage;" but unquestionably a writer of merit, notwithstanding the many unmanly sneers of boileau, whose bitter pen, like that of our own illustrious satirist, could not even consent to spare a female that had been so unfortunate as to provoke his resentment. she died in , at the advanced age of ninety-four. the last upon my list is one of whom death has very recently deprived the world, the excellent bernardin de saint pierre; a man whose writings are not less calculated to improve the heart than to enlarge the mind. it is impossible to read his works without feeling love and respect for the author. his exquisite little tale of _paul and virginia_ is in the hands of every body; and his larger work, the _studies of nature_, deserves to be no less generally read, as full of the most original observations, joined to theories always ingenious, though occasionally fanciful: the whole conveyed in a singularly captivating style, and its merits still farther enhanced by a constant flow of unaffected piety. the road from havre to rouen is of a different character, and altogether unlike that from dieppe; but what it gains in beauty of landscape it loses in interest. and yet, perhaps, it is even wrong to say that it gains much in point of beauty; for, though: trees are more generally dispersed, though cultivation is universal, and the soil good, and produce luxuriant, and though the mind and the eye cannot but be pleased by the abundance and verdure of the country, yet in picturesque effect it is extremely deficient. monotony, even of excellence, displeases. i am speaking of the road which passes through bolbec and yvetot: there is another which lies nearer to the banks of the seine, through lillebonne and caudebec, and this, i do not doubt, would, in every point of view, have been preferable. at but a short distance from havre, to the left, lies the church, formerly part of the priory, of grâville, a picturesque and interesting object. of the date of its erection we have no certain knowledge, and it is much to be regretted that we have not, for it is clearly of norman architecture; the tower a very pure specimen of that style, and the end of the north transept one of the most curious any where to be seen, and apparently; also one of the most ancient[ ]. i should therefore feel no scruple in referring the building to a more early period than the beginning of the thirteenth century, where our records of the establishment commence; for it was then that william malet, lord of grâville, placed here a number of regular canons from ste. barbe en auge, and endowed them with all the tythes and patronage he possessed in france and england. the act by which walter, archbishop of rouen, confirmed this foundation, is dated in . _stachys germanica_, a plant of extreme rarity in england, grows abundantly here by the road-side; and apple-trees are very numerous, not only edging the road, but planted in rows across the fields. the valley by which you enter bolbec is pretty and varied; full of trees and houses, which stand at different heights upon the hills on either side. the town itself is long, straggling, and uneven. through it runs a rapid little stream, which serves many purposes of extensive business, connected with the cotton manufactory, the preparation of leather, cutlery, &c. this stream, of the same name with the town, afterwards falls into the seine, near lillebonne, one of the most ancient places in normandy, and formerly the metropolis of the caletes, but now only a wretched village. tradition refers its ruin to the period of the invasion of gaul by the romans; but it revived under the norman dukes, who resided here a portion of the year, and it was a favorite seat of william the conqueror. to him, or to one of his immediate predecessors or successors, it is most probable that the castle owes its existence. mr. cotman found the ruins of it extensive and remarkable. the importance of the place, at a far more early date, is proved by the medals of the upper and lower empire, which are frequently dug up here, and not less decisively by the many roman roads which originate from the town. bolbec can lay claim to no similar distinction; but it is full of industrious manufacturers. twice in the last century it was burned to the ground; and, after each conflagration, it has arisen more flourishing from its ashes. at the last, which happened in , louis xvth made a donation to the town of eighty thousand livres, and the parliament of normandy added a gratuity of half as much more, to assist the inhabitants in repairing their losses. yvetot, the next stage, possesses no visible interest, and furnishes no employment for the pencil. the town is, like bolbec, a residence for manufacturers; and the curious stranger would seek in vain for any traces of decayed magnificence, any vestiges or records of a royal residence. and yet, it is held that yvetot was the capital of a _kingdom_, which, if it really did exist, had certainly the distinction of being the smallest that ever was ruled on its own account. the subject has much exercised the talents and ingenuity of historians. it has been maintained by the affirmants, that an actual monarchy existed here at a period as remote as the sixth century; others argue that, though the lords of yvetot may have been stiled _kings_, the distinction was merely titular, and was not conferred till about the year ; whilst a third, and, perhaps, most numerous, body, treat the whole as apocryphal. robert gaguin[ ], a french historian of the fifteenth century, prefaces the anecdote by observing, that he is the first french writer by whom it is recorded; and, as if sensible that such a remark could not fail to excite suspicion, he proceeds to say, that it is wonderful that his predecessors should have been silent. yet he certainly was not the first who stated the story in print; for it appears in the chronicles of nicholas gilles, which were printed in , whilst the earliest edition of gaugin was published in .--according to these monkish historians, clotharius, of france, son of clovis, had threatened the life of his chamberlain, gaultier, lord of yvetot, who thereupon fled the kingdom, and for ten years remained in voluntary exile, fighting against the infidels. at the end of this period, gaultier hoped that the anger of his sovereign might be appeased, and he accordingly went to rome, and implored the aid of the supreme pontiff. pope agapetus pitied the wanderer; and he gave unto him a letter addressed to the king of the franks, in which he interceded for the supplicant. clotharius was then residing at soissons, his capital, and thither gaultier repaired on good-friday, in the year , and, availing himself of the moment when the king was kneeling before the altar, threw himself at the feet of the royal votary, beseeching pardon in the name of the common savior of mankind, who on that day shed his blood for the redemption of the human race. but his prayers and appeal were in vain: he found no pardon; clothair drew his sword, and slew him on the spot. the pope threatened the monarch with apostolical vengeance, and clothair attempted to atone for the murder, by raising the town and territory of yvetot into a kingdom, and granting it in perpetuity to the heirs of gaultier. such is the tradition. there is a very able dissertation upon the subject, by the abbé de vertot[ ], who endeavors to disprove the whole story: first by the silence of all contemporary authors; then by the fact, that yvetot was not at that time under the dominion of clothair; then by an anachronism, which the story involves as to pope agapetus; and finally by sundry other arguments of minor importance. even he, however, admits, that in a royal decree, dated , and preserved among the records of the exchequer of normandy, the title of _king_ is given to the lord of yvetot; and he is obliged to cut the knot, which he is unable to untie, by stating it as his opinion, that at or about this period yvetot was really raised into a sovereignty, though, on what occasion, for what purpose, and with what privileges, no document remains to prove. as a parallel case, he instances the peers of france, an order with whose existence every body is acquainted, while of the date of the establishment nothing is known. it is surprising, that so clear-sighted a writer did not perceive that he was doing nothing more than illustrating, as the logicians say, _obscurum per obscurius_, or, rather, making darkness more dark; as if it were not considerably more probable, that so strange a circumstance should have taken place in the sixth century, and have been left unrecorded, when society was unformed, anomalies frequent, and historians few, than that it should have happened in the fourteenth, a period when the government of france was completely settled in a regular form, under one monarch, when literature was generally diffused, and when every remarkable event was chronicled. besides which, the inhabitants of the little kingdom continued, in some measure, independent of his most christian majesty, even until the revolution. at least, they paid not a sou of taxes, neither _aides_, nor _tenth-penny_, nor _gabelle_. it was a sanctuary into which no farmer of the revenue dared to enter. and it is hardly to be doubted, but that there must have been some very singular cause for so singular and enviable a privilege. in our own days, m. duputel[ ], a member of the academy of rouen, has entered the lists against the abbé; and between them the matter is still undecided, and is likely so to continue. for myself, i have no means of throwing light upon it; but the impression left upon my mind, after reading both sides of the question, is, that the arguments are altogether in favor of vertot, while the greater weight of probabilities is in the opposite scale. i shall leave you, however, to poise the balance, and i shall not attempt to cause either end of the beam to preponderate, by acting the part of old nick as before exhibited to you; though i decidedly believe that gaguin had some authority for his tale, but, by neglecting to quote it, he has left the minds of his readers to uncertainty, and his own veracity to suspicion. with this digression i bid farewell to yvetot, and its lilliputian kingdom; nor will i detain you much longer on the way to rouen, the road passing through nothing likely to afford interest in point of historical recollection or antiquities; though within a very short distance of the ancient abbey of pavilly on the one side, and at no great distance from the still more celebrated monastery of jumieges on the other. the houses in this neighborhood are in general composed of a framework of wood, with the interstices filled with clay, in which are imbedded small pieces of glass, disposed in rows, for windows. the wooden studs are preserved from the weather by slates, laid one over the other, like the scales of a fish, along their whole surface, or occasionally by wood over wood in the same manner. i am told that there are some very ancient timber churches in norway, erected immediately after the conversion of the northmen, which are covered with wood-scales: the coincidence is probably accidental, yet it is not altogether unworthy of notice. at one end the roof projects beyond the gable four or five feet, in order to protect a door-way and ladder or staircase that leads to it; and this elevation has a very picturesque effect. a series of villages, composed of cottages of this description, mixed with large manufactories and extensive bleaching grounds, comprise all that is to be remarked in the remainder of the ride; a journey that would be as interesting to a traveller in quest of statistical information, as it would be the contrary to you or to me. poverty, the inseparable companion of a manufacturing population, shews itself in the number of beggars that infest this road as well as that from calais to paris. they station themselves by the side of every hill, as regularly as the mendicants of rome were wont to do upon the bridges. sometimes a small nosegay thrown into your carriage announces the petition in language, which, though mute, is more likely to prove efficacious than the loudest prayer. most commonly, however, there is no lack of words; and, after a plaintive voice has repeatedly assailed you with "une petite charité, s'il vous plait, messieurs et dames," an appeal is generally made to your devotion, by their gabbling over the lord's prayer and the creed with the greatest possible velocity. at the conclusion, i have often been told that they have repeated them once, and will do so a second time if i desire it! should all this prove ineffectual, you will not fail to hear "allons, messieurs et dames, pour l'amour de dieu, qu'il vous donné un bon voyage," or probably a song or two; the whole interlarded with scraps of prayers, and ave-marias, and promises to secure you "santé et salut." they go through it with an earnestness and pertinacity almost inconceivable, whatever rebuffs they may receive. their good temper, too, is undisturbed, and their face is generally as piteous as their language and tone; though every now and then a laugh will out, and probably at the very moment when they are telling you they are "pauvres petits misérables," or "petits malheureux, qui n'ont ni père ni mère." with all this they are excellent flatterers. an englishman is sure to be "milord," and a lady to be "ma belle duchesse," or "ma belle princesse." they will try too to please you by "vivent les anglais, vive louis dix-huit." in and , i remember the cry used commonly to be "vive napoléon," but they have now learned better; and, in truth, they had no reason to bear attachment to the ex-emperor, an early maxim of whose policy it was to rid the face of the country of this description of persons, for which purpose he established workhouses, or _dépots de mendicité_, in each department, and his gendarmes were directed to proceed in the most summary manner, by conveying every mendicant and vagrant to these receptacles, without listening to any excuse, or granting any delay. he had no clear idea of the necessity of the gentle formalities of a summons, and a pass under his worship's hand and seal. and, without entering into the elaborate researches respecting the original habitat of a _mumper_, which are required by the english law, he thought that pauperism could be sufficiently protected by consigning the specimen to the nearest cabinet. the simple and rigorous plan of napoléon was conformable to the nature of his government, and it effectually answered the purpose. the day, therefore, of his exile to elba was a _beggar's opera_ throughout france; and they have kept up the jubilee to the present hour, and seem likely to persist in maintaining it. footnotes: [ ] _goube, histoire de la normandie_, iii. p. . [ ] "françois premier, revenant vainqueur de la bataille de marignan en , crut devoir profiter de la situation avantageuse de la crique; il conçut le dessin de l'agrandir et d'en faire une place de guerre importante. ce prince avoit pris les interêts du jeune roi d'ecosse, jacques v, et ce fut pour se fortifier contre les anglais qu'il forma la résolution de leur opposer cette barrière. pour conduire l'entreprise il jetta les yeux sur un gentilhomme nommé guion le roi, seigneur de chillon, vice-amiral, et capitaine de honfleur, et la premiere pierre fut posée en ."--_description de la haute normandie_, i. p. . [ ] _description de la haute normandie_, i. p. . [ ] see _cotman's architectural antiquities of normandy_, t. .--there is also a general view of the church, and of some of the monastic buildings from the lithographic press of the comte de lasteyrie. [ ] "sed priusquàm a clotario discedo, illud non prætermittendum reor, quod, cùm maximè cognitu dignum est, mirari licet a nullo franco scriptore litteris fuisse commendatum. fuit inter familiarissimos clotarii aulicos, galterus yvetotus, caletus agri rothomagensis, apprimè nobilis et qui regii cubiculi primarius cultor esset. huic pro suâ integritate, de clotario cùm meliùs meliùsque in dies promereretur, reliqui aulici invident, depravantes quodlibet ab eo gestum, nec desistunt donec irritatum illi clotarium pessimis susurris efficiunt; quamobrem jurat rex se hominem necaturum. perceptâ clotarii indignatione, galterus pugnator illustris cedere regi irato constituit. igitur derelictâ franciâ in militiam adversus religionis catholicæ inimicos pergit, ubi decem annos multis prosperè gestis rebus, ratus clotarium simul cum tempore mitiorem effectum, romam in primis ad agapitum pontificem se contulit: a quo ad clotarium impetratis litteris, ad eum suessione agentem se protinùs confert, veneris die, quæ parasceve dicitur, cogitans religiosam christianis diem ad pietatem sibi profuturam. verùm litteris pontificis exceptis cùm galterum clotarius agnovit, vetere irâ tanquam recenti livore percitus, rapto a proximo sibi equite gladio, hominem statìm interemit. tam indignam insignis atque innocentis hominis necem, religioso loco et die ad christi passionem recolendam celebri, pontifex inæquanimitèr ferens, confestìm clotarium reprehendit, monetque iniquissimi facinoris rationem habere, se alioquin excommunicationis sententiam subiturum. agapiti monita reveritus rex, capto cum prudentibus consilio, galteri hæredes, et qui yvetotum deinceps possiderent, ab omni francorum regum ditione atque fide liberavit, liberosque prorsùs fore suo syngrapho et regiis scriptis confirmat. ex quo factum est ut ejus pagi et terræ possessor _regem_ se yvetoti hactenus sine controversiâ nominaverit. id autem anno christianæ gratiæ quingentesimo trigesimo sexto gestum esse indubiâ fide invenio. nam dominantibus longo post tempore in normanniâ. anglis, ortâque inter joannem hollandum, auglum, et yvetoti dominum quæstione, quasi proventuum ejus terræ pars fisco regis anglorum quotannis obnoxia esset, caleti proprætor anno salutis , de ratione litis judiciario ordine se instruens, id, sicut annotatum a me est, comperisse judicavit."--_robert gaguin_, lib. ii. fol. . [ ] _mémoires de l'académie des inscriptions_, iv. p. .--the question is also discussed in the _traité de la noblesse_, by m. de la roque; in the _mercure de france_, for january, ; and in a latin treatise by charles malingre, entitled "_de falsâ regni yvetoti narratione, ex majoribus commentariis fragmentum_." [ ] _précis analytique des travaux de l'académie de rouen_, , p. . letter vii. on the state of affairs in france. (_rouen, june_, .) abandoning, for the present, all discussion of the themes of the elder day, i shall occupy myself with matters relating to the living world. the fatigued and hungry traveller, whose flesh is weaker than his spirit, is often too apt to think that his bed and his supper are of more immediate consequence than churches or castles. and to those who are in this predicament, there is a material improvement at rouen, since i was last here: nothing could be worse than the inns of the year ; but four years of peace have effected a wonderful alteration, and nothing can now be better than the hôtel de normandie, where we have fixed our quarters. objection may, indeed, be made to its situation, as to that of every other hôtel in the city; but this is of little moment in a town, where every house, whatever street or place it may front, opens into a court-yard, so that its views are confined to what passes within its own quadrangle; and, for excellence of accommodations, elegance of furniture, skill in cookery, civility of attendance, nay, even for what is more rare, neatness, our host, m. trimolet, may challenge competition with almost any establishment in europe. for the rent of the house, which is one of the most spacious in rouen, he pays three thousand francs a year; and, as house-rent is one of the main standards of the value of the circulating medium, i will add, that our friend, m. rondeau, for his, which is not only among the largest but among the most elegant and the best placed for business, pays but five hundred francs more. this, then, may be considered as the _maximum_ at rouen. yet rouen is far from being the place which should be selected by an englishman, who retires to france for the purpose of economizing: living in general is scarcely one-fourth cheaper than in our own country. at caen it is considerably more reasonable; on the banks of the loire the expences of a family do not amount to one-half of the english cost; and still farther south a yet more sensible reduction takes place, the necessaries of life being cheaper by half than they are in normandy, and house-rent by full four-fifths. a foreigner can glean but little useful information respecting the actual state of a country through which he journeys with as much rapidity as i have done. and still less is he able to secern the truth from the falsehood, or to weigh the probabilities of conflicting testimony. i therefore originally intended to be silent on this subject. there is a story told, i believe, of voltaire, at least it may be as well told of voltaire as of any other wit, that, being once in company with a very talkative empty frenchman, and a very _glum_ and silent englishman, he afterwards characterized them by saying, "l'un ne dit que des riens, et l'autre ne dit rien." fearing that my political and statistical observations, which in good truth are very slender, might be ranked but too truly in the former category, i had resolved to confine them to my own notebook. yet we all take so much interest in the destinies of our ancient rival and enemy, (i wish i could add, our modern friend,) that, according to my usual habit, i changed my determination within a minute after i had formed it; for i yielded to the impression, that even my scanty contribution would not be wholly unacceptable to you. france, i am assured on all sides, is rapidly improving, and the government is satisfactory to all _liberal_ men, in which number i include persons of every opinion, except the emigrants and those attached exclusively to the _ancien régime_. men of the latter description are commonly known by the name of _ultras_; and, speaking with a degree of freedom, which is practised here, to at least as great an extent as in england, they do not hesitate to express their decided disapprobation of the present system of government, and to declare, not only that napoléon was more of a royalist than louis, but that the king is a jacobin. they persuade themselves also, and would fain persuade others, that he is generally hated; and their doctrine is, that the nation is divided into three parties, ready to tear each other in pieces: the _ministerialists_, who are few, and in every respect contemptible; the _ultras_, not numerous, but headed by the princes, and thus far of weight; and the _revolutionists_, who, in point of numbers, as well as of talents and of opulence, considerably exceed the other two, and will, probably, ultimately prevail; so that these conflicts of opinion will terminate by decomposing the constitutional monarchy into a republic. to listen to these men, you might almost fancy they were quoting from clarendon's history of the rebellion in our own country; so entirely do their feelings coincide with those of the courtiers who attended charles in his exile. similar too is the reward they receive; for it is difficult for a monarch to be just, however he may in some cases he generous. yet even the ultras admit that the revolution has been beneficial to france, though they are willing to confine its benefits to the establishment of the trial by jury, and the correction of certain abuses connected with the old system of nobility. among the advantages obtained, they include the abolition of the game laws; and, indeed, i am persuaded, from all i hear, that this much-contested question could not receive a better solution than by appealing to the present laws in france. game is here altogether the property of the land-owner; it is freely exposed for sale, like other articles of food; and every one is himself at liberty to sport, or to authorize his friend to do so over his property, with no other restriction than that of taking out a licence, or _port d'armes_, which, for fifteen francs, is granted without difficulty to any man of respectability, whatever may be his condition in life. in this particular, i cannot but think that france has set us an example well worthy of our imitation; and she also shews that it may be followed without danger; for neither do the pleasures of the field lose their relish, nor is the game extirpated. the former are a subject of conversation in almost every company; and, as to the latter, whatever slaughter may have taken place in the woods and preserves, at the first burst of the revolution, i am assured that a good sportsman may, at the present time, between dieppe and rouen kill with ease, in a day, fifty head of game, consisting principally of hares, quails, and partridges. but, while these men thus restrict the benefits derived from the revolution, the case is far different with individuals of the other parties, all of whom are loud and unanimous in its praises. the good resulting from the republic has been purchased at a dreadful price, but the good remains; and those, who now enjoy the boon, are not inclined to remember the blood which drenched the three-colored banner. thirty years have elapsed, and a new generation has arisen, to whom the horrors of the revolution live only in the page of history. but its advantages are daily felt in the equal nature and equal administration of the laws; in the suppression of the monasteries with their concomitant evils; in the restriction of the powers of the clergy; in the liberty afforded to all modes of religious worship; and in the abolition of all the edicts and mandates and prejudices, which secured to a peculiar sect and caste a monopoly of all the honors and distinctions of the common-wealth; for now, every individual of talent and character feels that the path to preferment and power is not obstructed by his birth or his opinions. the constitutional charter, in its present state, is a subject of pride to the french, and a sure bulwark to the throne. the representative system is beginning to be generally appreciated, and particularly in commercial towns. the deputies of this department are to be changed the approaching autumn, and the minds of men are already anxiously bent upon selecting such representatives as may best understand and promote their local interests. few acts of the bourbon government have contributed more powerfully to promote the popularity of the king, than the law enacted in the course of last year, which abolished the double election, and enabled the voters to give their suffrages directly for their favorite candidate, thus putting a stop at once to a variety of unfair influence, previously exerted upon such occasions. the same law has also created a general interest upon the subject, never before known; the strongest proof of which is, that, of the six or eight thousand electors contained in this department, nearly the whole are expected now to vote, whereas not a third ever did so before. the qualifications for an elector and a deputy are uniform throughout the kingdom, and depending upon few requisites; nothing more being required in the former case, than the payment of three hundred francs per annum, in direct taxes, and the having attained the age of thirty; while an addition of ten years to the age, and the payment of one thousand francs, instead of three hundred, renders every individual qualified to be of the number of the elected. the system, however, is subject to a restriction, which provides, that at least one half of the representatives of each department shall be chosen from among those who reside in it. in the beginning of the revolution, a much wider door was open: all that was then necessary to entitle a man to vote, was, that he should be twenty-one years of age, a frenchman, and one who had lived for a year in the country on his own revenue, or on the produce of his labor, and was not in a state of servitude. it was then also decreed, that the electors should have each three livres a day during their mission, and should be allowed at the rate of one livre a league, for the distance from their usual place of residence, to that in which the election of members for their department is held. such were the only conditions requisite for eligibility, either as elector or deputy; except, indeed, that the citizens in the primary assemblies, and the electors in the electoral assembly, swore that they would maintain liberty and equality, or die rather than violate their oath[ ]. the wisdom and prudence of the subsequent alterations, few will be disposed to question: the system, in its present state, appears to me admirably qualified to attain the object in view; and such seems the general character of the french _constitutional charter_, which unites two excellent qualities, great clearness and great brevity. the whole is comprised in seventy-four short articles; and, that no frenchman may plead ignorance of his rights or his duties, it is usually found prefixed to the almanacks. some persons might, indeed, be inclined to deem this station as ominous; for, since the revolution began, the frame of the french government has sustained so many alterations, that, considering that several of their constitutions never outlived the current quarter, they may be fairly said to have had a new constitution in each year. how far the bourbon charter will answer the purpose of serving as the basis of a code of laws for the government of an extensive kingdom, time only can determine. at present, it has the charm of novelty to recommend it; and there are few among us with whom novelty is not a strong attraction. our friends on this side of the water are greatly belied, if it be not so with them. the finances of the french municipalities are administered with a degree of fairness and attention, which might put many a body corporate, in a certain island, to the blush. little is known in england respecting the administration of the french towns: the following particulars relating to the revenue and expences of rouen, may, therefore, in some measure, serve as a scale, by which you may give a guess at the balance-sheet of cities of greater or lesser magnitude.--the budget amounted for the last year to one million two hundred thousand francs. the proposed items of expenditure must be particularized, and submitted to the prefect and the minister of the interior, before they can be paid. in this sum is comprised the charge for the hospitals, which contain above three thousand persons, including foundlings, and for all the other public institutions, the number and excellence of which has long been the pride of rouen. you must consider too, that every thing of this kind is, in france, national: individuals do nothing, neither is it expected of them; and herein consists one of the most essential differences between france and england. to meet this great expenditure, the city is provided with the rents of public lands, with wharfage, with tolls from the markets and the _halles_; and, above all, with the _octroi_, a tax that prevails through france, upon every article of consumption brought into the towns, and is collected at the barriers. the _octroi_, like turnpike-tolls or the post-horse duty with us, is farmed; two-thirds are received by the government, and the remaining one-third by the town. in rouen it produced the last year one million four hundred and fifty thousand francs.--if, now, this sum appears to you comparatively greater than that of our large cities in england, you must recollect that, with us, towns are not liable to similar charges: our corporations support no museums, no academies, no learned bodies; and our infirmaries, and dispensaries, and hospitals, are indebted, as well for their existence as their future maintenance, to the piety of the dead, or the liberality of the living. nor must we forget that, even in this great kingdom, rouen, at present, holds the fifth place among the towns; though it was far from being thus, when buonaparté, uniting the imperial to the iron crown, overshadowed with his eagle-wings the continent from the baltic to apulia; and when the mural crowns of rome and amsterdam stood beneath the shield of the "good city" of paris. the population of rouen is estimated at eighty-seven thousand persons, of whom the greater number are engaged in the manufactories, which consist principally of cotton, linen, and woollen cloths, and are among the largest in france. at present, however, "trade is dull;" and hence, and as the politics of a trader invariably sympathize with his cash account, neither the peace, nor the english, nor the princes of the bourbon dynasty, are popular here; for the articles manufactured at rouen, being designed generally for exportation, ranged almost unrivalled over the continent, during the war, but now in every town they meet with competitors in the goods from england, which are at once of superior workmanship and cheaper. the latter advantage is owing very much to the greater perfection of our machinery, and, perhaps, still more to the abundance of coals, which enables us, at so small an expence, to keep our steam-engines in action, and thus to counterbalance the disproportion in the charge of manual labor, as well as the many disadvantages arising from the pressure of our heavy taxation.--but i must cease. an english fit of growling is coming upon me; and i find that the blue devils, which haunt st. stephen's chapel, are pursuing me over the channel. footnotes: [ ] _moore's journal of a residence in france_, i. p. . letter viii. military antiquities--le vieux chÂteau--original palace of the norman dukes--halles of rouen--miracle and privilege of st. romain--chÂteau du vieux palais--petit chÂteau--fort on mont ste. catherine--priory there--chapel of st. michael--devotee. (_rouen, june,_ ) my researches in this city after the remains of architectural antiquity of the earlier norman æra, have hitherto, i own, been attended with little success. i may even go so far as to say, that i have seen nothing in the circular style, for which it would not be easy to find a parallel in most of the large towns in england. on the other hand, the perfection and beauty of the specimens of the pointed style, have equally surprised and delighted me. i will endeavor, however, to take each object in its order, premising that i have been materially assisted in my investigations by m. le prevost and m. rondeau, but especially by the former, one of the most learned antiquaries of normandy. of the fortifications and castellated buildings in rouen very little indeed is left[ ], and that little is altogether insignificant; being confined to some fragments of the walls scattered here and there[ ], and to three circular towers of the plainest construction, the remains of the old castle, built by philip augustus in , near to the porte bouvreuil, and hence commonly known by the name of the _château de bouvreuil_ or _le vieux château_.--it is to the leading part which this city has acted in the history of france, that we must attribute the repeated erection and demolition of its fortifications. an important event was commemorated by the erection of the _old castle_, it having been built upon the final annexation of normandy to the crown of france, in consequence of the weakness of our ill-starred monarch,--john lackland. the french king seems to have suspected that the citizens retained their fealty to their former sovereign. he intended that his fortress should command and bridle the city, instead of defending it. the town-walls were razed, and the _vieille tour_, the ancient palace of the norman dukes, levelled with the ground.--but, as the poet says of language, so it is with castles,-- ... "mortalia facta peribunt, nec _castellorum_ stet honos et gratia vivax;" and, in , the fortress raised by philip augustus experienced the fate of its predecessors; it was then ruined and dismantled, and the portion which was allowed to stand, was degraded into a jail. now the three[ ] towers just mentioned are alone remaining, and these would attract little notice, were it not that one of them bears the name of the _tour de la pucelle_, as having been, in , the place of confinement of the unfortunate joan of arc, when she was captured before compiégne and brought prisoner to rouen. it must be stated, however, that the first castle recorded to have existed at rouen, was built by rollo, shortly after he had made himself master of neustria. its very name is now lost; and all we know concerning it is, that it stood near the quay, at the northern extremity of the town, in the situation subsequently occupied by the church of st. pierre du châtel, and the adjoining monastery of the cordeliers. after a lapse of less than fifty years, rouen saw rising within her walls a second castle, the work of duke richard ist, and long the residence of the norman sovereigns. this, from a tower of great strength which formed a part of it, and which was not demolished till the year , acquired the appellation of _la vieille tour_; and the name remains to this day, though the building has disappeared. the space formerly occupied by the scite of it is now covered by the _halles_, considered the finest in france. the historians of rouen, in the usual strain of hyperbole, hint that their _halles_ are even the finest in the world[ ], though they are very inferior to their prototypes at bruges and ypres. the hall, or exchange, allotted to the mercers, is two hundred and seventy-two feet in length, by fifty feet wide: those for the drapers and for wool are, each of them, two hundred feet long; and all these are surpassed in size by the corn-hall, whose length extends to three hundred feet. they are built round a large square, the centre of which is occupied by numberless dealers in pottery, old clothes, &c.; and, as the day on which we chanced to visit them was a friday, when alone they are opened for public business, we found a most lively, curious, and interesting scene. it was on the top of a stone staircase, the present entry to the _halles_, that the annual ceremony[ ] of delivering and pardoning a criminal for the sake of st. romain, the tutelary protector of rouen, was performed on ascension-day, according to a privilege exercised, from time immemorial, by the chapter of the cathedral. the legend is romantic; and it acquires a species of historical importance, as it became the foundation of a right, asserted even in our own days. my account of it is taken from dom pommeraye's history of the life of the prelate[ ].--he has been relating many miracles performed by him, and, among others, that of causing the seine, at the time of a great inundation, to retire to its channel by his command, agreeably to the following beautiful stanza of santeuil:-- "tangit exundans aqua civitatem; voce romanus jubet efficaci; audiunt fluctus, docilisque cedit unda jubenti." our learned benedictine thus proceeds:--"but the following miracle was deemed a far greater marvel, and it increased the veneration of the people towards st. romain to such a degree, that they henceforth regarded him as an actual apostle, who, from the authority of his office, the excellence of his doctrine, his extreme sanctity, and the gift of miracles, deserved to be classed with the earliest preachers of our holy faith. in a marshy spot, near rouen, was bred a dragon, the very counterpart of that destroyed by st. nicaise. it committed frightful ravages; lay in wait for man and beast, whom it devoured without mercy; the air was poisoned by its pestilential breath, and it was alone the cause of greater mischief and alarm, than could have been occasioned by a whole army of enemies. the inhabitants, wearied out by many years of suffering, implored the aid of st. romain; and the charitable and generous pastor, who dreaded nothing in behalf of his flock, comforted them with the assurance of a speedy deliverance. the design itself was noble; still more so was the manner by which he put it in force; for he would not be satisfied with merely killing the monster, but undertook also to bring it to public execution, by way of atonement for its cruelties. for this purpose, it was necessary that the dragon should be caught; but when the prelate required a companion in the attempt, the hearts of all men failed them. he applied, therefore, to a criminal condemned to death for murder; and, by the promise of a pardon, bought his assistance, which the certain prospect of a scaffold, had he refused to accompany the saint, caused him the more willingly to lend. together they went, and had no sooner reached the marsh, the monster's haunt, than st. romain, approaching courageously, made the sign of the cross, and at once put it out of the power of the dragon to attempt to do him injury. he then tied his stole around his neck, and, in that state, delivered him to the prisoner, who dragged him to the city, where he was burned in the presence of all the people, and his ashes thrown into the river.--the manuscript of the abbey of hautmont, from which this legend is extracted, adds, that such was the fame of this miracle throughout france, that dagobert, the reigning sovereign, sent for st. romain to court, to hear a true narrative of the fact from his own lips; and, impressed with reverent awe, bestowed the celebrated privilege upon him and his successors for ever." the right has, in comparatively modern times, been more than once contested, but always maintained; and so great was the celebrity of the ceremony, that princes and potentates have repeatedly travelled to rouen, for the purpose of witnessing it. there are not wanting, however, those[ ] who treat the whole story as allegorical, and believe it to be nothing more than a symbolical representation of the subversion of idolatry, or of the confining of the seine to its channel; the winding course of the river being typified by a serpent, and the word _gargouille_ corrupted from _gurges_. other writers differ in minor points of the story, and alledge that the saint had two fellow adventurers, a thief as well as a murderer, and that the former ran away, while the latter stood firm. you will see it thus figured in a modern painting on st. romain's altar, in the cathedral; and there are two persons also with him, in the only ancient representation of the subject i am acquainted with, a bas-relief which till lately existed at the porte bouvreuil, and of which, by the kindness of m. riaux, i am enabled to send you a drawing. [illustration: bas-relief, representing st. romain] to keep alive the tradition, in which popish superstition has contrived to blend judaic customs with heathen mythology, the practice was, that the prisoner selected for pardon should be brought to this place, called the chapel of st. romain, and should here be received by the clergy in full robes, headed by the archbishop, and bearing all the relics of the church; among others, the shrine of st. romain, which the criminal, after having been reprimanded and absolved, but still kneeling, thrice lifted, among the shouts of the populace, and then, with a garland upon his head and the shrine in his hands, accompanied the clergy in procession to the cathedral[ ].--but the revolution happily consigned the relics to their kindred dust, and put an end to a privilege eminently liable to abuse, from the circumstance of the pardon being extended, not only to the criminal himself, but to all his accomplices; so that, an inferior culprit sometimes surrendered himself to justice, in confidence of interest being made to obtain him the shrine, and thus to shield under his protection more powerful and more guilty delinquents. the various modifications, however, of latter times, had so abridged its power, that it was at last only able to rescue a man guilty of involuntary homicide[ ]. we may hope, therefore, it was not altogether deserving the hard terms bestowed upon it by millin[ ] who calls it the most absurd, most infamous, and most detestable of all privileges, and adduces a very flagrant instance of injustice committed under its plea.--d'alégre, governor of gisors, in consequence of a private pique against the baron du hallot, lord of the neighboring town of vernon, treacherously assassinated him at his own house, while he was yet upon crutches, in consequence of the wounds received at the siege of rouen. this happened during the civil wars; in the course of which, hallot had signalized himself as a faithful servant, and useful assistant to the monarch. the murderer knew that there were no hopes for him of royal mercy; and, after having passed some time in concealment and as a soldier in the army of the league, he had recourse to the chapter of the cathedral of rouen, from whom he obtained the promise of the shrine of st. romain. to put full confidence, however, even in this, would, under such circumstances, have been imprudent. the clergy might break their word, or a mightier power might interpose. d'alégre, therefore, persuaded a young mam, formerly a page of his, of the name of pehu, to surrender himself as guilty of the crime; and to him the privilege was granted; under the sanction of which, the real culprit, and several of his accomplices in the assassination, obtained a free pardon. the widow and daughter of hallot, in vain remonstrated: the utmost that could be done, after a tedious law-suit, was to procure a small fine to be imposed upon pehu, and to cause him to be banished from normandy and picardy and the vicinity of paris. but regulations were in consequence adopted with respect to the exercise of the privilege; and the pardons granted under favor of it were ever afterwards obliged to be ratified under the high seal of the kingdom. the _château du vieux palais_ and _le petit château_ like the edifices which i have already noticed, have equally yielded to time and violence. m. carpentier has furnished us with representations of both these castles, drawn and etched by himself, in the _itinerary of rouen_. the first of them has also been inaccurately figured by ducarel, and satisfactorily by millin, in the second volume of his _antiquités nationales_; where, to the pen of this most meritorious and indefatigable writer, of whom, as of our goldsmith, it may be justly said, that "nullum ferè scribendi genus non tetigit, nullum quod tetigit non ornavit," it affords materials for a curious memoir, blended with the history of our own henry vth, and of henry ivth, of france. the castle was the work of the first of these sovereigns, and was begun by him in , two years after a seven months' siege had put him in possession of the city, long the capital of his ancestors, and had thus rendered him undisputed master of normandy. this was an event worthy of being immortalised; and it may easily be imagined that private feelings had no little share in urging him to erect a magnificent palace, intended at once as a safeguard for the town, and a residence for himself and his posterity. the right to build it was an express article in the capitulation he granted to rouen, a capitulation of extreme severity[ ], and purchased at the price of three hundred thousand golden crowns, as well as of the lives of three of the most distinguished citizens; robert livret, grand-vicar of the archbishop, john jourdain, commander of the artillery, and louis blanchard, captain of the train-bands. the two first of these were, however, suffered to ransome themselves; the last, a man of distinguished honor and courage, was beheaded; but henry, much to his credit, made no farther use of his victory, and even consented to pay for the ground required for his castle. he selected for the purpose, the situation where, defence was most needed, upon the extremity of the quay, by the side of the river, near the entrance from dieppe and havre. a row of handsome houses now fills the chief part of the space occupied by the building, which, at a subsequent period, was again connected with english history[ ], as the residence of our james iind, after the battle of la hague; before his spirit was yet sufficiently broken to suffer him to give up all thoughts of the british crown, and to accept the asylum offered by louis xivth, in the obscure tranquillity of saint germain's. it continued perfect till the time of the revolution, and was of great extent and strength, defended by massy circular towers, surrounded by a moat, and approachable only by a draw-bridge. the castle, which still remains to be described, and whose smaller size is sufficiently denoted by its name, was also built by the same monarch, but it was raised upon the ruins of a similar edifice that had existed since the days of king john. being situated at the foot of the bridge, the older castle had been selected as the spot where it was stipulated that the soldiers, composing the anglo-norman garrison, should lay down their arms, when the town surrendered to philip augustus.--it was known from very early time by the appellation of the _barbican_, a term of much disputed signification as well as origin: if we are to conclude, according to some authorities, that it denoted either a mere breast-work, or a watch-tower, or an appendage to a more important fortress, it would appear but ill applied to a building like the one in question. i should rather believe it designated an out-post of any kind; and i would support my conjecture by this very castle, which was neither upon elevated ground, nor dependent on any other. it consisted of two square edifices, similar to what are called the _pavillions_ of the thuilleries, flanked by small circular towers with conical roofs, and connected by an embattled wall. not more than fifty years have passed since its demolition; yet no traces of it are to be found. a few rocky fragments, appearing now to bid defiance to time, indicate the scite of the fortress, which once arose on the summit of mont ste. catherine, and which, though dismantled by henry ivth, and reduced to a state of dilapidation, was still suffered to maintain its ruined existence till a few years ago. its commanding situation, upon an eminence three hundred and eighty feet high and immediately overhanging the city, could not but render it of great importance towards the defence of the place; and we accordingly find that taillepied, who probably wrote before its demolition, gives it as his opinion, that whoever is in possession of mont ste. catherine, is also master of the town, if he can but have abundant supplies of water and provisions;--no needless stipulation! at the same time, it must be admitted that the fort was equally liable to be converted into the means of annoyance. such actually proved the case in , at which time it was seized by the huguenots; and considerations of this nature most probably prevailed with the citizens, when they declined the offer made by francis ist, who proposed at a public meeting to enlarge the tower into an impregnable citadel. in the hands of the protestants, the fortress, such as it was, proved sufficient to resist the whole army of charles ixth, during several days.--rouen was stoutly defended by the reformed, well aware of the sanguinary dispositions of the bigotted monarch. they yielded, and he sullied his victory by giving the city up to plunder, during twenty-four hours; and we are told, that it was upon this occasion he first tasted heretical blood, with which, five years afterwards, he so cruelly gorged himself on the day of st. bartholomew. catherine of medicis accompanied him to the siege; and it is related that she herself led him to the ditches of the ramparts, in which many of their adversaries had been buried, and caused the bodies to be dug up in his presence, that he might be accustomed to look without horror upon the corpse of a protestant! near the fort stood a priory[ ], whose foundation is dated as far back as the eleventh century, when gosselin, viscount of rouen, lord of arques and dieppe, having no son to inherit his wealth, was induced to dispose of it "to pious uses," by the persuasions of two monks, who had wandered in pilgrimage from the monastery of saint catherine, on mount sinai. these good men assured him, that, if he dedicated a church to the martyred daughter of the king of alexandria, the stones employed in building it would one day serve him as so many stepping-stones to heaven. they confirmed him in his resolution, by presenting him with one of the fingers of saint catherine. to her, therefore, the edifice was made sacred, and hence it is believed that the hill also took its name. in the _golden legend_, we find an account of the translation of the finger to rouen not wholly reconcileable with this history.--according to the veracious authority of james of voragine, there were certain monks of rouen, who journeyed even until the arabian mountain. for seven long years did they pray before the shrine of the queen virgin and martyr, and also did they implore her to vouchsafe to grant them some token of her favor; and, at length, one of her fingers suddenly disjointed itself from the dead hand of the corpse.--"this gift," as the legend tells, "they received devoutly, and with it they returned to their monastery at rouen."--never was a miracle less miraculous; and it is fortunately now of little consequence to inquire whether the mouldering relic enriched an older monastery, or assisted in bestowing sanctity on a rising community. according to the pseudo-hagiologists, the corpse of saint catherine was borne through the air by angels, and deposited on the summit of mount sinai, on the spot where her church is yet standing. conforming, as it were, to the example of the angels, it was usual, in the middle ages, to erect her religious buildings on an eminence. various instances may be given of this practice in england, as well as in france: such is the case near winchester, near christ-church, in the isle of wight, and in many other places. st. michael contested the honor with her; and he likewise has a chapel here, whose walls are yet standing. its antiquity was still greater than that of the neighboring monastery; a charter from duke richard iind, dated , speaking of it as having had existence before his time, and confirming the donation of it to the abbey of st. ouen. but st. michael's never rivalled the opulence of saint catherine's priory.--gosselin himself, and emmeline his wife, lay buried in the church of the latter, which is said to have been large, and to have resembled in its structure that of st. georges de bocherville: it is also recorded, that it was ornamented with many beautiful paintings; and loud praises are bestowed upon its fine peal of bells. the epitaph of the founder speaks of him, as-- "premier autheur des mesures et poids selon raison en ce päis normand." it is somewhat remarkable, that there appear to have been only two other monumental inscriptions in the church, and both of them in memory of cooks of the convent; a presumptive proof that the holy fathers were not inattentive to the good things of this world, in the midst of their concern for those of the next.--the first of them was for stephen de saumere,-- "qui en son vivant cuisinier fut de révérend pere en dieu, de la barre, abbé de ce lieu." the other was for-- "thierry gueroult, en broche et en fossets gueu très-expert pour les religieux." the fort and the religious buildings all perished nearly at the same time: the former was destroyed at the request of the inhabitants, to whom henry ivth returned on that occasion his well-known answer, that he "wished for no other fortress than the hearts of his subjects;" the latter to gratify the avarice of individuals, who cloked their true designs under the plea that the buildings might serve as a harbor for the disaffected. of the origin of the fort i find no record in history, except what noel says[ ], that it appears to have been raised by the english while they were masters of normandy; but what i observed of the structure of the walls, in , would induce me to refer it without much hesitation to the time of the romans. its bricks are of the same form and texture as those used by them; and they were ranged in alternate courses with flints, as is the case at burgh castle, at richborough, and other roman edifices in england. that the fort was of great size and strength is sufficiently shewn by the depth, width, and extent of the entrenchments still left, which, particularly towards the plain, are immense; and, if credence may be given to common report, in such matters always apt to exaggerate, the subterraneous passages indicate a fortress of importance. it chanced, that i visited the hill on michaelmas-day, and a curious proof was afforded me, that, at however low an ebb religion may be in france, enthusiastic fanaticism is far from extinct. a man of the lower classes of society was praying before a broken cross, near st. michael's chapel, where, before the revolution, the monks of st. ouen used annually on this day to perform mass, and many persons of extraordinary piety were wont to assemble the first wednesday of every month to pray and to preach, in honor of the guardian angels. his manner was earnest in the extreme; his eyes wandered strangely; his gestures were extravagant, and tears rolled in profusion down a face, whose every feature bore the strongest marks of a decided devotee. a shower which came at the moment compelled us both to seek shelter within the walls of the chapel, and we soon became social and entered into conversation. the ruined state of the building was his first and favorite topic: he lamented its destruction; he mourned over the state of the times which could countenance such impiety; and gradually, while he turned over the leaves of the prayer-book in his hand, he was led to read aloud the hundred and thirty-sixth psalm, commenting upon every verse as he proceeded, and weeping more and more bitterly, when he came to the part commemorating the ruin of jerusalem, which he applied, naturally enough, to the captive state of france, smarting as she then was under the iron rod of prussia. of the other allies, including even the russians, he owned that there was no complaint to be made: "they conduct themselves," said he, "agreeably to the maxim of warfare, which says 'battez-vous contre ceux qui vous opposent; mais ayez pitié des vaincus.' not so the prussians: with them it is 'frappez-çà, frappez-là, et quand ils entrent dans quelque endroit, ils disent, il nous faut çà, il nous faut là, et ils le prennent d'autorité.' cruel babylon!"--"yet, even admitting all this," we asked, "how can you reconcile with the spirit of christianity the permission given to the jews by the psalmist, to 'take up her little ones and dash them against the stones.'"--"ah! you misunderstand the sense, the psalm does not authorize cruelty;--mais, attendez! ce n'est pas ainsi: ces pierres là sont saint pierre; et heureux celui qui les attachera à saint pierre; qui montrera de l'attachement, de l'intrépidité pour sa religion."--then again, looking at the chapel, with tears and sobs, "how can we expect to prosper, how to escape these miseries, after having committed such enormities?"--his name, he told us, was jacquemet, and my companion kindly made a sketch of his face, while i noted down his words. this specimen will give you some idea of the extraordinary influence of the roman catholic faith over the mind, and of the curious perversions under which it does not scruple to take refuge. leaving for the present the dusty legends of superstition, i describe with pleasure my recollections of the glorious prospect over which the eye ranges from the hill of saint catherine.--the seine, broad, winding, and full of islands, is the principal feature of the landscape. this river is distinguished by its sinuosity and the number of islets which it embraces, and it retains this character even to paris. its smooth tranquillity well contrasts with the life that is imparted to the scene, by the shipping and the bustle of the quays. the city itself, with its verdant walks, its spacious manufactories, its strange and picturesque buildings, and the numerous spires and towers of its churches, many of them in ruins, but not the less interesting on account of their decay, presents a foreground diversified with endless variety of form and color. the bridge of boats seems immediately at our feet; the middle distance is composed of a plain, chiefly consisting of the richest meadows, interspersed copiously with country seats and villages embosomed in wood; and the horizon melts into an undulating line of remote hills. footnotes: [ ] _farin, histoire de rouen_, i. p. . [ ] in a paper printed in the _transactions of the rouen academy for _, p. , it appears that, so late as , a considerable portion of very old walls was discovered under-ground; and that they consisted very much of roman bricks. among them was also found a roman urn, and eighty or more medals of the same nation, but none of them older than antoninus.--from this it appears certain that rouen was a roman station, though of its early history we have no distinct knowledge. [ ] these are the _tour du gascon_, _tour du donjon_, and _tour de la pucelle_. [ ] _histoire de rouen_, i. p. . [ ] _histoire de rouen_, iii. p. . [ ] it is also worth while to read the following details from bourgueville, (_antiquités de caen_, p. ) whose testimony, as that of an eye-witness to much of what he relates, is valuable:--"ils ont le privilege saint romain en la ville de rouen et eglise cathédrale du lieu, au iour de l'ascension nostre seigneur de deliurer un prisonnier, qui leur fut concedé par le roy d'agobert en memoire d'un miracle que dieu fist par saint romain archeuesque du lieu, d'auoir deliuré les habitans d'un dragon qui leur nuisoit en la forest de rouuray pres ladite ville: pour lequel vaincre il demanda à la justice deux prisonniers dignes de mort, l'un meurtrier et l'autre larron: le larron eut si grand frayeur qu'il s'enfuit, et le meurtrier demeura auecque ce saint homme qui vainquit ce serpent. c'est pourquoy l'on dit encore en commun prouerbe, il est asseuré comme vn meurtrier. ce privilege de deliurance ne doit estre accordé aux larrons.--saint ouen successeur de s. romain, chancelier dudit roy d'agobert viron l'an , impetra ce priuilege: dont ie n'en deduiray en plus oultre les causes, pour ce qu'elles sont assez communes et notoires, et feray seulement cest aduertissement, qu'il y a danger que messieurs les ecclesiastiques le perdent, acause qu il s'y commet le plus souuent des abus, par ce qu'il se doit donner en cas pitoyable et non par authorité ou faueurs de seigneurs, comme aussi ne se doit estendre, sinon à ceux qui sont trouuez actuellement prisonniers sans fraude, et non à ceux qui s'y rendent le soir precedent comme estans asseurez d'obtenir ce priuilege, combien qu'ils ayent commis tous crimes execrables et indignes d'un tel pardon, voire et que les ecclesiastiques n'ayent eu loisir d'avoir veu et bien examinez leur procez. aussi ce beau priuilege est enfraint en ce que ceux qui l'obtiennent doiuent assister par sept annees suiuantes aux processions au tour de la fierte s. romain, portant vne torche ardante selon qu'il leur est chargé faire. ce qui est de ceste heure trop contemné: et tel mespris leur pourroit estre reproché comme indignes et contempteurs d'vn tel pardon. vn surnommé saugrence pour auoir abusé d'un tel priuilege fut quelque temps apres retrudé et puni de la peine de la rouë pour auoir confesse des meurtres en agression pour sauuer aucuns nobles ou nocibles qui les auoient commis.--il s'est faict autres fois et encore du temps de ma ieunesse de grands festins, danses, mommeries ou mascarades audit iour de l'ascension, tant par les feturiers de ceste confrairie saint romain que autres ieunes hommes auec excessiues despences: et s'appelloit lors tel iour rouuoysons, à cause que les processions rouent de lieu en autre, et disoit l'on comme en prouerbe, quand aucuns desbauchez declinoient de biens qu'ils auoient fait rouuoysons, à sçauoir perdu leurs biens en trop uoluptueuses despenses et mommeries sur chariots, qui se faisoient de nuict par les ruës quelque saison d'esté qu'il fust, pour plus grandes magnificences." [ ] see _gallia christiana_, xi. p. . [ ] a minute and very curious account of the whole of this ceremony, from the first claiming of the prisoner to his final deliverance, is given in _tuillepied's antiquités de rouen_, p. . [ ] _noel, essais sur le département de la seine inférieure_, ii. p. . [ ] _antiquités nationales_, ii. no. p. [ ] _millin, antiquités nationales_, ii. no. . p. . [ ] _noel, essais sur le département de la seine inférieure_, ii. p. [ ] _farin, histoire de rouen_, v. p. . [ ] _essais sur le département de la seine inférieure_, ii. p. . letter ix. ancient ecclesiastical architecture--churches of st. paul and st. gervais--hospital of st. julien--churches of lery, pavilly, and yainville. (_rouen, june_, .) we, _east angles_, are accustomed to admire the remains of norman architecture, which, in our counties, are perhaps more numerous and singular than in any other tract in england. the noble castle of blanchefleur still honors our provincial metropolis, and although devouring eld hath impaired her charms and converted her into a very dusky beauty, the fretted walls still possess an air of antique magnificence which we seek in vain when we contemplate the towers of julius or the frowning dungeons of gundulph. our cathedral retains the pristine character which was given to the edifice, when the norman prelate abandoned the seat of the saxon bishop, and commanded the saxon clerks to migrate into the city protected or inclosed by the garrison of his cognate conquerors. even our villages abound with these monuments. the humbler, though not less sacred structures in which the voice of prayer and praise has been heard during so many generations, equally bear witness to norman art, and, i may say, to norman piety; and when we enter the sheltered porch, we behold the fantastic sculpture and varied foliage, encircling the arch which arose when our land was ruled by the norman dynasty. comparatively speaking, rouen is barren indeed of such relics. its military antiquities are swept away; and the only specimens of early ecclesiastical architecture are found in the churches of st. paul and st. gervais, both of them, in themselves, unimportant buildings, and both so disfigured by subsequent alterations, that they might easily escape the notice of any but an experienced eye. of these, the first is situated by the side of the road to paris, under mont ste. catherine, yet, still upon an eminence, beneath which are some mineral springs, that were long famous for their medicinal qualities, but have of late years been abandoned, and the spa-drinkers now resort to others in the quarter of the town called _de la maréquerie_. both the one and the other are highly ferruginous, but the latter most strongly impregnated with iron. the chancel is the only ancient part of the present church of st. paul's, and even this must be comparatively modern, if any confidence may be placed in the current tradition, that the building, in its original state, was a temple of adonis or of venus, to both which divinities the early inhabitants of rouen are reported to have paid peculiar homage. they were worshipped in vice and impurity[ ]; nor were the votaries deterred by the evil spirits who haunted the immediate vicinity of the temple, and who gave rise to so fetid and infectious a vapor, that it often proved fatal! this very remark seems to indicate the scite of the church of st. paul, with its neighboring sulphureous waters. st. romain demolished the temple, and dispersed the sinners. farin, in his _history of rouen_[ ], says, that the church was repeatedly destroyed and rebuilt by the norman dukes, to some of whom, the chancel, which is now standing, probably owes its existence. the nave is evidently of much more modern construction: it is thrice the width of the other part, from which it is separated by a circular arch. the eastern extremity differs from that of any other church i ever saw in normandy or in england: it ends in three circular compartments, the central considerably the largest and most prominent, and divided from the others, which serve as aisles, by double arches, a larger and smaller being united together. this triple circular ending is, however, only observable without; for, in the interior, the southern part has been separated and used as a sacristy; the northern is a lumber-room. in the latter division, m. le prevost desired us to notice a piece of sculpture, so covered with dirt and dust that it could scarcely be seen, but evidently of roman workmanship, and, probably, of the fourth century, if we may judge from its resemblance to some ornaments[ ] upon the pedestal of the obelisk raised by theodosius, in the hippodrome of constantinople. our friend's conjecture is, that it had originally served for an altar: perhaps it might, with equal probability, be supposed to have been a tomb.--the corbels on the exterior of this building are strange and fanciful. [illustration: sculpture, supposed roman, in the church of st. paul, at rouen ] st. gervais also stands without the walls of rouen; but at the opposite end of the town, upon a hill adjoining the roman road to lillebonne, and near the mont aux malades, a place so called, as having been selected in the eleventh century, on account of the salubrity of its air, for the situation of a monastery, destined for the reception of lepers. upon this eminence, the norman dukes had likewise originally a palace; and, it was to this, that william the conqueror caused himself to be conveyed, when attacked with his mortal illness, after having wantonly reduced the town of mantes to ashes. here, too, this mighty monarch breathed his last, and left a sad warning to future conquerors, deserted by his friends and physicians the moment he was no more; while his menials plundered his property, and his body lay naked and neglected in the hall[ ]. the ducal palace, and the monastic buildings of the priory, once connected with it, are now completely destroyed. fortunately, however, the church still remains, though parochial and in poverty. it preserves some portions of the original structure, more interesting from their features than their extent. the exterior of the apsis is very curious: it is obtusely angular, and faced at the corners with large rude columns, of whose capitals some are doric or corinthian, others as wild as the fancies of the norman lords of the country. none reach so high as the cornice of the roof, it having been the intention of the original architect, that a portion of work should intervene between the summit of the capitals and this member. a capital to the north is remarkable for the eagles carved upon it, as if with some allusion to roman power. but the most singular part of this church is the crypt under the apsis, a room about thirty feet long by fourteen wide, and sixteen high, of extreme simplicity, and remote antiquity. round it runs a plain stone bench; and it is divided into two unequal parts by a circular arch, devoid of columns or of any ornament whatever, but disclosing, in the composition of its piers, roman bricks and other _débris_, some of them rudely sculptured. here, according to ordericus vitalis[ ], was interred the body of st. mellonus, the first archbishop of rouen, and one of the apostles of neustria; and here, his tomb, and that of his successor, avitien, are shewn to this day, in plain niches, on opposite sides of the wall. st. mello's remains however, were not suffered to rest in peace; for, about five hundred and seventy years after his death, which happened in the year , they were removed to the castle of pontoise, lest the canonized corpse should be violated by the heathen normans. in the diocese of rouen st. mello is honored with particular veneration; and the history of the prelates of the see contains many curious, and not unedifying stories of the miracles he performed. his feast, together with that of st. nicasius, his companion, is celebrated on the second of october; and their labors are commemorated with a hymn appointed for their festival:-- "primæ vos canimus gentis apostolos, per quos relligio tradita patribus; errorisque jugo libera neustria christo sub duce militat. "facti sponte suis finibus exules hùc de romuleis sedibus advolant; merces est operis, si nova consecrent vero pectora numini. "qui se pro populis devovet hostiam mellonus tacitâ se nece conficit; mactatus celeri morte nicasius christum sanguine prædicat." heretics as we are, we ought not to refrain from respecting the zeal even of a saint of the catholic calendar, when thus exerted. besides which, he has another claim upon our attention: our own island gave him birth, and he appeared at rome as the bearer of the annual tribute of the britons, at the very time when he was converted to christianity, whose light he had afterwards the glory of diffusing over neustria. the existence of these tombs and the antiquity of the crypt, recorded as it is by history and confirmed by the style of its architecture, have given currency to the tradition, which points it out as the only temple where the primitive christians of neustria dared to assemble for the performance of divine service. many stone coffins have also been discovered in the vicinity of the church. these sarcophagi seem to confirm the general tradition: they are of the simplest form, and apparently as ancient as the crypt; and they were so placed in the ground that the heads of the corpses were turned to the east, a position denoting that the dead received christian burial. [illustration: circular tower, attached to the church of st. ouen, at rouen] another opportunity will be afforded me of speaking of the church of st. ouen; but, as a singular relic of norman architecture, i must here notice the round tower on the south side of the choir, probably part of the original edifice, finished by the abbot, william balot, and dedicated by the archbishop géoffroi, in . it consists of two stories, divided by a billetted moulding. respecting its use it would not now be easy to offer a probable conjecture: the history of the abbey, indeed, mentions it under the title of _la chambre des clercs_, and supposes that it was formerly a chapel[ ]; but its shape and size do not seem to confirm that opinion. the chapel of the suppressed lazar-house of st. julien, situated about three miles from rouen, on the opposite side of the seine, is more perfect than either st. paul or st. gervais, and, consequently, more valuable to the architect. this building, without spire or tower, and divided into three parts of unequal length and height, the nave, the choir, and the circular apsis, externally resembles one of the meanest of our parish-churches, such as a stranger, judging only from the exterior, would be almost equally likely to consider as a place of worship, or as a barn. it is, however, if i am not mistaken, one of the purest and most perfect specimens of the norman æra. i know of no building in england, which resembles it so nearly as the chancel of hales church, in norfolk; but the latter has been exposed to material alterations, while the chapel of which i am speaking is externally quite regular in its design, being divided throughout its whole length into small compartments, by a row of shallow buttresses rising from the ground to the eaves of the roof, without any partition into splays. those on the south side are still in their primæval state; but a buttress of a subsequent, though not recent, date, has been built up against almost every one of the original buttresses on the north side, by way of support to the edifice. each division contains a single narrow circular-headed window: beneath these is a plain moulding, continued uninterruptedly over the buttresses as well as the wall, thus proving both to be coeval; another plain moulding runs nearly on a level with the tops of the windows, and takes the same circular form; but it is confined to the spaces between the buttresses. there are no others. the entrance was by circular-headed doors at the west end and south side, both of them very plain; but particularly the latter. the few ornaments of the western are as perfect and as sharp as if the whole were the work of yesterday. this part of the church has, however, been exposed to considerable injury, owing to its having joined the conventual buildings, which were destroyed at the revolution. the inside is, like the exterior, almost perfect, but it is very much more rich, uniting to the common ornaments of norman architecture, capitals, in some instances, of classical beauty. the ceiling is covered with paintings of scriptural subjects, which still remain, notwithstanding that the building is now desecrated, and used as a woodhouse by the neighboring farmer. the date of the erection of the chapel is well ascertained[ ]. the hospital was founded in , by henry plantagenet, as a priory for the reception of unmarried ladies of noble blood, who were destined for a religious life, and had the misfortune to be afflicted with leprosy. one of their appellations was _filles meselles_, in which latter word, you will immediately recognize the origin of our term for the disease still prevalent among us, the _measles_. johnson strangely derives this word from _morbilli_; but the true northern roots have been given by mr. todd, in his most valuable republication of our national dictionary; a work which now deserves to be named after the editor, rather than the original compiler. it may also be added, that the word was in common use in the old norman french, and was plainly intended to designate a slight degree of scurvy. to pursue this subject a few steps farther, jamieson, who is as excellent in points of etymology as johnson is deficient, quotes, in his scottish dictionary, an instance where the identical expression, _meselle-houses_, is used in old english; "...to _meselle-houses_ of that same rond, thre thousand mark unto ther spense he fond." r. brunne, p. . the norfolk farmers and dairy-maids tell us to this day of _measly pork_: in scotch, a leper is called a _mesel_; and, among the swedes, the word for measles is one nearly similar in sound, _mäss-ling_. the french academy, however, have refused to admit _meselle_ to the honor of a place in their language, because it was obsolete or vulgar in the time of louis xiiith. the word is expressive, and no better one has supplied its place; and we may suppose that it was introduced by the norman conquerors, and that it properly belongs to the gothic tongues, in the whole of which the root is to be found more or less modified. instances of this kind, and they are many, serve as additional proofs, if proofs indeed were needed, of the common origin of the neustrian normans, of the lowland scots, and of the saxon and belgian tribes, who peopled our eastern shores of england. the priory continued to be appropriated to its original purpose till , when charles vth united it to the hospital, called the magdalen, at rouen, upon condition that a mass should be celebrated there daily for the repose of his soul. in the year , on the destruction of the abbey upon mont ste. catherine, the monks of that establishment were allowed to fix themselves at st. julien; but they resigned it, after a period of sixty-seven years, to the carthusians of gaillon, who, incorporating themselves with their brethren of the same order at rouen, formed a very opulent community. the monastery, previously occupied by the latter, was known by the poetical appellation of _la rose de notre dame_: indeed, it is thus termed in the charter of its foundation, dated . but the situation was unhealthy, and the new comers had therefore little difficulty in persuading its occupants to remove to the convent of st. julien, which they inhabited conjointly till the revolution. at a very short period before that event, they had rebuilt the whole of the priory with such splendor, that it was one of the most magnificent in the neighborhood. but the edifice, which had then been scarcely raised, was soon afterwards levelled with the ground. the foundations alone attest the former extent of the buildings; and the park, now in a state of utter neglect, their original importance. rouen, as i have observed, is scantily ornamented with remains of _real_ norman architecture; for, even at the risk of a bull, we must deny that title to the norman edifices of the pointed style. its vicinity, however, furnishes a greater number of specimens, among which the churched of _léry_, of _pavilly_, and of _yainville_, are all of them deserving of a visit from the diligent antiquary. léry is a village adjoining pont-de-l'arche: its church is cruciform, having in the centre a low, massy, square tower, surmounted by a modern spire. a row of plain norman arches, intended only for ornament, runs round the tower near the base, and over them on each side is a single round-headed window. all the other windows of the building are of the same construction, and this renders it probable that the east end, in which there is also one of these windows, is really coeval with the rest of the church; though, contrary to the usual plan of the norman churches, it is terminated by a straight wall instead of a semi-circular apsis. the west front contains a rich norman door-way, surmounted by three windows of the same style, adjoining each other, with a triple row of the chevron-ornament above them. the interior wears the appearance of remote antiquity: the arches are without mouldings, the pillars without bases, and the capitals are destitute of all ornamental sculpture. in fact, these portions are nothing but rounded piers; and so obviously was mere solid strength the aim of the architect, that their diameter is fully equal to two-thirds of their height. a double row of pillars and arches separates the nave into three parts, of unequal width; and another arch of greater span, though equally plain, divides it from the chancel. in st. julien, we observe a most simple exterior, accompanied by an interior of comparatively an ornamented style: here the case is exactly the reverse; but in neither instance does there appear any reason to doubt that the whole of the building is coeval. we shall be driven, therefore, to admit, that any inferences respecting the æra of architecture drawn merely from the comparative richness of the style, must be considered of little weight, and that, even in those days, a great deal depended upon the fancy of the patron or architect. of the real time of the erection of the church at léry, there is no certain knowledge. topographers, however minute in other matters, seem in general to have considered it beneath their dignity to record the dates of parish-churches; though, as connected with the history of the arts, such information is exceedingly valuable. lauglois, who has given a figure of the western front of this at léry, refers it without any hesitation to the time of the carlovingian dynasty. but this opinion is merely grounded on the resemblance of some of its capitals to those of the pillars in the crypt at st. denis; the best judges doubt whether there is a single architectural line in that crypt, which can fairly be referred to the reign of charlemagne. hence such a proof is entitled to little attention; and on studying the style of the whole, and its conformity with the more magnificent front of st. georges de bocherville, it would seem most reasonable to regard them both as of nearly the same æra, the time of the norman conquest. we may through them be enabled to fix the date to a specimen of ancient architecture in our own country, more splendid than these, the church of castle rising, whose west front is so much on the same plan, that it can scarcely have been erected at a very different period. pavilly has considerably more to recommend it, as the "magni nominis umbra" than either of the others; it having been the seat of an abbey founded about the year , and named after saint austreberte, who first presided over it. here, too, we have the advantage of being able to ascertain with greater precision the date of the building, which, in the archives of the chartreux at rouen[ ], is stated to have been constructed about the conclusion of the eleventh century. the remains of the monastery are not considerable: they consist of little more than a ruined wall, containing three circular arches, evidently very ancient from their simplicity and the style of their masonry, and some pillars with capitals differing in ornament from any others i recollect, but imitations of the grecian, or rather attempts to improve upon it. the inside of the parish-church is more interesting than the ruins of the abbey. it is characterised, as you will observe in the annexed sketch, by massy square piers, to each side of which are attached several small clustered columns, intended merely for ornament. one of them is fluted, the work, probably, of some subsequent time; and another, on the same pier, is truncated, to afford a pedestal for the statue of a saint. the capitals are without sculpture. [illustration: interior of the church at pavilly] the church at yainville differs materially from either of the others: its square low central tower is of far greater base than that of léry: the transept parts of the cross have been demolished; and, beyond the tower, to the east, is only an addition that looks more like an apsis than a choir, a small semi-circular building with a roof of a peculiarly high pitch, like those of the stone-roofed chapels in ireland, which, i trust, i shall be able hereafter to convince you were undoubtedly of norman origin. but the most curious feature in this building is, that one of the buttresses is pierced with a narrow lancet window; a decisive proof, that the normans regarded their buttresses as constituent parts of the edifice at its original construction, and that they did not add them at a subsequent time, or design them to afford support, in the event of any unexpected failure of strength. indeed, what are usually called norman buttresses, such as we find at yainville, and at the lazar-house at st. julien, have so very small a projection, that they seem much more designed to add ornament or variety than for any useful purpose.--yainville is a parish adjoining jumieges, and was formerly dependent upon the celebrated abbey there, which will furnish ample materials for a future letter. footnotes: [ ] _taillepied, antiquités de rouen_, p. . [ ] vol. ii. part v. p. . [ ] _seroux d'agincourt, historie de la décadence de l'art_; plate , _sculpture_, fig. - . [ ] _du moulin, histoire générale de normandie,_ p. . [ ] _duchesne, scriptores normanni_, p. . [ ] _histoire de l'abbaye de st. ouen_, p. . [ ] _farin, histoire de rouen_, v. p. [ ] _description de la haute normandie_, ii. p. . letter x. early pointed architecture--cathedral--episcopal palace. (_rouen, june_, .) in passing from the true norman architecture, characterised "by the circular arch, round-headed doors and windows, massive pillars with a kind of regular base and capital, and thick walls without any very prominent buttresses",[ ] to those edifices which display the pointed style, i shall enter into a more extensive field, and one where the difficulty no longer lies in discovering, but in selecting objects for observation and description. the style which an ingenious author of our own country has designated as _early english_[ ], is by no means uncommon in normandy. in both countries, the circular style became modified into _gothic_, by the same gradations; though, in normandy, each gradation took place at an earlier period than amongst us. the style in question forms the connecting link between edifices of the highest antiquity, and those of the richest pointed architecture; combined in some instances principally with the peculiarities of the former, in others with the character of the latter: generally speaking, it assimilates itself to both. the simplicity of the principal lines betray its analogy to its predecessors; whilst the form of the arch equally displays the approach of greater beauty and perfection. of this æra, the cathedral[ ] of rouen is unquestionably the most interesting building; and it is so spacious, so grand, so noble, so elegant, so rich, and so varied, that, as the italians say of raphael, "ammirar non si può che non s'onori."--by an exordium like this, i am aware that an expectation will be raised, which it will be difficult for the powers of description to gratify; but i have still felt that it was due to the edifice, to speak of it as i am sure it deserves, and rather to subject myself to the charge of want of ability in describing, than of want of feeling in the appreciation of excellence. the west front opens upon a spacious _parvis_, to which it exposes a width of one hundred and seventy feet, consisting of a centre, flanked by two towers of very dissimilar form and architecture, though of nearly equal height. between these is seen the spire, which rises from the intersection of the cross, and which, from this point of view, appears to pierce the clouds; and these masses so combine themselves together, that the entire edifice assumes a pyramidical outline. the french, who, without any real affection for ancient architecture, are often extravagant in their praises, regard this spire as a "chef d'oeuvre de hardiesse, d'élégance, et de légèreté." bold and light it certainly is; but we must pause before we consider it as elegant: the lower part is a combination of very clumsy roman pediments and columns; and, as it is constructed of wood, the material conveys an idea of poverty and comparative meanness.--it is commonly said in france, that the portal of rheims, joined to the nave of amiens, the choir of beauvais, and the tower of chartres, would make a perfect church; nor is it to be denied that each of these several cathedrals surpasses rouen in its peculiar excellence; but each is also defective in other respects; so that rouen, considered as a whole, is perhaps equal, if not superior, to any. the front is singularly impressive: it is characterised by airy magnificence. open screens of the most elegant tracery, and filled, like the pannels to which they correspond, with imagery, range along the summit. the blue sky shines through the stone filagree, which appears to be interwoven like a slender web; but, when you ascend the roof, you find that it is composed of massy limbs of stone, of which the edge alone is seen by the observer below. this _free_ tracery is peculiar to the pointed architecture of the continent; and i cannot recollect any english building which possesses it. the basement story is occupied by three wide door-ways, deep in retiring mouldings and pillars, and filled with figures of saints and martyrs, "tier behind tier, in endless perspective." the central portal, by far the largest, projects like a porch beyond the others, and is surmounted by a gorgeous pyramidal canopy of open stone-work, in whose centre is a great dial, the top of which partly conceals the rose window behind. this portal, together with the niches above on either side, all equally crowded with bishops, apostles, and saints, was erected at the expence of the cardinal, georges d'amboise, by whom the first stone was laid, in [ ]. the lateral door-ways are of a different style of architecture, and, though obtusely pointed, are supposed to be of the eleventh century: a plain and almost roman circular arch surmounts the southern one. over each of the entrances is a curious bas-relief: in the centre is displayed the genealogical tree of christ; the southern contains the virgin mary surrounded by a number of saints; the northern one, the most remarkable[ ] of all, affords a representation of the feast given by herod, which ended in the martyrdom of the baptist. salomè, daughter of herodias, plays, as she ought to do, the principal character. the group is of good sculpture, and curiously illustrative of the costumes and manners of the times. salomè is seen dancing in an attitude, which perchance was often assumed by the _tombesteres_ of the elder day; and her position affords a graphical comment upon the anglo-saxon version of the text, in which it is said that she "_tumbled_", before king herod. the bands or pilasters (if we may so call them) which ornament the jambs of the door-ways, are crowned with graceful foliage in a very pure style; and the pedestals of the lateral pillars are boldly underworked. on the northern side of the cathedral is situated the cloister-court. only a few arches of the cloister now remain; and it appears, at least on the eastern side, to have consisted of a double aisle. here we view the most ancient portion of the tower of saint romain.--there is a peculiarity in the position of the towers of this cathedral, which i have not observed elsewhere. they flank the body of the church, so as to leave three sides free; and hence the spread taken by the front of the edifice, when the breadth of the towers is added to the breadth of the nave and aisles. the circular windows of the tower which look in the court, are perhaps to be referred to the eleventh century; and a smaller tower affixed against the south side, containing a stair-case and covered by a lofty pyramidical stone roof, composed of flags cut in the shape of shingles, may also be of the same æra. the others, of the more ancient windows, are in the early pointed style; and the portion from the gallery upwards is comparatively modern; having been added in . the roof, i suppose, is of the sixteenth century. the southern tower is a fine specimen of the pointed architecture in its greatest state of luxuriant perfection, enriched on every side with pinnacles and statues. it terminates in a beautiful octagonal crown of open stone-work.--legendary tales are connected with both the towers: the oldest borrows its name from st. romain, by whom chroniclers tell us that it was built; the other is called the _tour de beurre_, from a tradition, that the chief part of the money required for its erection was derived from offerings given by the pious or the dainty, as the purchase for an indulgence granted by pope innocent viiith, who, for a reasonable consideration, allowed the contributors to feed upon butter and milk during lent, instead of confining themselves, as before, to oil and lard.--the archbishop, georges d'amboise, consecrated this tower, of which the foundation was laid in ; and he had the satisfaction of living to see it finished, in , after twenty-two years had been employed in the building. the cardinal was so truly delighted by the beauty of the structure, which had arisen under his auspices, that he determined to grace it with the largest bell in france; and such was afterwards cast at his expence.--even tom of lincoln could scarcely compete with georges d'amboise; for thus the bell was duly christened. it weighed thirty-three thousand pounds; its diameter at the base was thirty feet; its height was ten feet; and thirty stout and sweating bell-ringers could hardly put it into swing.--such was the importance attached to the undertaking, that it was thought worthy of a religious ceremony. at the appointed hour for casting the bell, the clergy paraded in full procession round the church, to implore the blessing of heaven upon the work; and, when the signal was given that the glowing metal had filled the enormous mould, _te deum_ resounded as with one voice; the organ pealed, the trombones and clarions sounded, and all the other bells in the cathedral joined, as loudly and as sweetly as they could, in announcing the birth of their prouder brother.--the remainder of the story is of a different complexion:--the founder, jean le machon, of chartres, died from excess of joy, and was buried in the nave of the cathedral, where pommeraye[ ] tells us the tomb existed in his time; with a bell engraved upon it, and the following epitaph:-- "cy-dessous gist jean le machon de chartres homme de façon lequel fondit georges d'amboise qui trente six mille livres poise mil cinq cens un jour d'aoust deuxième puis mourut le vingt et unième." nor was this the only misfortune; for, after all, this great bell proved, like a great book, a great nuisance: the sound it uttered was scarcely audible; and, at last, in an attempt to render it vocal, upon a visit paid by louis xvith to rouen in , it was cracked[ ]. it continued, however, to hang, a gaping-stock to children and strangers, till the revolution, in , caused it to be returned to the furnace, whence it re-issued in the shape of cannon and medals, the latter commemorating the pristine state of the metal with the humiliating legend, "monument de vanité détruit pour l'utilité[ ]." some of the clerestory windows on the northern side of the nave are circular: the tracery which fills them, and the mouldings which surround them, belong to the pointed style; the arches may therefore have been the production of an earlier architect. the windows of the nave are crowned by pediments, each terminating, not with a pinnacle, but with a small statue. the pediments over the windows of the choir are larger and bolder, and perforated as they rise above the parapet; the members of the mouldings are full, and produce a fine effect. the northern transept is approached through a gloomy court, once occupied by the shops of the transcribers and caligraphists, the _libraires_ of ancient times, and from them it has derived its name. the court is entered beneath a gate-way of beautiful and singular architecture, composed of two lofty pointed arches of equal height, crowned by a row of smaller arcades. on each side are the walls of the archiepiscopal palace, dusky and shattered, and desolate; and the vista terminates by the lofty _portal of st. romain_; for it is thus the great portal of the transept is denominated. the oaken valves are bound with ponderous hinges and bars of wrought iron, of coeval workmanship. the bars are ornamented with embossed heads, which have been hammered out of the solid metal. the statues which stood on each side of the arch-way have been demolished; but the pedestals remain. these, as well as other parts of the portal, are covered with sculptured compartments, or medallions, in high preservation, and of the most singular character. they exhibit an endless variety of fanciful monsters and animals, of every shape and form, mermaids, tritons, harpies, woodmen, satyrs, and all the fabulous zoology of ancient geography and romance; and each spandril of each quatrefoil contains a lizard, a serpent, or some other worm or reptile. they have all the oddity, all the whim, and all the horror of the pencil of breughel. human groups and figures are interspersed, some scriptural, historical, or legendary; others mystical and allegorical. engravings from these medallions would form a volume of uncommon interest. two lofty towers ornament the transept, such as are usually seen only at the western front of a cathedral. the upper story of each is perforated by a gigantic window, divided by a single mullion, or central pillar, not exceeding one foot in circumference, and nearly sixty feet in height. these windows are entirely open, and the architect never intended that they should be glazed. an extraordinary play of light and shade results from this construction. the rose window in the centre of the transept is magnificent: from within, the painted glass produces the effect of a kaleidoscope.--the pediment or gable of this transept was materially injured by a storm, in , one hundred and thirty years after it was completed; and the damage was never restored. the southern transept bears a near resemblance to that which i have already described; but it was originally richer in its ornaments, and it still preserves some of its statues. here the medallions relate chiefly to scripture-history; but the sculpture is greatly corroded by the weather, and the more delicate parts are nearly obliterated; besides which, as well here, as at the other entrances, the calvinists, in , and, more recently, the revolutionists, have been most mischievously destructive, mutilating and decapitating without mercy. the spirit, indeed, of the french reformers, bore a near resemblance to the proceedings of john knox and his brethren: the people embraced the new doctrine with turbulent violence. there was in it nothing moderate, nothing gradual: it was not the regular flow of public opinion, undermining abuses, and bringing them slowly to their fall; but it was the thunderbolt, which-- "in sua templa furit, nullâque exire vetante materiâ, magnamque cadens magnamque revertens dat stragem latè sparsosque recolligit ignes." among the legends recorded on the southern portal, or the _portail de la calende_, is that of the corn-merchant; the confiscation of whose property paid, as the chronicles tell us, for the erection of this beautiful entrance. he himself, if we may believe the same authority, was hanged in the street opposite to it, in consequence of having been detected in the use of false measures. the original lady-chapel, at the east end of the cathedral, was taken down in . the present, which is considerably more spacious, is chiefly of a date immediately subsequent. part, however, was built in , when new and larger windows were inserted throughout the church; whilst other parts were not finished till , at which time the cardinal georges d'amboise restored the roof of the choir, which had been injured in , by the destruction of the spire. the square central tower, which is low and comparatively plain, is the work of the year . it is itself more ancient than would be supposed from the character of its architecture; but it occupies the place of one of still greater antiquity, which was materially damaged in , when the original spire of the church was struck by lightning. this first spire was of stone, but was replaced by another of wood, which, as i have just mentioned, was also destroyed at the beginning of the sixteenth century. a fire, arising from the negligence of plumbers employed to repair the lead-work, was the cause of its ruin.--to remedy the misfortune, recourse was had to extraordinary efforts: the king contributed twelve thousand francs; the chapter a portion of their revenue and their plate; collections were made throughout the kingdom; and leo xth authorised the sale of indulgences, a measure, which, at nearly the same period, in its more extensive adoption for the building of st. peter's at rome, shook the papacy to its foundation. the spire thus raised, the second of wood, but the third in chronological order, is the one which is now in existence. it was, like its predecessor, endangered by the carelessness of the plumbers, in ; but it does not appear to have required any material reparations till ten years ago, when a sum of thirty thousand francs was expended upon it. from what has already been said, you will not have failed to observe that this cathedral is the work of so many different periods, that it almost contains within itself a history of pointed architecture. to attempt a labored description of it were idle: minute details of any one of the portals would fill a moderate volume; and a quarto of seven hundred pages, from which i have borrowed most of my dates, has already been written upon the subject by a benedictine monk of the name of pommeraye, who also published the history of the archbishops of the see[ ]. the first church at rouen was built about the year : three hundred and thirty years subsequently, this edifice was succeeded by another, the joint work of st. romain and st. ouen, which was burned in the incursions of the normans, about the year . fifty years of paganism succeeded; at the expiration of which period, rollo embraced the faith of christ, and rouen saw once more within its walls, by the munificence and piety of the conqueror, a place of christian worship. richard ist, grandson of this duke, and his son robert, the archbishop, enlarged the edifice in the middle of the tenth century; but it was still not completed till , when, according to ordericus vitalis, it was dedicated by the archbishop maurilius with great pomp, in the presence of william, duke of normandy, and the bishops of the province. of this building, however, notwithstanding what is said by ducarel[ ] and other authors, it is certain that nothing more remains than the part of st. romain's tower, just noticed, and possibly two of the western entrances; though the present structure is believed to occupy the same spot. to the honor of the spirit and good feeling of the inhabitants of rouen, this church is one of those that suffered least in the outrages of the year . its dimensions, in french feet, are as follows:-- feet. length of the interior.............. width of ditto....................... length of nave...................... width of nave........................ ditto of aisles...................... length of choir..................... width of ditto....................... - / ditto of transept.................... - / length of ditto..................... ditto of lady-chapel................. width of ditto....................... height of spire..................... ditto of towers at the west end..... ditto of nave........................ ditto of aisles and chapels.......... ditto of interior of central tower.. depth of chapels..................... four clustered pillars support the central tower, each of which is thirty-eight feet in circumference; the rest, of which there are forty-four in the nave and choir, those in the former clustered, the others circular, are less by one-third. the windows amount in number to one hundred and thirty-three; the chapels to twenty-five. most of the latter were fitted up during the minority of louis xivth, with wreathed columns, entwined with foliage, the style in vogue in the seventeenth century. in the farthest of these chapels, upon the south side, is the tomb of rollo, first duke of normandy; in the opposite chapel, that of his son and successor, william longue-epeé, who was treacherously murdered at pecquigny, in , during a conference with arnoul, count of flanders. [illustration: monumental figure of rollo, in rouen cathedral] the effigies of both these princes still remain placed upon sarcophagi, under plain niches in the wall. they are certainly not contemporary with the persons which they represent, but are probably productions of the thirteenth century, to which period mr. stothard, from whose judgment few will be disposed to appeal, refers the greater part of what are called the most ancient in the _musée des monumens français_. at the same time, they may possibly have been copied from others of earlier date; and i therefore send you a slight sketch of the figure of rollo. even imaginary portraits of celebrated men are not without their value: we are interested by seeing how they have been conceived by the artist.--above the statue is the following inscription:-- hic positus est rollo, normanniÆ a se territÆ, vastatÆ, restitutÆ, primus dux, conditor, pater, a francone archiep. rotom. baptizatus anno dccccxiii, obiit anno dccccxvii. ossa ipsius in veteri sanctuario, nunc capite navis, primum condita, translato altari, hic collocata sunt a b. maurilio archiep. rotom. anno mlxiii. two other epitaphs in rhyming latin, which were previously upon his tomb, are recorded by various authors: the first of them began with the three following lines-- dux normannorum, cunctorum norma bonorum, rollo ferus fortis, quem gens normannica mortis invocat articulo, clauditur hoc tumulo. over william longue-epeé is inscribed-- hic positus est gulielmus dictus longa spatha, rollonis filius, dux normanniÆ, predatorie occisus dccccxxxxiv. with an account of the removal of his bones, exactly similar to the concluding part of his father's epitaph. the perspective on first entering the church is very striking: the eye ranges without interruption, through a vista of lofty pillars and pointed arches, to the splendid altar in the lady-chapel, which forms at once an admirable termination to the building and the prospect. the high altar in the choir is plain and insulated. no other praise can be given to the screen, except that it does not interrupt the view; for surely it was the very consummation of bad taste to place in such an edifice, a double row of eight modern ionic pillars, in white marble, with the figures of hope and charity between them, surmounted by a crucifix, flanked on either side with two grecian vases. the interior falls upon the eye with boldness and regularity, pleasing from its proportions, and imposing from its magnitude. the arches which spring from the pillars of the aisles, are surmounted by a second row, occupying the space which is usually held by the triforium: the vaulted roof of the aisles runs to the level of the top of this upper tier. this arrangement, which is found in other norman churches, is almost peculiar to these; and in england it has no parallel, except in the nave of waltham abbey. within the aisle you observe a singular combination of small pillars, attached to the columns of the nave: they stand on a species of bracket, which is supported by the abacus of the capital; and they spread along the spandrils of the arches on either side. these pillars support a kind of entablature, which takes a triangular plan. the whole bears a near resemblance to the style of the byzantine architecture. above the second row of arches are two rows of galleries. the story containing the clerestory windows crowns the whole; so that there are five horizontal divisions in the nave.--i give these details, because they indicate the decided difference of order which exists between the norman and the english gothic; a difference for which i have not been able to assign any satisfactory cause. the tombs that were originally in the choir, commemorating charles vth, of france; richard coeur de lion; his elder brother, henry; and william, son of geoffrey plantagenet, were all removed in , as interfering with the embellishments then in contemplation. the first of them alone was preserved and transferred to the lady-chapel, where it has subsequently fallen a victim to the revolution. the others are wholly destroyed; nor could ducarel find even a fragment of the effigies that had been upon them; but engravings of these had fortunately been preserved by montfaucon[ ], from whom he has copied them. the monument of the celebrated john of lancaster, third son of our henry ivth, better known as the regent duke of bedford, had been previously annihilated by the calvinists. lozenge-shaped slabs of white marble, charged with inscriptions, were inserted in the pavement over the spots that contain the remains of the princes, and they have been suffered to continue uninjured through the succeeding tumults. on the right of the altar, you read,-- cor richardi, regis angliÆ, normanniÆ ducis, cor leonis dicti. obiit anno mcxcix. on the opposite side:-- hic jacet henricus junior, richardi, regis angliÆ, cor leonis dicti, frater. obiit anno mclxxxiii. and in the choir behind the altar:-- ad dextrum altaris latus jacet johannes, dux bedfordi, normanniÆ prorex. obiit anno mccccxxxv. of prince william nothing is said; it was found, upon opening his place of sepulture, that he had not been interred here.--richard strangely received a triple funeral. in obedience to his wishes, his heart was buried at rouen, while his body was carried to fontevraud, and his entrails were deposited in the church of chaluz, where he was killed:--this division is commemorated in the quaint, yet energetic lines, which are said to have been inscribed upon his tomb:-- viscera carceolum, corpus fons servat ebrardi, et cor rotomagum, magne richarde, tuum. in tria dividitur unus qui plus fuit uno; nec superest uni gloria tanta viro. richard neither withheld his gifts nor his protection from the metropolitan church; and, after his death, the chapter inclosed the heart of their benefactor in a shrine of silver. but a hundred and fifty years subsequently, the shrine was despoiled, and the precious metal was melted into ingots, forming a portion of the ransom which redeemed st. louis from the fetters of his saracen conqueror. henry the younger, who was crowned king of england during the life-time of his father, against whom he subsequently revolted, also requested on his death-bed, that his body might be interred in this church; and his directions were obeyed, though not without much difficulty; for the chapter of the cathedral of mans, where his servants rested with the body _in transitu_, seized and buried it there; nor did those of rouen recover the corpse, without application to the pope and to the king his father. a tablet of black marble, affixed to one of the pillars of the nave, contains the following interesting memorial: in media navi, e regione hujus columnÆ, jacet beatÆ mem. maurilius, archiep. rotom. an. mlv. hanc basilicam perfecit consecravitque anno mlxiii. vix natos berengarii errores in prox. concil. prÆfocavit. plenus meritis obiit ann. mlxvii. hoc pontif. normanni, gulielmo duce, anglia potiti sunt anno mlxvi. [illustration: monumental figure of an archbishop, in rouen cathedral] in the northern aisle of the choir, there still exists a curious monument, in an injured state indeed, but well deserving of attention, from its antiquity. it has been referred by tradition to maurice, or william of durefort, both of them archbishops of rouen, and buried in the cathedral, the former in , the latter in ; but the recumbent figure upon it seems of a yet more distant date. it differs in several respects from any that i have seen in england[ ]. the tomb is in the wall, behind a range of pillars, which form a kind of open screen round the apsis. below the effigy, it is decorated with a row of whole-length figures of saints, much mutilated: the circular part above is lined with angels, a couple of whom are employed in conveying the soul of the deceased in a winding-sheet to heaven[ ]. [illustration: monument of an archbishop] the lady-chapel contains two monuments of great merit, and which, considered as specimens of matured art, have now no rivals in normandy; for both owe their origin to a period of refinement and splendor. the sepulchre raised over the bodies of the two cardinals of amboise, successively archbishops of rouen, towers on the southern side of the chapel. the statues of the cardinals are of white marble. the prelates appear kneeling in prayer; and the following inscription, engraved in a single line, and not divided into verses, is placed beneath them:-- pastor eram cleri, populi pater, aurea sese lilia subdebant quercus[ ] et ipsa mihi. mortuus en jaceo, morte extinguuntur honores; at virtus mortis nesgia morte viret. immediately behind the cardinals are figures of patron saints; a centre tablet represents st. george and the dragon; above are the apostles; below, the seven cardinal virtues. the execution of these is particularly admired, especially that of the figure of prudence; but a row of still smaller figures, in devotional attitudes, carved upon the pilasters between the virtues, are in higher taste. various arabesques in basso-relievo, of great beauty, and completely in the style of the _loggie_ of raphael, adorn the other parts of this sumptuous tomb.--as a whole it is unquestionably grand, and it is yet farther valuable as an illustration of the gorgeous taste that prevailed at the end of the fifteenth century; but the mixture of black and white marble and gilding has by no means a good effect, and every part is overloaded with ornaments[ ]. these, however, are the faults of the times: its merits are its own. on the north side of the chapel is entombed the duke of brezé, once grand seneschal of normandy; his tomb is chaste and simple, forming a pleasing contrast to the elaborate memorial of the cardinals. the statue of the seneschal himself, represented stretched as a corpse, upon a black marble sarcophagus, is admirable for its execution. the rigid expression of death is visible, not only in the countenance, but extends through every limb. diana of poitiers, a beauty who enjoys more celebrity than good fame, erected the monument; and she caused her statue to be placed on the tomb, where she is seen kneeling and contemplating. in the following inscription she promises to be as faithful and united to him after his death as she was while they both lived: and she truly kept her word; for, during his life-time, she was grievously suspected of infidelity[ ], and she subsequently lived in an open state of concubinage with henry iind, and was at last buried at her own celebrated residence at anet, twenty leagues from her husband.-- hoc, lodoice, tibi posui, brezÆe, sepulchrum, pictonis amisso moesta diana viro; indivulsa tibi quondam et fidissima conjux, ut fuit in thalamo, sic erit in tumulo. a second female figure on the tomb, with a child in her arms, has been supposed intended to represent the nurse of the duke; as if the design of the sculptor had been to read a lesson to mortality, by exhibiting the warrior in the helplessness of infancy, in the vigor of manhood, and as a breathless corpse. some persons, however, consider it as a personification of charity; others suppose that it represents the virgin mary. in the midst was originally an erect statue of de brezé, decorated with the various symbols of his dignities; but this sinned beyond the hope of redemption against the doctrines of liberty and equality, and it was accordingly removed at the time of the revolution, together with two inscriptions. one of them, which detailed his honors, with the addition that he died july twenty-third, , has recently been recovered by the care of m. riaux, and is restored to its place. the other inscription and the effigy, it is feared, are irrevocably lost. an equestrian statue in the upper part of the monument was suffered to remain, and, as a record of the military costume of the sixteenth century, i annex a sketch of it. the armorial hearings upon the horse and armor are nearly obliterated.--the pile is surmounted a figure of temperance; the bridle in whose mouth shews how absurd is allegory, when "submitted to the faithful eye." [illustration: equestrian figure of the seneschal de brezé, in rouen cathedral] lenoir, who, in his work on the _musée des monumens français_, has treated much at large of the history of diana of poitiers, and has figured her own beautiful mausoleum, which he had the merit of rescuing from destruction, pronounces[ ] this monument to be from the hand of jean cousin, one of the most able sculptors of the french school. over the altar in the lady-chapel is the only good painting in the cathedral, the _adoration of the shepherds_, by philip de champagne, a solid, well-colored, and well-grouped picture. two cherubs in the air are excellently conceived and drawn: the whole is lighted from the infant christ in the cradle, a _concetto_, which has been almost universally adopted, since the time when corregio painted his celebrated _notte_, now at dresden. there is no great quantity of painted glass in the church, but much of it is of good quality. the windows of the choir, on either side of the lady-chapel, are as rich as a profusion of brilliant colors can make them; but the figures are so small, and so crowded, that the subjects cannot be traced. they are said to be the work of the thirteenth century. the painted windows in st. stephen's chapel, of the sixteenth century, are generally considered the best in the cathedral. i own, however, that i should give the preference to those in the chapel of st. romain, in the south transept. one of them is filled with allegorical representations of the virtues of the archbishop; another with his miracles: every part is distinct and clear, and executed with great force and great minuteness. the vestments of the saint have all the delicacy of miniature-painting. the library of the cathedral, formerly one of the richest in france, disappeared during the revolution; but the noble room which contained it, one hundred feet long, by twenty-five feet wide, still remains uninjured; as does the door which led into it from the northern transept, and which continues to this day to bear the inscription, _bibliotheca_. the staircase, communicating with this door, is delicate and beautiful. the balustrades are of the most elegant filagree; and it has all the boldness and lightness which peculiarly characterise the french gothic. its date being well ascertained, we may note it as an architectural standard. it was erected by the archbishop, cardinal d'etouteville, about the year , thirty or forty years subsequently to the building of the room. respecting the contents of the sacristy, i can say little from my own knowledge; but i find by pommeraye, that, before the revolution, it boasted of a large silver image of the virgin, endued with peculiar sanctity, a few drops of her milk, and a portion of her hair[ ]; a splinter of the true cross, set in gold, studded with pearls, sapphires, and turquoises; and reliques of saints without number. now, however, it appears, that of all its treasures, it has preserved little else except the shrine of st. romain, and another known by the general name of _chasse des saints_. the former is two feet six inches long, and one foot nine inches high, and is of handsome workmanship, with a variety of figures on the sides, and st. romain himself at the top. formerly it was supposed to be made of gold; now i was assured by one of the canons, that it is of silver gilt; but gilbert[ ], who is a plain layman, maintains that it is only copper. had it been otherwise, it would have contributed to the ways and means of the unchristian republic; but the democrats spared it, for they had well ascertained that the metal was base, and that the jewels, which adorn it, are but glass.--this is not the original shrine which held the precious relics: the shrine in which they were deposited by the archbishop, william bonne ame, when first brought to the cathedral, in , was sold during a famine, and its proceeds distributed to the starving poor; after which, in , archbishop rotrou caused another still more costly to be made; but the latter was broken to pieces by the calvinists, in , and the saint's body cast into the fire[ ]. thus, then, i have led you, as far as i am able; through the cathedral, adjoining which, at the east end, stands the palace of the archbishop, a large building, but neither handsome nor conspicuous, principally the work of the cardinal georges d'amboise, though begun by the cardinal d'etouteville, in . the rooms in it which are shewn to strangers are the anti-chamber, commonly called _la salle de la croix_, the library, and the great gallery. this last, which is one hundred and sixty feet long, is also known by the name of _la salle des etats_. in it are placed four very large paintings by robert, an eminent french artist of comparatively modern date. they represent the city of rouen, the town of dieppe, that of havre de grace, and the archiepiscopal palace at gaillon. the view of rouen represents in the foreground the _petit château_, and is on that account peculiarly interesting. all of them are fine paintings, but much injured by the damp. in the anti-chamber are portraits of seven prelates of the see, and among them those of the cardinal de la rochefoucault, and m. de tressan: our guide could name no others. the present archbishop is the cardinal cambacérés, brother to the ex-consul of that name, a man of moral life and regular in his religious duties. he was placed here by napoléon, all of whose appointments of this nature, with one or two exceptions, have been suffered to remain; but i need scarcely add that, though the title of archbishop is left, and its present possessor is decorated with the roman purple, neither the revenue, nor the dignity, nor the establishment, resemble those of former times. the chapter, which, before the revolution, consisted of an archbishop, a dean, fifty canons, and ten prebendaries, besides numberless attendants, now consists but of his eminence, with the dean, the treasurer, the archdeacon, and twelve canons. the independent annual income of the church, previous to the revolution, exceeded one hundred thousand pounds sterling; but now its ministers are all salaried by government, whose stated allowance, as i am credibly informed, is to every archbishop six hundred and twenty-five pounds per annum; to every bishop four hundred and sixteen pounds thirteen shillings and fourpence; and to every canon forty-one pounds thirteen shillings and four-pence. but each of these stipends is doubled by an allowance of the same amount from the department; and care is taken to select men of independent property for the highest dignities.--from the foregoing scale, you may judge of the state of the religious establishment in france. it is, indeed, unjustly and unreasonably depressed, and there is much room for amendment; but we must still hope and trust that things will not soon regain their former standard, though attempts are daily making to identify the catholic clergy with the present dynasty; and the most lively expectations are entertained from the well-known character of some of the royal family. footnotes: [ ] _bentham, history of ely, nd edit_. i. p. . [ ] _liverpool panorama of arts and sciences_, article _architecture_. [ ] the only views of the cathedral with which i am acquainted, are, a single plate of the west front, in. by - / in.--_anonymous_; . . . . . . . . . . . north side, in. by - / in.--marked _s.l.b._; a small north-west view, engraved by pouncey, in the first volume of _gough's alien priories_; and the west front, on an extremely reduced; scale, in _seroux d'agincourt's histoire de l'art par les monumens, architecture_, t. . f. . p. . [ ] this great benefactor to rouen died the following year, deeply lamented by the inhabitants, and generally so by france; but, above all, regretted by louis xiith, his sovereign, whom, to use the words of guicciardini, he served as oracle and authority. the author of the history of the chevalier bayard, is still louder in his praise.--the western facade of the cathedral was not finished till , twenty years after his death. [ ] a representation of this has recently been published from an engraving on stone by langlois. [ ] _histoire de l'eglise cathédrale de rouen_, p. . [ ] _noel, essais sur le département de la seine inférieure_, ii. p. . [ ] _millin, histoire métallique de la révolution française_, t. . f. . [ ] _histoire des archevêques de rouen_, folio . [ ] anglo-norman antiquities, p. . [ ] _monumens de la monarchie française_, ii. t. . f. and . [ ] as these effigies are in general little understood, even by those who look at them with pleasure as specimens of art, or with respect as relics of antiquity, i am happy to be able to give the following detailed illustration of this at rouen, extracted from a letter which the right rev. dr. milner had lately the kindness to write me upon the subject. "the sepulchral monument in the cathedral of rouen represents a prelate; that is to say, bishop or mitred abbot, as appears by his mitre, gloves, ring, and sandals. but, as he bears the _pallium_, (to be seen on his neck, just above his breast, and hanging down before him, almost to his feet) it appears that he is a _metropolitan_, or archbishop, as, indeed, each of the bishops of rouen was, from the time of st. ouen and st. romanus, in the seventh century, if not from that of st. nicasius, in the third or fourth. the statue has been mutilated in the mitre, the face, and the crosier; probably when the huguenots were masters of the city. the mitre is low, as they used to be from the tenth century, when they began to rise at all in the latin church, down to the fourteenth, since which they have grown to their present disproportioned height. the arms are crossed, as in prayer; and the left arm supported a crosier, the remnant of which is seen under that arm. both hands are wrapped up in ornamented gloves, which were an essential part of the prelatic dress. the principal vestment is the _planeta, casula,_ or _chausible_; as it was shaped till within these three or four hundred years. underneath that, and behind the hanging _pallium_, appears the _dalmatic_, edged with gold lace; and under that, extending the whole breadth of the figure, and finishing with rich and deep thread lace, is the _alb_, made of fine linen. the _tunic_ is quite hidden by the dalmatic. the _sandals_ appear to be of gold tissue, and to rest on a rich carpet. "i ought to have mentioned, that the mitre appears, by the jewels with which it is ornamented, to represent that which is called _mitra pretiosa_, from this circumstance. an inferior kind of mitre, worn on less solemn occasions, was termed _mitra aurifrygiata_; and a common one, made of plain linen or silk, was termed _simplex mitra_. the only part of the dress which puzzles me, is the great ornament on the neck and shoulders. the question is, (which those can best determine who have seen the original statue,) whether it adheres to the _pallium_, or to the _casula_. in either case, it must be considered as part of the vestment to which it adheres. "it is quite out of my power to determine, or even to conjecture on any rational grounds, which, of a certain three-score of archbishops of rouen, the figure represents; but, if i were to choose between maurice, the fifty-fourth archbishop, who died in , and william, of durefort, the sixty-first, who died in , from the comparative lowness of the mitre, and some other circumstances of the dress, i should determine in favor of the former. perhaps it may represent our walter, who was first bishop of lincoln, and then transferred to rouen, by pope lucius iiird. he died in , after having signalized himself as much as any of his predecessors or successors have done. "p.s. on consulting with an intelligent ecclesiastic of rouen, i am inclined to think that the above-mentioned ornament upon the shoulders, is the _mozetta_, being a short round cloak, which all bishops still wear, with the _rochet, pectoral cross_, and _purple cassock_, as their _ordinary dress_; but, in modern times, the _mozetta_ is laid aside, when the prelate puts on his officiating vestments; though he retains the cassock, cross, and rochet, underneath them. my informant says, that this mozett is common on the tombs of bishops who died in former ages." [ ] the same idea is to be observed on many ancient monuments: among others, it is engraved on the fine sepulchral brass to the memory of sir hugh hastings, in elsing church.--see _cotman's norfolk sepulchral brasses._ [ ] by the words _lilia_ and _quercus_, are designated the armorial bearings of the king of france, and pope julius iind, of the house of rovere. [ ] the bodies of the cardinals d'amboise were dug up in , together with most of the others interred in the cathedral, for the sake of their leaden coffins: at the same time the lead was also stripped from the transepts; and a colossal statue of st. george, which stood on the eastern point of the choir, was likewise consigned to the furnace. [ ] ducarel says (_anglo-norman antiquities_, p. .) that she was the favorite mistress of two successive kings; but i do not find this assertion borne out by history. [ ] vol. iv. p. . [ ] the doctrine of the assumption of the virgin mary, gave rise to some curious doubts respecting the authenticity of the virgin's hair. ferrand, the jesuit, states the arguments to the contrary with candor; but replies to them with laudable firmness. the passage is a whimsical specimen of the style and reasoning of the schools:--"restat posteriore loco de capillis deiparæ virginis paucis dicere, enimverò an illi sint jam in terris!--dubitationem aliquam afferre potest mirabilis ipsius anastasis, et in coelum viventis videntisque assumptio triumphalis.--quid ita?--quid si intra triduum ad vitam revocata, si coelis triumphantis in morem invecta, si corpore gloriâ circumfuso christo assidet? _quidquid virgineo capiti crinium inerat hand dubiè cælis intulit_, ne quid perfectæ ac numeris omnibus absolutæ ipsius pulchritudini deesse possit. næ ille in politiori literaturâ imo et in rebus humanis omnino peregrinus sit qui ignoret quantum ad muliebrem formam comæ conferat pulchritudo ... ne singulas marianæ pulchritudinis dotes persequar, ejus ima cræaries de quâ, agimus tantæ fuit venustatis ut mysticus ipsius sponsus blandè querulus exclamare cogatur, _vulnerasti cor meum in uno crine colli tui_.... nænias igitur occinere videtur qui deiparæ capillos in terris relatos esse memoret atque adeo servari obfirmatè asseveret, cùm illos tantum ad redivivæ virginis speciem conferre constet.--non efficiet tamen unquam hæc _antidicomarianitæ_ fabula, quin credam bene multos ex aureâ dei genitricis cæsarie crines, diversis in locis ecclesiisque religiosè servari.... meæ fidei non unum est argumentum; nam a primâ ætate ad confectam usque, e marianâ comâ non pancos, ut fit, capillos pecten decussit, nisi si fortè cæsariem b. virginis impexam semper perstitisse velis, quòd numquam (ut inquit de christo diva brigitta) super eam venit vermis, aut perplexitas, aut immunditium. at sine causâ multiplicari miracula quis æquo animo feret?--ubi vero genetrix e vitâ discessit, quàm sollicitè pollinctrices auream illam marianæ comæ segetem demessuerunt, quàm in sacris suis tunc hierothecia reconderent ad memoriam tantæ imperatricis, et ad suæ consolationis et pietatis argumentum: quòd si fortè totam funditùsque a pollinctricibus, deiparæ reverentissimis, demessam cæsariem ferre nec possis nec velis, extremes saltem illius cincinnos attonsos fuisse feres ab piissimis illis fæminis, quibus vel perexiguus dei genitricis capillus ingentis thesauri loco futurus etat."--_disquisitio reliquiaria_, l. . cap. ii. [ ] _description historique de l'eglise de notre dame de rouen_, p. . [ ] the event is described in the metrical history of rouen, composed by a minstrel ycleped _poirier, the limper_. this little tract is a _chap-book_ at rouen: most towns, in the north of france and belgium, possess such chronicle ballads in doggerel rhyme, which are much read, and eke chaunted, by the common people. "... un massacre horrible survint soudainement. les huguenots terribles et montgommerie puissant, par cruels enterprises renverserent les eglises de rouen pour certain. sans aucune relâche pillent et volent la châsse du corps de st. romain. "le zelé catholique poursuivant l'huguenot un combat héroique lui livra à propos, au lieu nommé la crosse, et reprirent par force la châsse du patron. puis de la rue des carmes la portent à notre dame en déposition!" letter xi. pointed ecclesiastical architecture--the churches of st. ouen, st. maclou, st. patrice, and st. godard. (_rouen, june_, .) in the religious buildings, the subject of my preceding letters, i have endeavored to point out to you the specimens which exist at rouen, of the two earliest styles of architecture. the churches which i shall next notice belong to the third, or _decorated_ style, the æra of large windows with pointed arches divided by mullions, with tracery in flowing lines and geometrical curves, and with an abundance of rich and delicate carving. this style was principally confined in england to a period of about seventy years, during the reigns of the second and third edward. in france it appears to have prevailed much longer. it probably began there full fifty years sooner than with us, and it continued till it was superseded by the revival of grecian or italian architecture. i speak of france in general, but i must again repeat, that my observations are chiefly restricted to the northern provinces, the little knowledge which i possess of the rest being derived from engravings. no where, however, have i been able to trace among our gallic neighbors the existence of the simple _perpendicular_ style, which is the most frequent by far in our own country, nor of that more gorgeous variety denominated by our antiquaries after the family of tudor. so long as normandy and england were ruled by the same sovereign, the continual intercourse created by this union caused a similarity in their architecture, as in other arts and customs; and therefore the two earliest styles of architecture run parallel in the two countries, each furnishing the counterpart of the other. whether or not the _decorated_ style was transmitted to england from the continent, is a question which cannot be solved, until our collections of continental architecture shall become more extensive. after the reign of henry vith, our intercourse with normandy wholly ceased; and, left to ourselves, many innovations were gradually introduced, which were not known to the french architects, who, with nicer taste, adhered to the pure style which we rejected. hence arose the _perpendicular_ style of pointed architecture, a style sufficiently designated by its name, and obviously distinguished from its predecessors, by having the mullions of its windows, its ornamental pannelling, and other architectural members and features, disposed in perpendicular lines. finally, however, both countries discarded the gothic style, though at different æras. the revival of the arts in europe, in consequence of the capture of constantinople and of the greater commercial intercourse between transalpine europe and italy, gradually gave rise to an admiration of the antique: imitation naturally succeeded admiration; and buildings formed upon the classical model generally replaced the gothic. italian architects found earlier patrons and earlier scholars, in france, than amongst us, our intermediate style being chiefly distinguished by its clumsiness. i will not detain you by any attempt at a comparison between the relative beauties of the gothic and grecian architecture, or their respective fitness for ecclesiastical buildings. the very name of the former seems sufficient to stamp its inferiority; and perhaps you will blame the employment of a term which was obviously intended at the outset as an expression of contempt; but i still retain the epithet, as one generally received, and therefore, commonly understood. it may be added, that the modern french seem to be the only _goths_, in the real and true acceptation of the word. they, to the present day, build gothic churches; but, instead of confining themselves to the prototypes left them, they are eternally aiming at alterations, under the specious name of improvements. horace was indignant that, in the augustan age, the meed of praise was bestowed only upon what was ancient: the architects of this nation of recent date seem under the influence of an opposite apprehension. they build upon their favorite poet:-- "loin d'ici ce discours vulgaire que l'art pour jamais dégénère, que tout s'éclipse, tout finit; la nature est inépuisable, et le génie infatigable est le dieu qui la rajeunit." but they overlook, what voltaire makes an indispensable requisite, that art must be under the guidance of genius: when it is not so, and caprice holds the reins, the result cannot fail to be that medley of grecian, norman, gothic, and gallic, of which this country furnishes too many examples. the church of st. ouen is unquestionably the noblest edifice in the pointed style in this city, or perhaps in france; the french, blind as they usually are to the beauties of gothic architecture, have always acknowledged its merits. hence it escaped the general destruction which fell upon the conventual churches of rouen, at the time of the revolution; though, during the violence of the storm, it was despoiled and desecrated. at one period, it was employed as a manufactory, in which forges were placed for making arms; at another, as a magazine for forage. nor was this the first instance of its being violated; for, like most of the religious buildings at rouen, it was visited in the sixteenth century with the fury of the calvinists[ ], who burned the bodies of st. ouen, st. nicaise, and st. remi, in the midst of the temple itself; and cast their ashes to the winds of heaven. the other relics treasured in the church experienced equal indignities. all the shrines became the prey of the eager avarice of the huguenots; and the images of the saints and martyrs, torn from their tabernacles, graced the gibbets which were erected to receive them in various parts of rouen. dom pommeraye, in reciting these deplorable events, rises rather above his usual pitch of passion: "o malheur!" he exclaims, "ces corps sacrés, ces temples du saint esprit, qui avoient autrefois donné de la terreur aux démons, ne trouverent ni crainte ni respect dans l'esprit de ces furieux, qui jetterent au feu tout ce qui tomba entre leurs mains impies et sacrilèges!"--the mischief thus occasioned was infinitely more to be lamented, he adds, than the burning of the church by the normans;--"stones and bricks, and gold and jewels, may be replaced, but the loss of a relic is irreparable; and, moreover, the abbey thus forfeits a portion of its protection in heaven; for it is not to be doubted, but that the saints look down with eyes of peculiar favor upon the spots that contain their mortal remains; their glorified souls feeling a natural affection towards the bodies to which they are hereafter to be united for ever," on that day, when "ciascun ritrovera la trista tomba, ripigliera sua carne e sua figura, udira ciò che in eterno rimbomba." the outrages were curiously illustrative of the spirit of the times; the quantity of relics and ornaments equally characterise the devotion of the votaries, and the reputed sanctity of the place. the royal abbey of st. ouen had, indeed, enjoyed the veneration of the faithful, during a lengthened series of generations. clothair is supposed to have been the founder of the monastery in ; though other authorities claim for it a still higher degree of antiquity by one hundred and thirty years. the church, whoever the original founder may have been, was first dedicated to the twelve apostles; but, in , the body of st. ouen was deposited in the edifice; miracles without number were performed at his tomb; pilgrims flocked thither; his fame diffused itself wider and wider; and at length, the allegiance of the abbey was tranferred to him whose sanctity gave him the best claims to the advocation. changes of this nature, and arising from the same cause, were frequent in those early ages: the abbey of st. germain des prés, at paris, was originally dedicated to st. vincent; that of ste. genevieve to st. peter; and many other churches also took new patrons, as occasion required. according to one of the fathers of the church, the tombs of the beatified became the fortifications of the holy edifices: the saints were considered as proprietors of the places in which their bodies were interred, and where power was given them, to alter the established laws of nature, in favor of those who there implored their aid. but the aid which they afforded willingly to all their suitors, they could not bestow upon themselves. and oft, when the sword of the heathen menaced the land, the weary monks fled with the corpse of their patrons from the stubborn enemy. thus, st. ouen himself, on the invasion of the normans, was transported to the priory of gany, on the river epte, and thence to condé; but was afterwards conveyed to rouen, when rollo embraced christianity. other causes also contributed to the migration of these remains: they were often summoned in order to dignify acts of peculiar solemnity, or to be the witnesses to the oaths of princes, like the stygian marsh of old, "dii cujus jurare timent et fallere numen." william the conqueror, upon the dedication of the abbey of st. stephen, collected the bodies of all the saints in normandy[ ]. those who wish to be informed of the acts and deeds of st. ouen, may refer to pommeraye's history of the convent, in which thirty-seven folio pages are filled with his life and miracles; the latter commencing while he was in long clothes. the monastery, under his protection, continued to increase in reputation; and, in the year , the abbatial mitre devolved upon william, son of richard iind, duke of normandy, who laid the foundation of a new church, which, after about eighty years, was completed and consecrated by william balot, next but one to him in the succession[ ]. but this church did not exist long: ten years only had elapsed when a fire reduced it, together with the whole abbey, to ashes. an opportunity was thus afforded to the sovereign to shew his munificence, and richard coeur de lion was not tardy in availing himself of it; but a second fire in again dislodged the monks; and they continued houseless, till the abbot, jean rousel, better known by the name of _mardargent_, laid the foundation in , of the present structure, an honor to himself, to the city, and to the nation. by this prelate the building was perfected as far as the transept: the rest was the work of subsequent periods, and was not completed till the prelacy of bohier, who died in the beginning of the sixteenth century. to speak more properly, i ought rather to say that it was not till then brought to its present state; for it was never completed. the western front is still imperfect. according to the original design, it was to have been flanked by magnificent towers, ending in a combination of open arches and tracery, corresponding with the outline and fashion of the central tower. these towers, which are now only raised to the height of about fifty feet, jut diagonally from the angles of the facade; and it was intended that, in the lower division, they should have been united by a porch of three arches, somewhat resembling the west entrance of peterborough; and such as in this town is still seen, at st. maclou, though on a much larger scale. pommeraye has given an engraving of this intended front, taken from a drawing preserved in the archives of the abbey. the engraving is miserably executed; but it enables us to understand the lines of the projected building. pommeraye has also preserved details of other parts of the church, among them of the beautiful rood-loft erected by the cardinal d'etouteville, and long an object of general admiration. the bronze doors of this screen were of a most singular and elegant pattern: horace walpole imitated them in his bed-room, at strawberry-hill. the rood-loft, which had been maimed by the huguenots, was destroyed at the revolution; when the church was also deprived of its celebrated clock, which told the days of the month, the festivals, and the phases of the moon, and afforded other astronomical information. such gazers as heeded not these mysteries, were amused by a little bronze statue of st. michael, who sallied forth at every hour, and announced the progress of time, by the number of strokes which he inflicted on the devil with his lance. [illustration: tower of the church of st. ouen, at rouen] it is impossible to convey by words an adequate idea of the lightness, and purity, and boldness of st. ouen. my imperfect description will be assisted by the sketches which i inclose. of their merits i dare not speak; but i will warrant their fidelity; the flying buttresses end in richly crocketed pinnacles, supported by shafts of unusual height. the triple tiers of windows seem to have absorbed the solid wall-work of the building. balustrades of varied quatrefoils run round the aisles and body; and the centre-tower, which is wholly composed of open arches and tracery, terminates, like the south-tower of the cathedral, with an octangular crown of fleurs-de-lys. the armorial symbol of france, which in itself is a form of great beauty, was often introduced by the french architects of the middle ages, amongst the ornaments of their edifices: it pleases the eye by its grace, and satisfies the mind by its appropriate and natural locality. the elegance of the south porch is unrivalled. this portion of the church was always finished with care: it was the scene of many religious ceremonies, particularly of espousals. hence they gave it a degree of magnitude which might appear disproportionate, did we not recollect that the arch was destined to embower the bride and the bridal train. the bold and lofty entrance of this porch is surrounded within by pendant trefoil arches, springing from carved bosses, and forming an open festoon of tracery. the vault within is ornamented with pendants, and the portal which it shades is covered with a profusion of sculpture: the death, entombment, and apotheosis of the virgin, form the subjects of the principal groups. the sculptures, both in design and execution, far surpass any specimens of the corresponding æra in england. but this porch is now neglected and filled with lumber, and the open tracery is much injured. i hope, however, it will receive due attention; as the church is at this time under repair; and the restorations, as far as they go, have been executed with fidelity and judgment. [illustration: south porch the church of st. ouen, at rouen] the perspective of the interior[ ] is exceedingly impressive: the arches are of great height and fine proportions. if i must discover a defect, i should say that the lines appear to want substance; the mouldings of the arches are shallow. the building is all window. were it made of cast iron, it could scarcely look less solid. this effect is particularly increased by the circumstance of the clerestory-gallery opening into the glazed tracery of the windows behind, the lines of the one corresponding with those of the other. to each of the clustered columns of the nave is attached a tabernacle, consisting of a canopy and pedestal, evidently intended originally to have received the image of a saint. it does not appear to have been the design of the architect that the pillars of the choir should have had similar ornaments; but upon one of them, at about mid-height, serving as a corbel to a truncated column, is a head of our saviour, and, on the opposite pillar, one of the virgin: the former is of a remarkably fine antique character. the capitals of the pillars in this part of the church were all gilt, and the spandrils of the arches painted with angels, now nearly effaced. the high altar is of grey marble, relieved, by a scarlet curtain behind, the effect of which is simple, singular, and good. round the choir is a row of chapels, which are wholly wanting to the nave. the walls of these chapels have also been covered with fresco paintings; some with figures, others with foliage. the chapels contain many grave-stones displaying indented outlines of figures under canopies, and in other respects ornamented; but neglected, and greatly obliterated, and hastening fast to ruin. it is curious to see the heads and hands, and, in one instance, the crosier of a prelate, inlaid with white or grey marble; as if the parts of most importance were purposely made of the most perishable materials. i was much interested by observing, that many of these memorials are almost the exact counterparts of some of our richest english sepulchral brasses, and particularly of the two which are perhaps unrivalled, at lynn[ ].--how i wished that you, who so delight in these remains, and to whom we are indebted for the elucidation of those of norfolk, had been with me, while i was trying to trace the resemblance; and particularly while i pored over the stone in the chapel of saint agnes, that commemorates alexander berneval, the master-mason of the building! [illustration: head of christ, in the church of st. ouen, at rouen, seen in profile] [illustration: head of christ, in the church of st. ouen, at rouen, seen in front] according to tradition, it was this same alexander berneval who executed the beautiful circular window in the southern transept. but being rivalled by his apprentice, who produced a more exquisite specimen of masonry in the northern transept, he murdered his luckless pupil. the crime he expiated with his own life; but the monks of the abbey, grateful for his labors, requested that his body might be entombed in their church; and on the stone that covers his remains, they caused him to be represented at full length, holding the window in his hand. these large circular windows, sometimes known by the name of rose windows, and sometimes of marigold windows, are a strong characteristic feature of french ecclesiastical architecture. few among the cathedrals or the great conventual churches, in this country, are without them. in our own they are seldom found: in no one of our cathedrals, excepting exeter only, are they in the western front; and, though occasionally in the transepts, as at canterbury, chichester, litchfield, westminster, lincoln and york, they are comparatively of small size with little variety of pattern. in st. ouen, they are more than commonly beautiful. the northern one, the cause of death to the poor apprentice, exhibits in its centre the produced pentagon, or combination of triangles sometimes called the pentalpha.--the painted glass which fills the rose windows is gorgeous in its coloring, and gives the most splendid effect. the church preserves the whole of its original glazing. each inter-mullion contains one whole-length figure, standing upon a diapered ground, good in design, though the artist seems to have avoided the employment of brilliant hues. the sober light harmonizes with the grey unsullied stone-work, and gives a most pleasing unity of tint to the receding arches. among the pictures, the-best are, the _cardinal of bologna opening the holy gate, instead of the pope_, in the nave; and _saint elizabeth stopping the pestilence_, in the choir: two others, in the lady-chapel, by an artist of rouen, of the name of deshays, the _miracle of the loaves_, and the _visitation_, are also of considerable merit.--deshays was a young man of great promise; but the hopes which had been entertained of him were disappointed by a premature death. a church like this, so ancient, so renowned, and so holy, could not fail to enjoy peculiar privileges. the abbot had complete jurisdiction, as well temporal as spiritual, over the parish of st. ouen; in the norman parliament he took precedence of all other mitred abbots; by a bull of pope alexander ivth, he was allowed to wear the pontifical ornaments, mitre, ring, gloves, tunic, dalmatic, and sandals; and, what sounds strange to our protestant ears, he had the right of preaching in public, and of causing the conventual bells to be rung whenever he thought proper. his monks headed the religious processions of the city; and every new archbishop of the province was not only consecrated in this church, but slept the evening prior to his installation at the abbey; whence, on the following day, he was conducted in pomp to the entrance of the cathedral, by the chapter of st. ouen, headed by their abbot, who delivered him to the canons, with the following charge,--"ego, prior sancti audoeni, trado vobis dominum archiepiscopum rothomagensem vivum, quem reddetis nobis mortuum."--the last sentence was also strictly fulfilled; the dean and chapter being bound to take the bodies of the deceased prelates to the church of st. ouen, and restore them to the monks with, "vos tradidistis nobis dominum archiepiscopum vivum; nos reddimus eum vobis mortuum, ita ut crastinâ die reddatis eum nobis."--the corpse remained there four and twenty hours, during which the monks performed the office of the dead with great solemnity. the canons were then compelled to bear the dead archbishop a second time from the abbey cross (now demolished) to the abbey of st. amand[ ], where the abbess took the pastoral ring from off his finger, replacing it by another of plain gold; and thence the bearers proceeded to the cathedral. these duties could not be very agreeable to portly, short-winded, well-fed dignitaries; and consequently the worthy canons were often inclined to shrink from the task. in the case of the funeral of archbishop d'aubigny, in , they contented themselves with carrying him at once to his dormitory; but the prior and monks of st. ouen instantly sued them before the parliament, and this tribunal decreed that the ancient service must be performed, and in default of compliance, the whole of their temporalities were to be put under sequestration: it is almost needless to add, that a sentence of excommunication would scarcely have been so effectual in enforcing the execution of the sentence. the gardens formerly belonging to the abbey are at this time a pleasant promenade to the inhabitants of the town: the remains of the monastic buildings are converted into an _hôtel de ville_, where also the library and the museum are kept, and the academy hold their sittings. no remains, however, now exist of the abbatial residence, which was built by anthony bohier, in the beginning of the sixteenth century, and which, according to the engraving given of it by pommeraye, must have been a noble specimen of domestic architecture. the sovereigns of france always took up their abode in it, during their visits to rouen.--the circular tower called the _tour des clercs_, mentioned in a former letter, is the only vestige of norman times.--the cloister corresponded with the architecture of the church: the south side of the quadrangle attached to the northern aisle still exists, but blocked up and dilapidated, and converted into a sort of cage for those who are guilty of disturbances during the night. [illustration: stone staircase in the church of st. maclou, at rouen] the church of st. maclou is unquestionably superior to every other in the city, except the cathedral and st. ouen. its principal ornament are its carved doors, produced during the reign of henry iiird, by jean goujon, a man so eminent as to have been termed the corregio of sculpture; but they have been materially injured by repairs and alterations by unskilful hands. within the church, near the west entrance, is a singularly elegant stair-case, in filagree stone-work, which formerly led to the organ.--this building was erected in the year , and chiefly by voluntary contributions, if such can be called _voluntary_ as were purchased by promises from the archbishop, first of forty, and then of one hundred, days' indulgences, to all who would contribute towards the pious labor.--the central tower resembles that of the cathedral, both in the interior and the exterior. it now appears truncated; but it was originally surmounted by a spire, which was of such beauty, that even italian artists thought it worthy to be engraved and held out as a model at rome[ ]. the spire, however, was greatly injured by a hurricane, in , and it was at last taken down thirty years afterwards. to the triple porch, i have already alluded, in describing the intended front of st. ouen. the general lines of the church, are such as in england would be referred to the fourteenth century: on a closer examination, however, the curious eye will discover the peculiar beauties of the french gothic. thus the bosses of the groined roof are wrought and perforated into filagree, the work extending over the intersections of the groins, which are seen through its reticulations. such bosses are only found in the french churches of the sixteenth century. in other parts, the interior closely resembles the style of the cathedral[ ]. st. patrice is a building of the worst style of the commencement of the sixteenth century: to use the quaint phraseology of horace walpole, it exhibits "that _betweenity_ which intervened when gothic declined and palladian was creeping in." the paintings on the walls of this church, and the stained glass in its windows, are more deserving of notice than its architecture. the first are of small size, and generally better than are seen in similar places. one of them is after bassan, an artist, whose works are not often found in religious edifices in france. the painted windows of the choir deserve unqualified commendation. they are said to have been removed from st. godard. each is confined to a single subject; among which, that of the _annunciation_ is esteemed the best. to this church was attached a confraternity[ ], established in , under the name of the _guild of the passion_. its annual procession, which continued till the time of the revolution, took place on holy-thursday. it consisted of the usual pageantry; a host of children, dressed like angels, increased the train, which also included twelve poor men, whose feet the masters of the brotherhood publicly washed after mass. like some other guilds, they were in possession of a pulpit or tribune, called, in old french, a _puy_, from which they issued a general invitation to all poets, who were summoned to descant upon the themes which were commemorated by their union. the rewards held out to the successful candidates were, in the true monastic spirit of the guild, a reed, a crown of thorns, a sponge, or some other mystic or devotional emblem. occasionally, too, they gave a scenic representation of certain portions of religious history, according to the practice of early times. the account of the _mystery of the passion_ having been acted in the burial-ground of the church of st. patrice, so recently as september, , is preserved by taillepied[ ], who tells us, that it was performed by "bons joueurs et braves personages." the masters of this guild had the extraordinary privilege of being allowed to charge the expence attendant on the processions and exhibitions, upon any citizen they might think proper, whether a member or otherwise. the neighboring church of st. godard possesses neither architectural beauty, nor architectural antiquity; for, although it occupies the scite of an edifice of remote date, yet the present structure is coeval with st. patrice. it has been supposed that this church was the primitive cathedral of the city[ ]. one of the proofs of this assertion is found in a procession which, before the revolution, was annually made hither by the chapter of the present cathedral, with great ceremony, as if in recognition of its priority. the church was originally dedicated to the virgin; but it changed its advocation in the year , when st. godard, more properly called st. gildard, was buried here in a subterranean chapel; and, for the reasons before noticed, the old tutelary patroness was compelled to yield to the new visitor. in the succeeding century, st. romain, a saint of still greater fame, was also interred here; and, as i collect from pommeraye[ ], in the same crypt. this author strenuously denies the inferences which have been drawn from the annual procession, which he maintains was performed solely in praise and in honor of st. romain; for the chapter, after having paid their devotions to the host, descended into the chapel, to prostrate themselves before the sepulture of the saint; on which subject, an antiquary[ ] of rouen has preserved the following lines:-- "ad regnum domini dextrâ invitatus et ore, huic sacra romanus credidit ossa loco; sontibus addixit quæ cæca rebellio flammis, nec tulit impietas majus in urbe scelus. quid tanto vesana malo profecit erynnis? ipsa sui testis pignoris extat humus. crypta manet, memoresque trahit confessio cives, nec populi fallit marmor inane fidem. orphana, turba, veni, viduisque allabere saxis, est aliquid soboli patris habere thorum." the body of st. godard was carried to soissons; but the tomb, which, has doubtfully been designated as appropriated either to him or to st. romain, was left to the church, and remained there at least till the revolution. i have even been told that it is there still; but i had no opportunity of going down into the chapel to verify this point. it consisted, or rather consists, of a single slab of jasper, seven and a half feet long, by two feet wide, and two feet four inches thick. upon it was this inscription:-- "malades, voulez-vous soulager vos douleurs? visitez ce tombeau, baignez-le de vos pleurs; rechauffez vos esprits d'une divine flame; touchez-le settlement du doigt, et vous y trouverez (si vous avez la foi) et la santé du corps, et la santé de l'ame." the building retains, at this time, only two of its celebrated painted windows; but they are fortunately the two which were always considered the best. one of them represents the history of st. romain; the other, the genealogy of jewish kings, from whom the holy virgin descended. rouen has, from a very early period, been famous for its manufactories of painted glass. but the windows of this church were still esteemed the _chef d'oeuvre_ of its artists; and these had so far passed into a proverb, that farin[ ] tells us it was common throughout france to say, in recommendation of choice wine, that "it was as bright as the windows of st. godard." the saying, however, was by no means confined to rouen, for it was also applied to the windows of the ste. chapelle, at dijon. it was at st. godard that the burst of the reformation was first manifested. the huguenots, taking courage from the secret increase of their numbers, broke into the building, in , demolished the images, and sold the pix to a goldsmith. but the man suffered severely for his purchase: he was shortly afterwards sentenced, by a decree of the parliament, to be hanged in front of his shop; and two of those concerned in the outrage also suffered capital punishment. the spark thus lighted, afterwards increased into a conflagration; and, to this hour, there is a larger body of protestants at rouen, than in most french towns. i do not expect that you will reproach me with the prolixity of these details. the subject is attractive to me, and i feel that you will accompany me with pleasure in my pilgrimage, from chapel to shrine, dwelling with me in contemplation on the relics of ancient skill and the memorials of the piety of the departed. nor must it be forgotten, that the hand of the spoliator is falling heavily on all objects of antiquity. and the french seem to find a source of perverse and malignant pleasure in destroying the temples where their ancestors once worshipped: many are swept away; a greater number continue to exist in a desecrated state; and time, which changes all things, is proceeding with hasty strides to obliterate their character. the lofty steeple hides its diminished head; the mullions and tracery disappear from the pointed windows, from which the stained glass has long since fallen; the arched entrance contracts into a modern door-way; the smooth plain walls betray neither niches, nor pinnacles, nor fresco paintings; and in the warehouse, or manufactory, or smithy, little else remains than the extraordinary size, to point out the original holy destination of the edifice. footnotes: [ ] the following brief statement of their excesses is copied from a manuscript belonging to the monastery: the full detail of them engages pommeraye for nearly seven folio pages:--"le dimanche troisiéme de may, , les huguenots s'étans amassez en grosse troupe, vinrent armez en grande furie dans l'eglise de s. ouen, où étant entrez ils rompirent les chaires du choeur, le grand autel, et toutes les chapelles: mirent en pieces l'horloge, dont on voit encore la menuiserie dans la chapelle joignant l'arcade du costé du septentrion, aussi bien que celles des orgues, dont ils prirent l'étaim et le plomb pour en faire des balles de mousquet: puis ils allumerent cinq feux, trois dedans l'eglise et deux dehors, où ils brûlerent tous les bancs et sieges des religieux, auec le bois des balustres des chapelles, les bancs et fermetures d'icelles, plusieurs ornemens et vestemens sacrez, comme chappes, tuniques, chasubles, aubes, vne autre partie des plus riches et precieux ornemens de broderie et drap d'or ayant esté enlevée en l'hôtellerie de la pomme de pin, où ils les brûlerent pour en auoir l'or et l'argent. ils firent la mesme chose des saintes reliques, qu'ils brûlerent, ayant emporté l'or, l'argent, et les pierreries des reliquaires."--_histoire de l'abbaye royale de st. ouen_, p. . [ ] farin, histoire de rouen, iv. p. . [ ] _histoire de l'abbaye royales de saint ouen_, p. . [ ] the following are the dimensions of the interior of the building, in french feet: length of the church.................. ditto of the nave..................... ditto of the choir.................... ditto of the lady-chapel.............. ditto of the transept................. width of ditto........................ ditto of nave, without the aisles..... ditto, including ditto................ height of roof........................ ditto of tower........................ [ ] _figured in cotmans norfolk sepulchral brasses_. [ ] the house of the abbess of st. amand is still standing, though neglected, and in a great degree in ruins. what remains, however, is very curious; and is, perhaps, the oldest specimen of domestic architecture in rouen. it is partly of wood, the front covered with arches and other sculpture in bas-relief, and partly of stone. [ ] _farin, histoire de rouen_, iv. p. . [ ] the dimensions of the building, in french feet, are,-- length of the nave.................... ditto of choir........................ ditto of lady-chapel.................. ditto of the whole building.......... width of ditto........................ height to the top of the lanthorn.... [ ] _farin, histoire de rouen_, iv. p. . [ ] _antiquitéz et singularitéz de la ville de rouen_, p. . [ ] _farin, histoire de rouen_, iv. p. . [ ] _histoire des archevêques de rouen_, p. . [ ] _la normandie chrétienne_, p. . [ ] _histoire de rouen_, iv. p. . letter xii. palais de justice--states, exchequer, and parliament of normandy--guild of the conards--joan of arc--fountain and bas-relief in the place de la pucelle--tour de la grosse horloge--public fountains--rivers aubette and robec--hospitals--mint. (_rouen, june_, .) amongst the secular buildings of rouen, the palais de justice holds the chief place, whether we consider the magnificence of the building, or the importance of the assemblies which once were convened within its precinct. the three estates of the duchy of normandy, the parliament, composed of the deputies of the church, the nobility, and the good towns, usually held their meetings in the palace of justice. until the liberties of france were wholly extirpated by richelieu, this body opposed a formidable resistance to the crown; and the _charte normande_ was considered as great a safeguard to the liberties of the subject, as magna charta used to be on your side of the channel. here, also, the _court of exchequer_ held its session. according to a fond tradition, this, the supreme tribunal of normandy, was instituted by rollo, the good duke, whose very name seemed to be considered as a charm averting violence and outrage. this court, like our _aula regia_, long continued ambulatory, and attendant upon the person of the sovereign; and its sessions were held occasionally, and at his pleasure. the progress of society, however, required that the supreme tribunal should become stationary and permanent, that the suitors might know when and where they might prefer their claims. philip the fair, therefore, about the year , began by enacting that the pleas should be held only at rouen. louis the xiith remodelled the court, and gave it permanence; yielding in these measures to the prayer of the states of normandy, and to the advice of his minister, the cardinal d'amboise. it was then composed of four presidents, and twenty-eight counsellors; thirteen being clerks; and the remainder laymen. the name of exchequer was perhaps unpleasing to the crown, as it reminded the normans of the ancient independence of their duchy; and, in , francis ist ordered that the court should thenceforward be known as the _parliament of normandy_; thus assimilating it in its appellation to the other supreme tribunals of the kingdom. there is an old poem extant, written in very lawyer-like rhyme, which invests all the cardinal virtues, and a great many supernumerary ones besides, with the offices of this most honorable court, in which purity is the usher, truth has a silk gown, and virginity enters the proceedings on the record. "de ceste _court_ grace est grand _chanceliere_, vertus ont lieu de _présidens_ prudens: vérité est première _conseillere_, et pureté _huyssiére_ là-dedans: la _greffiére_ est virginité féconde, et la _concierge_ humilité profonde. pythié _procure_ a vuider les discords, comme _advocat_, amour ayde aux accords. de _geolier_ vacque le seul office: aussy on voyt par _officiers_ concors, la noble _court_ rendante à tous justice." in the same style and strain is a ballad, which, thanks to the care of de bourgueville, the author of the _antiquities of caen_, hath been preserved for the edification of posterity. it enumerates all the members of the court _seriatim_, and compares their lordships and worships, one after another, to the heroes and demi-gods of ancient story. the parliament in its turn has given way to the _court of assizes_; and, where the states once deliberated, the electors of the department now come together for the purpose of naming the deputies who represent them in the great council of the nation;--such are the vicissitudes of all human institutions. when the jews were expelled from normandy, in , the _close_, or jewry, in which they dwelled, escheated to the king. the sons of japhet spoiled the sons of shem with pious alacrity. the debtor burnt his bond; the bailie seized the store of bezants; the synagogue was razed to the ground. in this _close_ the palace was afterwards built. the wise custom of normandy was mooted on the spot where the law of moses had once been taught; and, by a strange, perhaps an ominous, fatality, the judge held the scales of justice, where whilome the usurer had poised his balance. the palace forms three sides of a quadrangle. the fourth is occupied by an embattled wall and an elaborate gate-way. the building was erected about the beginning of the sixteenth century; and, with all its faults, it is a fine adaptation of gothic architecture to civil purposes. it is in the style which a friend of mine chooses to distinguish by the name of _burgundian architecture_; and he tells me that he considers it as the parent of our tudor style. here, the windows in the body of the building take flattened elliptic heads; and they are divided by one mullion and one transom. the mouldings are highly wrought, and enriched with foliage. the lucarne windows are of a different design, and form the most characteristic feature of the front: they are pointed and enriched with mullions and tracery, and are placed within triple canopies of nearly the same form, flanked by square pillars, terminating in tall crocketed pinnacles, some of them fronted with open arches crowned with statues. the roof, as is usual in french and flemish buildings of this date, is of a very high pitch, and harmonizes well with the proportions of the building. an oriel, or rather tower, of enriched workmanship projects into the court, and varies the elevations. on the left-hand side of the court, a wide flight of steps leads to the hall called _la salle des procureurs_, a place originally designed as an exchange for the merchants of the city, who had previously been in the habit of assembling for that purpose in the cathedral. it is one hundred and sixty feet in length, by fifty in breadth. "in this great hall," says peter heylin, "are the seats and desks of the procurators; every one's name written in capital letters over his head. these procurators are like our attornies; they prepare causes, and make them ready for the advocates. in this hall do suitors use, either to attend on, or to walk up and down, and confer with, their pleaders."--the attornies had similar seats in the ancient english courts of justice; and these seats still remain in the hall at westminster, in which the court of exchequer holds its sittings. the walls of the salle des procureurs are adorned with chaste niches. the coved roof is of timber, plain and bold, and destitute either of the open tie-beams and arches, or the knot-work and cross timber which adorn our old english roofs. if the roof of our priory church was not ornamented, as last mentioned, it would nearly resemble that in question.--below the hall is a prison; to its right is the room where the parliament formerly held its sittings, but which is now appropriated to the trial of criminal causes. the unfortunate mathurin bruneau, the soi-disant dauphin, was last year tried here, and condemned to imprisonment. he is treated in his place of confinement with ambiguous kindness. the poor wretch loves his bottle; and, being allowed to intoxicate himself to his heart's content, he is already reduced to a state of idiotism.--heylin, who saw the building when it was in perfection, says, speaking of this _great chamber_, "that it is so gallantly and richly built, that i must needs confess it surpasseth all the rooms that ever i saw in my life. the palace of the louvre hath nothing in it comparable; the ceiling is all inlaid with gold, yet doth the workmanship exceed the matter."--the ceiling which excited heylin's admiration still exists. it is a grand specimen of the interior decoration of the times. the oak, which age has rendered almost as dark as ebony, is divided into compartments, covered with rich but whimsical carving, and relieved with abundance of gold. over the bench is a curious old picture, a _crucifixion_. joseph and the virgin are standing by the cross: the figures are painted on a gold ground; the colors deep and rich; the drawing, particularly in the arms, indifferent; the expression of the faces good. it was upon this picture that witnesses took the oaths before the revolution; and it is the only one of the six formerly in this situation that escaped destruction[ ]. round the apartment are gnomic sentences in letters of gold, reminding judges, juries, witnesses, and suitors, of their duties. the room itself is said to be the most beautiful in france for its proportions and quantity of light. in the _antiquités nationales_, is described and figured an elaborately wrought chimney-piece in the council-chamber, now destroyed, as are some fine gothic door-ways, which opened into the chamber. the ceiling of the apartment called la _seconde chambre des enquêtes_, painted by jouvenet, with a representation of jupiter hurling his thunderbolts at vice, is also unfortunately no more. it fell in, from a failure in the woodwork of the roof, on the first of april, . it was among the most highly-esteemed productions of this master, and not the less remarkable for having been executed with the left hand, after a paralytic stroke had deprived him of the use of the other. millin observes, with much justice, that one of the most remarkable of the decrees that issued from this palace, was that which authorized the meetings of the _conards_, a name given to a confraternity of buffoons, who, disguised in grotesque dresses, performed farces in the streets on shrove tuesday and other holidays. nor is it a little indicative of the taste of the times, that men of rank, character, and respectability entered into this society, the members of which, amounting to two thousand five hundred, elected from among themselves a president, whom they dressed as an abbot[ ], with a crozier and mitre, and, placing him on a car drawn by four horses, led him, thus attired, in great pomp through the streets; the whole of the party being masked, and personating not only the allegorical characters of avarice, lust, &c. but the more tangible ones of pope, king, and emperor, and with them those of holy writ. the seat of this guild was at notre dame de bonnes nouvelles. [illustration: sculpture, representing the feast of fools] in the cathedral itself the more notorious _procession des fous_ was also formerly celebrated, in which, as you know, the ass played the principal part, and the choir joined in the hymn[ ],-- "orientis partibus adventavit asinus," &c. these, or similar ceremonies, call them if you please absurdities, or call them impieties, (you will in neither case be far from their proper name,) were in the early ages of christianity tolerated in almost every place. mr. douce has furnished us with some curious remarks upon them in the eleventh volume of the _archaeologia_, and mr. ellis in his new edition of _brand's popular antiquities_. i am indebted to the first of these gentlemen for the knowledge that the inclosed etching, copied some time ago from a drawing by mr. joseph harding, is allusive to the ceremony of the _feast of fools_, and does not represent a group of morris-dancers, as i had erroneously supposed. indeed, mr. douce believes that many of the strange carvings on the _misereres_ in our cathedrals have references to these practices. and yet, to the honor of england, they never appear to have been equally common with us as in france.--according to du cange[ ], the confraternity of the conards or cornards was confined to rouen and evreux. i have not been able to ascertain when they were suppressed; but they certainly existed in the time of taillepied, in the beginning of the seventeenth century, about fifty years previously to which they dropped their original name of _coqueluchers_. at this time too they had evidently degenerated from the primary object of their institution, "ridendo castigare mores atque in omne quod turpitèr factum fuerat ridiculum immittere." taillepied was an eye-witness of their practices; and he prudently contents himself with saying; "le fait est plus clair à le voir que je ne pourrois icy l'escrire." at a short distance from the palace is a small square, called the _place de la pucelle_, a name which it has but recently acquired, in lieu of the more familiar appellation of _le marché aux veaux_. the present title records one of the most interesting events in the history of rouen, the execution of the unfortunate joan of arc, which is said to have taken place on the very spot now covered by the monument that commemorates her fate. three different ones have in succession occupied this place. the first was a cross, erected in , only twenty-four years after her death; for even at this early period, the king of france had obtained from pope calixtus iiird, a bull directing the revision of her sentence, and he had caused her innocence to be acknowledged. the second was a fountain of delicate workmanship, consisting of three tiers of columns placed one above the other, on a triangular plan, the whole decorated with arabesques and statues of saints, while the maid herself crowned the summit, and the water flowed through pipes that terminated in horses' heads. the present monument is inferior to the second, equally in design and in workmanship: it is a plain triangular pedestal, ornamented with dolphins at the base, and surmounted by the heroine in military costume. of the two last, figures are given by millin[ ], who could not be expected to suffer a subject to escape him, so calculated for the gratification of national pride. in a preceding volume of the same work[ ], he has represented the monument erected to her memory by charles viith, upon the bridge at orleans: the latter is commemorative of her triumphs; that at rouen, only of her capture and death. but the king testified his gratitude by more substantial tokens: he ennobled her three brothers and their descendants; and even allowed the females of the family to confer their rank upon the persons whom they married, a privilege which they continued to enjoy till the time of louis xiiith, who abolished it in . in the square is a house within a court, now occupied as a school for girls, of the same æra as the palais de justice, and in the same _burgundian style_, but far richer in its sculptures. the entire front is divided into compartments by slender and lengthened buttresses and pilasters. the intervening spaces are filled with basso-relievos, evidently executed at one period, though by different masters. a banquet beneath a window in the first floor, is in a good _cinque-cento_ style. others of the basso-relievos, represent the labors of the field and the vineyard; rich and fanciful in their costume, but rather wooden in their design: the salamander, the emblem of francis ist, appears several times amongst the ornaments, and very conspicuously. i believe there is not a single square foot of this extraordinary building, which has not been sculptured.--on the north side extends a spacious gallery. here the architecture is rather in holbein's manner: foliaged and swelling pilasters, like antique candelabra, bound the arched windows. beneath, is the well-known series of bas-reliefs, executed on marble tablets, representing the interview between francis ist of france, and henry viiith of england, in the _champ du drap d'or_, between guisnes and ardres. they were first discovered by the venerable father montfaucon, who engraved them in his _monumens de la monarchie française_[ ]; but to the greater part of our antiquaries at home, they are, perhaps, more commonly known by the miserable copies inserted in ducarel's work, who has borrowed most of his plates from the benedictine.--these sculptures are much mutilated, and so obscured by smoke and dirt, that the details cannot be understood without great difficulty. the corresponding tablets above the windows, are even in a worse condition; and they appear to have been almost unintelligible in the time of montfaucon, who conjectures that they were allegorical, and probably intended to represent the triumph of religion. each tablet contains a triumphal car, drawn by different animals, one by elephants, another by lions, and so on, and crowded with mythological figures and attributes.--a friend of mine, who examined them this summer, tells me, that he thinks the subjects are either _taken_ from the triumphs of petrarch, or _imitated_ from the triumphs introduced in the _polifilo_. graphic representations of allegories are susceptible of so many variations, that an artist, embodying the ideas of the poet, might produce a representation bearing a close resemblance to the mythological processions of the mystic dream.--of one of the most perfect of the historical subjects, i send you a drawing: it is the first in order in montfaucon's work, and exhibits the suite of the king of england, on their way from the town of guisnes, to meet the french monarch. two of the figures might be mistaken for henry himself and wolsey, riding familiarly side by side; but these dignified personages have more important parts allotted them in the second and third compartments, where they appear in the full-blown honors of their respective characters. [illustration: bas-relief, from the representations of the champ du drap d'or] the interior has been modernized; so that a beam covered with small carvings is the only remaining object of curiosity. on the top, a bunch of leaden thistles has been a sad puzzle to antiquaries, who would fain find some connection between the building and scotland; but neither record nor tradition throw any light upon their researches. montfaucon, copying from a manuscript written by the abbé noel, says, "i have more than once been told that francis ist, on his way through rouen, lodged at this house; and it is most probable, that the bas-reliefs in question were made upon some of these occasions, to gratify the king by the representation of a festival, in which he particularly delighted." the gallery sculptures are very fine, and the upper tier is much in the style of jean goujon. it is not generally known that goujon re-drew the embellishments of beroald de verville's translation of the polifilo; and that these, beautiful as they are in the aldine edition, acquired new graces from the french artist.--i have remarked that the allegorical tablets appear to coincide with the designs of the polifilo: a more accurate examination might, perhaps, prove the fact; and then little doubt would remain. the building is much dilapidated; and, unless speedily repaired, these basso-relievos, which would adorn any museum, will utterly perish. in spite of neglect and degradations, the aspect of the mansion is still such that, as my friend observed, one would expect to see a fair and stately matron standing in the porch, attired in velvet, waiting to receive her lord.--in the adjoining house, once, probably, a part of the same, but now an inn, bearing the sign of _la pucelle_, is shewn a circular room, much ornamented, with a handsome oriel conspicuous on the outside. in this apartment, the maid is said to have been tried; but it is quite certain that not a stone of the building was then put of the quarry. hence i must take you, and still under the auspices of millin[ ], to the great town-clock, or, as it is here called, _la tour de la grosse horloge_; and i cannot help wishing on the occasion, that i had half the powers of instructing and amusing which he possessed. like the writers in our most popular reviews, he uses the subjects which he places at the head of his articles as little more than a peg, whereon to hang whatever he knows connected with the matter; and the result is, that he is never read without pleasure or information. such is peculiarly the case in the present instance, in which he takes an opportunity of giving the history of the origin of clocks, tracing them from the simple dial, and particularising the most curious and intricate contrivances of modern ingenuity. another name of the tower which contains this clock, is _la tour du beffroi_, or, as we should say in english, the _belfry_; for the two words have the same meaning, and it is not to be doubted but that they originated from the same root, the anglo-saxon _bell_, whence barbarous latinists have formed _belfredus_ and _berfredus_, terms for moveable towers used in sieges, and so denominated from their resemblance in form to bell-towers. i mention this etymology, because the french have misled themselves strangely on the subject; and one of them has wandered so widely in his conjectures, as to derive _beffroi_ from _bis effroi_, supposing it to be the cause of double alarm! happily, in the most alarming of all times for france, that of the revolution, this bell, though appointed the _tocsin_, had scarcely ever occasion to sound. there is, however, another purpose, alarming at all periods, and especially in a town built of wood, to which it is appropriated, and to which we only yesterday heard it applied, the ringing to announce a fire. the precautions taken against similar accidents in rouen, are excellent, and they had need be so; for insurance-companies of any kind are unknown, i believe, in france[ ], or exist only upon a most limited scale, at the foot of the pyrenees, where the farmers mutually insure each other against the effects of the hail. the daily office of this bell is to sound the curfew, a practice which, under different names, is still kept up through normandy. here it rings nightly at nine. in other towns it rings at nine in winter only, but not till ten in summer. in some places it is called _la retraite_. adjoining the bell-tower is a fountain, ornamented with statues of alpheus and arethusa, united by cupid; a specimen of the taste of the far-famed _siècles de louis xiv et de louis xv_, and a worthy companion of the water-works at versailles. there are in rouen more than thirty public fountains, all supplied by five different springs, among which, those of yonville and of darnétal are accounted to afford the purest water.--the robec and the aubette also flow through rouen in artificial channels. st. louis granted them both to the city in ; but it was the great benefactor of the place, the cardinal d'amboise, who brought them within the walls, by means of a canal, which he caused to be dug at his own expence. for a space of two leagues their banks are uninterruptedly lined with mills and manufactories of various descriptions; and it is this circumstance which has given rise to the saying, that rouen is a wonderful place, for "that it has a river with three hundred bridges, and whose waters change their color ten times a day." as a building, the fountain of lisieux, decorated with a bas-relief representing parnassus, with apollo, the muses, and pegasus, is most frequently pointed out to strangers; a wretched specimen of wretched taste. infinitely more interesting to us are the gothic fountains or conduits, which are now wholly wanting in england. such is the fountain _de la croix de pierre_, which, in shape, style, and ornaments, resembles the monumental crosses erected by; our king edward ist, for his queen eleanor. the water flows from pipes in the basement. the stone statues, which filled the tabernacles, were destroyed during the revolution: they have been replaced by others in wood.--the fountain _de la crosse_ is of inferior size, and more recent date. it is a polygon, with sides of pannelled work, each compartment occupied by a pointed arch, with tracery in the spandrils. it ends in a short truncated pyramid, which, in millin's time, was surmounted by a royal crown[ ]. its name is taken from a house, at whose corner it stands, and on whose roof was originally a crozier. writing to a friend may be regarded, if we extend to writing the happy comparison which lord bacon has applied to conversation, not as walking in a high-road which leads direct to a house, but rather as strolling through a country intersected with a variety of paths, in which the traveller wanders as fancy or accident directs. hence i shall scarcely apologize for my abrupt transition to another very different subject, the hospitals.--there are at rouen two such establishments, situated at opposite extremes of the town, the _hospice général_ and the _hôtel dieu_, more commonly called _la madeleine_. the latter is appropriated only to the sick; the former is also open to the aged, to foundlings, to paupers, and to lunatics. for the poor, i have been able to hear of no other provision; and poor-laws, as you know, have no existence in france; yet, even here, in a manufacturing town, and at a season of distress, beggary is far from extreme. these institutions, like all the rest at rouen, are said to be under excellent management. the annual expences of la madeleine are estimated at two hundred and forty thousand-francs[ ]; out of which sum, no less than forty-seven thousand francs are expended in bread. the number of individuals admitted here, during the first nine months of , the last authentic statement i have been able to procure, was two thousand seven hundred and seventeen: during the same period, two thousand one hundred and fifty-eight were discharged, and two hundred and seventy died. the building is modern and handsome, and situated at the end of a fine avenue. the church, a corinthian edifice, and indisputably the handsomest building of that description at rouen, is generally admired. the hospice général, destitute as it is of architectural magnificence, cannot be visited without satisfaction. when i was at this hospital, the old men who are housed there were seated at their dinner, and i have seldom witnessed a more pleasing sight. they exhibited an appearance of cleanliness, propriety, good order, and comfort, equally creditable to themselves and to the institution. the number of inmates usually resident in this building is about two thousand; and they consisted, in , of one hundred and sixty aged men, one hundred and eighty aged women, six hundred children, and eight hundred and twenty-five invalids. among the latter were forty lunatics. the food here allowed to the helpless poor is of good quality; and, as far as i could learn, is afforded in sufficient quantity: there are also two work-shops; in one of which, articles are manufactured for the use of the house; in the other, for sale. the principal towns of france, as was anciently the case in england, have each its mint. the numismatic antiquities of this kingdom are yet involved in considerable obscurity; but it is said that the monetary privileges of the towns were first settled by charles the bald[ ], who, about the year , enacted, that money, which had previously only been coined in the royal palace itself, or in places where the sovereign was present, should be struck in future at paris, rouen, rheims, sens, chalons sur saone, mesle in poitou, and narbonne. at present, the money struck at rouen is impressed with the letter _b_, indicating that the mint is second only to that of paris; for the city has remained in possession of the right of coinage throughout all its various changes of masters: it now holds it in common with ten other, cities in the kingdom. ducarel[ ] has figured two very scarce silver pennies, coined here by william the conqueror, before the invasion of england; and snelling and ruding[ ] detail ordinances for the regulation of the mintage of rouen, during the reign of henry vth. i have not been able, however, to procure in the city any specimens of these, or of other norman coins; and in fact the native spot of articles of _virtu_ is seldom the place where they can be procured either genuine or in abundance. greek medals, i am told, are regularly exported from birmingham to athens, for the supply of our travelled gentlemen; and, if groats and pennies should ever rise in the market, i doubt not but that they will find their way in plenty into the old towns of normandy. there is not, at rouen, any public collection of the productions of the mint. since the annexation of the duchy to the crown of france, no coins have been struck here, except the common silver currency of the kingdom: the manufacture of medals and of gold coins is exclusively the privilege of the parisian mint. the establishment is under the care of a commissary and assay-master, appointed by the crown, but not salaried. their pay depends upon the amount of money coined, on which they are allowed one and a half per cent., and are left to find silver where they can; so that, in effect, it is little more than a private concern. the work is performed by four die-presses, moved by levers, each of which requires ten men; and about twenty thousand pieces can be produced daily from each press. but this method of working is attended with unequal pressure, and causes both trouble and uncertainty: it is even necessary that each coin should be separately weighed. the extreme superiority of the machinery of our own mint, where the whole operation is performed by steam, with a rapidity and accuracy altogether astonishing, affords just reason for exultation to an englishman.--it is true, that the execution of our bank paper rather counterbalances such feelings of complacency. footnotes: [ ] this appears from the following inscription now upon a silver tablet placed near it.--"ce tableau est celui qui fut donné par louis xii, en , à l'exchiquier, lorsqu'il le rendit permanent. c'est le seul de tous les ornemens de ce palais qui ait échappé aux ravages de la révolution: il a été conservé par les soins de m. gouel, graveur, et par lui remis à la cour royale de rouen qui l'a fait placer ici, comme un monument de la piété d'un roi, à qui sa bonté mérita le surnom de père du peuple, et dont les vertus se reproduisent aujourd'hui dans la personne non moins chérie que sacrée de sa majesté très chrétienne, louis xviii, janvier, ." [ ] du cange, (i. p. .) quoting from a book printed at rouen, in , under the title of _les triomphes de l'abbaye des conards_, &c. gives the following curious mock patent from the abbot of this confraternity, addressed to somebody of the name of de montalinos.-- "provisio cardinalatus rothomagensis julianensis, &c. "paticherptissime pater, &c. "abbas conardorum et inconardorum ex quacumque natione, vel genitatione sint aut fuerint: dilecto nostro filio naturali et illegitimo jacobo à montalinasio salutem et sinistram benedictionem. tua talis qualis vita et sancta reputatio cum bonis servitiis ... et quod diffidimus quòd postea facies secundùm indolem adolescentiæ ac sapientiæ tuæ in conardicis actibus, induxenunt nos, &c. quocirca mandamus ad amicos, inimicos et benefactores nostros qui ex hoc sæculo transierunt vel transituri sunt ... quatenus habeant te ponere, statuere, instalare et investire tàm in choro, chordis et organo, quàm in cymbalis bene sonantibus, faciantque te jocundari et ludere de libertatibus franchisiis, &c.... voenundatum in tentorio nostro prope sanctum julianum sub annulo peccatoris anno pontificatus nostri, . kalend. fabacearum, hora verò noctis . more conardorum computando, &c." [ ] the music of this hymn, or _prose_, as it is termed in the catholic rituals, is given in the atlas to millin's travels through the southern departments of france, _plate_ . [ ] see under the article _abbas conardorum_, i. p. . [ ] _antiquités nationales_, iii. no. . [ ] vol. ii. no. . [ ] vol. iv. t. , , . [ ] _antiquités nationales_, iii. no. . [ ] this ceased to be the case almost immediately after this remark was made; for, on my return to france, in , i observed on the whole road from dieppe to paris, the letters p a c i, or others, equally meaning _pour assurance contre l'incendie_, painted upon the fronts of the houses. [ ] _antiquités nationales_, iii. article , p. .--(in the figure, however, which accompanies this article, the summit is mutilated, as i saw it.) [ ] _peuchet, description topographique et statistique de la france, département de la seine inférieure_, p. . [ ] _histoire de la haute normandie_, i. p. . [ ] _anglo-norman antiquities_, p. . t. . [ ] _annals of the coinage of britain_, i. p. - . letter xiii. monastic institutions--library--manuscripts--museum--academy--botanic garden--theatre--ancient history--eminent men. (_rouen, june_, .) the laws of france do not recognize monastic vows; but of late years, the clergy have made attempts to re-establish the communities which once characterized the catholic church. to a certain degree they have succeeded: the spirit of religion is stronger than the law; and the spirit of contradiction, which teaches the subject to do whatever the law forbids, is stronger than either. hence, most towns in france contain establishments, which may be considered either as the embers of expiring monachism, or the sparks of its reviving flame. rouen has now a convent of ursulines, who undertake the education of young females. the house is spacious; and for its neatness, as well as for the appearance of regularity and propriety, cannot be surpassed. on this account, it is often visited by strangers. the present lady-abbess, dame cousin, would do honor to the most flourishing days of the hierarchy: when she walks into the chapel, saint ethelburgha herself could not have carried the crozier with greater state; and, though she is somewhat short and somewhat thick, her pupils are all wonderfully edified by her dignity. she has upwards of dozen english heretics under her care; but she will not compromise her conscience by allowing them to attend the protestant service. there are also about ninety french scholars, and the inborn antipathy between them and the _insulaires_, will sometimes evince itself. amongst other specimens of girlish spite, the french fair-ones have divided the english damsels into two _genera_. those who look plump and good-humored, they call _mesdemoiselles rosbifs_; whilst such as are thin and graver acquire the appellation of the _mesdemoiselles goddams_, a name by which we have been known in france, at least five centuries ago.--this story is not trivial, for it bespeaks the national feeling; and, although you may not care much about it, yet i am sure, that five centuries hence, it will be considered as of infinite importance by the antiquaries who are now babes unborn. the ursulines and _soeurs d'ernemon_, or _de la charité_, who nurse the sick, are the only two orders which are now protected by government. they were even encouraged under the reign of napoléon, who placed them under the care of his august parent, _madame mère_.--there are other sisterhoods at rouen, though in small numbers, and not publickly patronized. nuns are thus increasing and multiplying, but monks and friars are looked upon with a more jealous eye; and i have not heard that any such communities have been allowed to re-assemble within the limits of the duchy, once so distinguished for their opulence, and, perhaps, for their piety and learning. the libraries of the monasteries were wasted, dispersed, and destroyed, during the revolution; but the wrecks have since been collected in the principal towns; and thus originated the public library of rouen, which now contains, as it is said, upwards of seventy thousand volumes. as may be anticipated, a great proportion of the works which it includes relate to theology and scholastic divinity; and the bollandists present their formidable front of fifty-four ponderous folios. [illustration: initial letter from a ms. of the history of william of jumieges] the manuscripts, of which i understand there are full eight hundred, are of much greater value than the printed books. but they are at present unarranged and uncatalogued, though m. licquet, the librarian, has been for some time past laboring to bring them into order. among those pointed out to us, none interested me so much as an original autograph; of the _historica normannorum_, by william de jumiegies, brought from the very abbey to which he belonged. there is no doubt, i believe, of its antiquity; but, to enable you to form your own judgment upon the subject, i send you a tracing of the first paragraph. [illustration: historica normannorum tracing of autograph] i also add a fac-simile of the initial letter of the foregoing epistle, illuminated by the monk, and in which he has introduced himself in the act of humbly presenting his work to his royal namesake. i am mistaken, if any equally early, and equally well authenticated representation of a king of england be in existence. the _historia normannorum_ is incomplete, both at the beginning and end, and it does not occupy more than one-fifth of the volume: the rest is filled with a comment upon the jewish history. the articles among the manuscripts, most valued by antiquaries, are a _benedictionary_ and a _missal_, both supposed of nearly the same date, the beginning of the twelfth century. the abbé saas, who published, in , a catalogue of the manuscripts belonging to the library of the cathedral of rouen, calls this benedictionary, which then belonged to the metropolitan church, a _penitential_; and gives it as his opinion, that it is a production of the eighth century, with which æra he says that the character of the writing wholly accords. montfaucon, who never saw it, follows the abbé; but the opinion of these learned men has recently been confuted by m. gourdin[ ], who has bestowed considerable pains upon the elucidation of the history and contents of this curious relic. he states that a sum of fifteen thousand francs had been offered for it, by a countryman of our own; but i should not hesitate to class this tale among the numberless idle reports which are current upon the continent, respecting the riches and the folly of english travellers. the famous bedford missal, at a time when the bibliomania was at its height[ ], could hardly fetch a larger sum; and this of rouen is in no point of view, except antiquity, to be put in competition with the english manuscript. its illuminations are certainly beautiful; but they are equalled by many hundreds of similar works; and they are only three in number, the _resurrection_, the _descent of the holy ghost_, and the _death of the virgin_.--the volume appears to have been originally designed for the use of the cathedral of canterbury; as it contains the service used at the consecration of our anglo-saxon sovereigns. the missal, which is also the object of m. gourdin's dissertation, is from the convent of jumieges. its date is established by the circumstance of the paschal table finishing with the year . it contains eleven miniatures, inferior in execution to those in the benedictionary; and it ends with the following anathema, in the hand-writing of the abbot robert, by whom it was given to the monastery:--"quem si quis vi vel dolo seu quoque modo isti loco subtraxerit, animæ suæ propter quod fecerit detrimentum patiatur, atque de libro viventium deleatur et cum justis non scribatur." as a memorial of a usage almost universal in the earlier ages of the church, the _diptych_, commonly called the _livre d'ivoire_, is a valuable relic. the covers exhibit figures of st. peter and of some other saint, in a good style of workmanship, perhaps of the lower empire. the book contains the oaths administered to each archbishop of rouen and his suffragans, upon their entering on their office, all of them severally subscribed by the individuals by whom they were sworn. it begins at a very early period, and finishes with the name of julius basilius ferronde de la ferronaye, consecrated bishop of lisieux, in . in the first page is the formula of the oath of the archbishop.--"juramentum archiepiscopi rothomagensis jucundo adventu receptionis suæ.--primo dicat et pronuntiet decanus vel alius de majoribus verba quæ sequentur in introitu atrii;--adest, reverende pater, tua sponsa, nostra mater, hæc rothom. ecclesia, cum maximo gaudio recipere te parata, ut eam regas salubriter, potenter protegas et defendas.--responsio archiepiscopalis;--hæc, deo donante, me facturum promitto.--iterum decanus vel alius;--firma juramento quæ te facturum promittis.--ego, dei patientia, bujus rothom. ecclesiæ minister, juro ad hæc sancta dei evangelia quod ipsam ecclesiam contra quoslibet tam in bona quam in personas ipsius invasores et oppressores pro posse protegam viriliter et defendam, atque etiam ipsius ecclesiæ jura, libertates, privilegia, statuta et consuetudines apostolicas servabo fideliter. bona ejusdem ecclesiæ non alienabo nec alienari permittam, quin pro posse, si quæ alienata fuerint, revocabo. sic me deus adjuvet et sancta dei evangelia." the oath of the bishops and abbots was nothing more than a promise of constant respect and obedience on their parts to the church and archbishop of rouen. you will find it in the _voyages liturgiques_[ ]; in which you will also meet with a great deal of curious matter touching the peculiar customs and ceremonies of this cathedral. the different metropolitan churches of france before the revolution, like those of our own country prior to the reformation, varied materially from one another in observances of minor importance; at the same time that their rituals all agreed in what may be termed the doctrinal ceremonies of the church. the last manuscript which i shall mention, is the only one that is commonly shewn to strangers: it is a _graduel_, a very large folio volume, written in the seventeenth century, and of transcendent beauty. julio clovio himself, the raphael of this department of art, might have been proud to be considered the author of the miniatures in it. the representations of lapis lazuli are even more wonderful than the flowers and insects. the whole was done by a monk, of the name of daniel d'eaubonne, and is said to have cost him the labor of his entire life. in earlier times, a similar occupation was regarded as peculiarly meritorious[ ].--there died a friar, a man of irregular life, and his soul was brought before the judgment-seat to receive its deserts. the evil spirits attended, not anticipating any opposition to the claim which they preferred; but the guardian angels produced a large book, filled with a transcript from holy writ by the hand of the criminal; and it was at length agreed that each letter in it should be allowed to stand against a sin. the tale was carefully gone through: satan exerted his utmost ingenuity to substantiate every crime of omission or commission; and the contending parties kept equal pace, even unto the last letter of the last word of the last line of the last page, when, happily for the monk, the recollection of his accuser failed, and not a single charge could be found to be placed in the balance against it. his soul was therefore again remanded to the body, and a farther time was allotted to it to correct its evil ways.--the legend is pointed by an apposite moral; for the brethren are exhorted to "pray, read, sing, and write, always bearing in mind, that one devil only is allowed to assail a monk who is intent upon his duties, but that a thousand are let loose to lead the idle into temptation." the library is open every day, except sundays and thursdays, from ten to two, to everybody who chooses to enter. it is to the credit of the inhabitants of rouen, that they avail themselves of the privilege; and the room usually contains a respectable assemblage of persons of all classes. the revenue of the library does not amount to more than three thousand francs per annum; but it is also occasionally assisted by government. the french ministers of state consider that it is the interest of the nation to promote the publication of splendid works, either by pecuniary grants to the authors, or, as more commonly happens, by subscribing for a number of copies, which they distribute amongst the public libraries of the kingdom.--i could say a great deal upon the difference in the conduct of the governments of france and england in this respect, but it would be out of place; and i trust that our house of commons will not be long before they expunge from the statute-books, a law which, under the shameless pretence of "encouraging learning," is in fact a disgrace to the country. the museum is also established at the hôtel-de-ville, where it occupies a long gallery and a room adjoining. it is under the superintendence of m. descamps, son of the author of two very useful works, _la vie des peintres flamands_ and _le voyage pittoresque_. the father was born at dunkirk, in , but lived principally at paris, till an accidental circumstance fixed him at rouen, in . on his way to england, he here formed an acquaintance with m. de cideville, the friend of voltaire, who, anxious for the honor of his native town, persuaded the young artist to select it as the place of his future residence. the event fully answered his expectation; for the ability and zeal of m. descamps soon gave new life to the arts at rouen. a public academy of painting was formed under his auspices, to which he afforded gratuitous instruction; and its celebrity increased so rapidly, that the number of pupils soon amounted to three hundred; and norman authors continued to anticipate in fancy the creation of a norman school, which should rival those of bologna and florence, until the very moment when the revolution dispelled this day-dream. descamps died at the close of the last century. to his son, who inherits his parent's taste, with no small portion of his talent, we were indebted for much obliging attention. the museum is open to the public on sundays and thursdays; but daily to students and strangers. it contains upwards of two hundred and thirty paintings. of these, the great mass is undoubtedly by french artists, comparatively little known and of small merit, imitators of poussin and le brun. such paintings as bear the names of the old italian masters, are in general copies; some of them, indeed, not bad imitations. among them is one of the celebrated raphael, commonly called the _madonna di san sisto_, a very beautiful copy, especially in the head of the virgin, and the female saint on her left hand. it is esteemed one of his finest pieces; but few of his pictures are less generally known: there is no engraving of it in landon's eight volumes of his works. looking to the unquestionable originals in the collection, there are perhaps none of greater value than jouvenet's finished sketches for the dome of the hôtel des invalides, at paris. they represent the twelve apostles, each with his symbol, and are extremely well composed, with a bold system of light and shadow. the museum has five other pictures by the same master; in this number are his own portrait, a vigorous performance, as well in point of character as of color; and the _death of st. francis_, which has generally been considered one of his happiest works. both these were painted with his left hand. the death of st. francis is said to have been his first attempt at using the brush, after he was affected with paralysis, and to have been done by way of model for his scholar, restout, whom he had desired to execute the same subject for him. a _christ bearing his cross_, by polemburg; is a little piece of high finish and considerable merit; an _ecce homo_, by mignard, is excellent; and a _st. francis in extasy_, by annibal caracci, is a good illustration of the true character of the bolognese school: it is a fine and dignified picture, depending for its excellence upon a grand character of expression and drawing, and light and shade, and not at all on bright or varied coloring, to which it makes no pretension. as local curiosities, the attention of the amateur should be devoted to the productions of the painters to whom rouen has given birth, restout, lemonnier, deshays, leger, houel, letellier, and sacquespée, artists, not of the first class, but of sufficient merit to do great credit to the exhibition of a provincial metropolis. from these recent specimens, you would turn with the more pleasure to a picture by van eyck, the inventor, as it is generally supposed, of oil painting. let us respect these fathers of the art. let us pardon the stiffness of their composition, the formality of their figures, the inelegance of their draperies, the hardness of their outlines, and the want of chiaroscuro;--for, in spite of all these failings, there is a truth to nature, and a richness of coloring, which always attract and win. the picture in question is the _virgin mother in her domestic retirement_, surrounded by her family, a comely party of young females in splendid attire, some of them wearing the bridal crown. it is altogether a curiosity, partaking, indeed, of the general bad taste of the times, but painted with great attention to nature in the minutiæ, and resembling lionardo da vinci in many particulars, especially in the high finishing, the coloring of the carnations, and the grace, and beauty of some of the heads. the draperies, too, are rich and brilliant. this museum is a recent erection: most, if not all, of the departments of france, possess similar establishments in their principal towns. the basis of the collection is founded upon the plunder of the suppressed monasteries; but m. descamps told us that, in the course of a journey to italy, he had been the means of adding to this, at rouen, its principal ornaments. he had the greater merit of preserving it entire, when orders were transmitted from paris to send off its best pictures, to replace those taken from the louvre by the allies; for on all occasions, whether great or small, the interests of the departments are sacrificed without mercy to the engulphing capital. descamps was firm in defending his trust: he resisted the spoliation, upon the principle that the museum was the private property of the town; and the plea was admitted. the same conventual buildings also contain the rooms appropriated to the use of the academy at rouen, a royal institution of old standing, and which has published fifteen volumes of its transactions.--it was founded in , under a charter granted to the duke of luxembourg, then governor of the province, and its first president. the present complement of members consists of forty-six fellows, besides non-resident associates. its meetings are held every friday evening, and the members, as at the institute at paris, read their own papers. a few nights ago, at a meeting of this academy, i heard a memoir from the pen of the professor of botany, in which he dwelt at large upon the family of the lilies, but prized and praised them for nothing so much as for their connection with the bourbon family. i mention the fact to shew you how readily the french seize hold of every occasion of displaying their devotion to the powers that be. in , at the moment of the restoration of louis xviiith, we were not surprised to see every town and village between calais and paris, decorated with a proud display of the busts of the monarch, the shields of france and navarre, and innumerable devices and mottoes, _consecrated_, as the french say, to the bourbons; but four years have given time for this ebullition of loyalty to subside; and the introduction of such topics at the present day, and especially in the meetings of a body devoted solely to the improvement of literature and of the arts and sciences, appears to savor somewhat of adulation. these praises excited no remarks and no criticisms; though both might have been expected; for, during the reading of a paper, the by-standers are allowed to discuss its merits and its defects. this practice gives the sittings of a french literary society a degree of life and spirit wanting to ours in england; but i doubt if the advantage be not more than counter-balanced by the frequent interruptions which it occasions, and which an ill-natured person might in some cases suspect to proceed from a desire of attracting notice, rather than from fair, and just reprehension. i should be sorry to insinuate that any thing of this kind was evident at the time, just alluded to, which was the friday previous to the annual meeting, the day appointed for taking into consideration the report intended to be submitted to the full assembly of the inhabitants. the president also read his projected speech, in the course of which he took the opportunity of declaring in strong terms his dislike to napoléon's plan of education, directed almost exclusively to military affairs and mathematics: he even stated that the present generation "étoit sans morale."--the opinion could not be allowed to pass: he found himself beset on all sides; not an individual supported him; and after a variety of attempts to palliate and explain away the offensive passage, he was obliged to consent to expunge it. this will give some farther idea of the state of public feeling in france: the compliment upon the lilies passed as words of course; but the same body that tolerated it, positively refused to stamp with the sanction of their approbation, any comparison unfavorable to the system of napoléon, when put in opposition to that of the subsisting government. there is another literary body at rouen; called _la société d'emulation_, of more recent establishment, it having been founded in . conformably to the national spirit which then prevailed, it is directed exclusively to the encouragement of manufactories and agriculture.--this society distributes annual medals as the reward of improvements and discoveries, though i am afraid that as yet it has been productive but of slender utility. rouen also possesses a botanic garden, which was founded in ; but the scite which it now occupies was not thus applied till twenty years subsequently, when the municipality conveyed the ground in perpetuity to the academy in its corporate capacity, stipulating that it should yield a nosegay every year as an appropriate _rent in kind_. at the revolution a grant like this would scarcely be respected; still less did the jacobins appreciate the pleasures or advantages derived from the garden. the demagogues of that period seem to have entered heartily into jean jacques rousseau's notions, that the arts and sciences were injurious to mankind: this fine establishment was seized as national property, and, according to the revolutionary jargon, was _soumissioné_; but a more temporate faction obtained the ascendancy before the sale was carried into effect.--the collection is extensive, and the plants are in good order: i am not however, aware that the city has ever given birth to any man of eminence in this department of science. lately, indeed, the abbé le turquier deslongchamps, a very well-informed botanist, as well as a most excellent man, has published a _flore des environs de rouen_, in two volumes; and there are many instances in which such works have been known to diffuse a taste, which public gardens and the lectures of professors had in vain endeavored to excite. the variety of soil in the vicinity of the city renders it eminently favorable to the study of botany. it is peculiarly rich in the _orchideoe_ of the most beautiful and interesting families of the vegetable kingdom. the curious _satyrium hircinun_ is found in the utmost profusion upon the chalky hills immediately adjoining the city; and, at but a few miles distance, in a continuation of the same ridge, the bare chalk, under the romantic hill of st. adrien, is purpled with the flowers of the _viola rothomagensis_, a plant scarcely known to exist in any other place. the suburbs of rouen abound with nursery-grounds and gardens: the former contribute greatly to the preservation of the genuine stock of apple-trees, which furnish the cider, for which normandy has for many centuries been celebrated; the latter supply the inhabitants with the flowers which are seen at almost every window. the square in front of the cathedral is the principal flower-market; and the bloom and luxuriance and variety of the plants exposed for sale, render it a most pleasing promenade. various species of jessamines and roses, with oleanders, pomegranates, myrtles, egg-plants, orange and lemon trees, the _lilium superbum_ and _tigrinum_, _canna indica_, _gladiolus cardinalis_, _clerodendrum fragrans_, _datura ceratocolla_, _clethra alnifolia_, and _dianthus carthusianorum_, are to be seen in the greatest profusion and beauty. they at once attest the care of the cultivators, and a climate more genial than ours. none of the flowers, however, excited my envy so much as the _rosa moschata_, which grows here in the open air, and diffuses its delicious fragrance from almost every window of the town. it is perhaps to the credit of rouen, that science and learning appear to flourish more kindly than the drama. the theatre of rouen is quite uncharacteristic of the passion which the french usually entertain for _spectacles_. the house is shabby; the audience, as often as we have been there, has been small; and in this great city, the capital of an extensive, populous, and wealthy district we have witnessed acting so wretched, as would disgrace the floor of a village barn. we have been much surprised by seeing the performers repeatedly laugh in the face of the spectators, a thing which i should least of all have expected in france, where usually, in similar cases, the whole nation is tremblingly alive to the slightest violations of decorum. and yet corneille, the father of the french drama, was born in this city: the scene that is used for a curtain at the theatre bears his portrait, with the inscription, "_p. corneille, natif de rouen_;" and his apotheosis is painted upon the cieling. these recollections ought to tend to the improvement of the drama. the portrait of the great tragedian is more appropriate than the busts of henry ivth and louis xviiith, which occupy opposite sides of the stage; the latter laurelled and flanked with small white flags, whose staffs terminate in paper lilies. corneille and fontenelle are the citizens, of whom rouen is most proud: the house in which corneille was born, in the _rue de la pie_, is still shewn to strangers. his bust adorns the entrance, together with an inscription to his honor. the residence of his illustrious nephew, the author of the _plurality of worlds_, is situated in the _rue des bans enfans_, and is distinguished in the same manner. the whole _siécle de louis xiv_, scarcely contains two names upon which voltaire dwells with more pleasure.--rouen was also the birth-place of the learned bochart, author of _sacred geography_ and of the _hierozöicon_; of basnage, who wrote the _history of the bible_; of sanadon, the translator of horace; of pradon, "damn'd," in the satires of boileau, "to everlasting fame;" of du moustier, to whom we are indebted for the _neustria pia_; of jouvenet, whom i have already mentioned as one of the most distinguished painters of the french school; and of father daniel, not less eminent as an historian.--these, and many others, are gone; but the reflection of their glory still plays upon the walls of the city, which was bright, while they lived, with its lustre;--"nam præclara facies, magnæ divitiæ, ad hoc vis corporis, alia hujuscemodi omnia, brevi dilabuntur; at ingenii egregia facinora, sicuti anima, immortalia sunt. postremò corporis et fortunæ bonorum, ut initium, finis est; omnia orta occidunt et aucta senescunt: animus incorruptas, æternus, rector humani generis, agit atque habet cuncta, neque ipse habetur." the more remote and historical honors of rouen would present ample materials. prior to the roman invasion, it appears to have been of less note than as the capital of neustria. julius cæsar, copious as he is in all that relates to gaul, makes no mention of rouen in his commentaries. ptolemy first speaks of it as the capital of the velocasses, or bellocasses, the people of the present vexin; but he does not allow his readers to entertain an elevated idea of its consequence; for he immediately adds, that the inhabitants of the pays de caux were, singly, equal to the velocasses and veromandui together; and that the united forces of the two latter tribes did not amount to one-tenth part of those which were kept on foot by the bellovaci.--not long after, however, when the romans became undisputed masters of gaul, we find rouen the capital of the province, called the _secunda lugdunensis_; and from that tine forward, it continued to increase in importance. etymologists have been amused and puzzled by "rothomagus," its classical name. in an uncritical age, it was contended that the name afforded good proof of the city having been founded by magus, son of samothes, contemporary of nimrod. others, with equal diligence, sought the root of rothomagus in the name of roth, who is said to have been its tutelary god; and the ancient clergy adopted the tradition, in the hymn, which forms a part of the service appointed for the feast of st. mellonus,-- "extirpate roth idolo, fides est in lumine; ferro cinctus, pane solo pascitur et flumine, post hæc junctus est in polo cum sanctorum agmine." the partizans of _roth_ are therefore supported by the authority of the church; the favorers of _magus_ must defend themselves by more worldly erudition; and we must leave the task of deciding between the claims of the two sections of the word, divided as they are by the neutral _o_, to wiser heads than ours. footnotes: [ ] précis analytique des travaux de l'académie de rouen, pendant l'année , p. . [ ] at the sale of mr. edwards' library, in april , it was bought by the present duke of marlborough for six hundred and eighty-seven pounds fifteen shillings.--the following anecdote, connected with it, was communicated to me by a literary friend, who had it from one of the parties interested; and i take this opportunity of inserting it, as worthy of a place in some future _bibliographical decameron_.--at the time when the bedford missal was on sale, with the rest of the duchess of portland's collection, the late king sent for his bookseller, and expressed his intention to become the purchaser. the bookseller ventured to submit to his majesty, that the article in question, as one highly curious, was likely to fetch a high price.--"how high?"--"probably, two hundred guineas!"--"two hundred guineas for a missal!" exclaimed the queen, who was present, and lifted up her hands with extreme astonishment.--"well, well," said his majesty, "i'll still have it; but, since the queen thinks two hundred guineas so enormous a sum for a missal, i'll go no farther."--the bidding for the royal library did actually stop at that point; and mr. edwards carried off the prize by adding three pounds more. [ ] published at rouen, a.d. .--the book professes to be written by the sieur de moléon; but its real author was jean baptiste de brun desmarets, son of a bookseller in that city.--he was born in , and received his education at the monastery of port royal des champs, with the monks of which order he kept up such a connection, that he was finally involved in their ruin. his papers were seized; and he was himself committed to the bastille, and imprisoned there five years. he died at orleans, . [ ] _ordericus vitalis_, in _duchesne's scriptores normanni_, p. . * * * * * end of the first volume. index. a. abbey, of fécamp, montivilliers, pavilly, abbot of the canards, his patent, academy, royal, at rouen, angel weighing the good and evil deeds of a departed spirit, on a capital in the church at montivilliers, archbishop, tomb of, in rouen cathedral, archbishop of rouen, formerly had jurisdiction at dieppe his present salary, the oath taken by him on his accession, architecture, perpendicular style of, unknown in normandy, arques, battle of, arques, castle of, its origin, its history, situation, described, when built, arques, town of, formerly a place of importance, arques, church of, a beautiful specimen of florid norman-gothic architecture, b. b, the mark of money coined at rouen, bedford, john, duke of, buried in rouen cathedral, bedford missal, anecdote respecting the sale of, in , beggars in france, benedictionary, in the public library at rouen, berneval, alexander, his tomb in the church of st. ouen bertheville, ancient name of dieppe, bochart, a native of rouen, bolbec, botanic garden, at rouen, boulevards, at rouen, bourgueville, his account of the privilege of st. romain, bouzard, i.a., house built for, at dieppe, brezé, lewis, duke of, his monument in rouen cathedral bridge of boats, at rouen, brighton, compared with dieppe, c. cæsar, julius, roman camps in france commonly ascribed to, cæsar's camp, near dieppe, described, plan of, if really roman, caletes, name of the former inhabitants of the pays de caux, canal from dieppe to pontoise, projected by vauban, castle, at dieppe, at lillebonne, cathedral at rouen, described western portal sculpture over the doors, tower of st. romain, tour de beurre, great bell, transepts, central tower, origin of, details of, monuments, lady-chapel, paintings, staircase leading to the library, relics, catherine of medicis, her sanguinary conduct at the capture of rouen, caucalis grandiflora, found at cæsar's camp, near dieppe, champ du drap d'or, meeting at, represented in a series of bas-reliefs, charles vth, buried in rouen cathedral, charles ixth, his conduct at the capture of rouen, charter, constitutional, of france, château de bouvreuil at rouen, three towers standing of, château du vieux palais at rouen, built by henry vth; destroyed at the revolution, church, of st. jacques, at dieppe, st. remi, at ditto, arques, the trinity, at fécamp, st. stephen, at ditto, montivilliers, harfleur, st. paul, at rouen, st. gervais, at ditto, léry, pavilly, yainville, st. ouen, rouen, st. maclou, at ditto, st. patrice, at ditto, st. godard, at ditto, churches, in early times, often changed patrons, cité de limes, cæsar's camp, near dieppe, anciently so called, civitas limarum, cæsar's camp, near dieppe, anciently so called, cliffs, height of, near dieppe, conards, confraternity of, confined to rouen and evreux; their original object, convent of the ursulines, at rouen, coqueluchers, name originally borne by the conards, corneille, a native of rouen, costume, of females at dieppe, of the inhabitants of the suburb of pollet, at dieppe, of the people at rouen, crypt in the church of st. gervais, at rouen, the burial place of st. mello, d. d'amboise george, cardinal of, builds the west portal of rouen cathedral, builds the tour de beurre, and places in it the great bell called after him, finishes the lady-chapel in the cathedral, builds the archbishop's palace, brings the robec and aubette to rouen, his monument in rouen cathedral, daniel, father, native of rouen, deputies, qualifications requisite for, in france, descamps, a resident at rouen, and founder of the academy of painting there, devotee, anecdote of, dicquemare l'abbé, native of havre, dieppe, arrival at, compared with brighton, situation and appearance of, harbor and population, rebuilt in , costume of females, castle, church of st. jacques, church of st. remi, history of, one of the articles in the exchange for andelys, celebrated for its sailors, its nautical expeditions, its trade in ivory, the chief fishing-town in france, much patronized by napoléon, formerly under the jurisdiction of the archbishop of rouen, feast of the assumption at, duchies, titular, in normandy before the revolution, du moulin, his character as an historian, du quesne, admiral, native of dieppe, e. electors, qualifications requisite for, in france, erodium moschatum, found at arques, establishment, clerical, in france, how paid, expences, annual, of the city of rouen, f. feast of the assumption, how celebrated at dieppe, fécamp, population and appearance of, etymology of the name, given by henry iind to the abbey, formerly the seat of the government of the pays de caux, a residence of the norman dukes, now a poor fishing-town, fécamp, abbey of, founded in , famous for the precious blood, its armorial bearings, burial-place of duke richard ist, church of st. stephen, fécamp, church of the abbey, ferrand, his reasoning as to any portion of the hair of the virgin being on earth, flint, strata of, in the cliffs near dieppe, fontenelle, native of rouen, fontenu, abbé de, his dissertation on cæsar's camp, fossil shells, found plentifully near havre, fountains, public, at rouen, francis ist, founder of havre françoisville, name given by francis ist to havre, g. gaguin, his account of the origin of the kingdom of yvetot, game-laws, in france, gargouille, dragon so called, destroyed by st. romain, glass, painted, in the cathedral, at rouen, in the church of st. godard, goujon, jean, author of the embellishments in the french translation of the polifilo, graduel, by daniel d'eaubonne, in the public library at rouen, grâville, priory of, guild, of the assumption at dieppe, of the passion at rouen, h. hair of the virgin, curious dissertation concerning, halles, at rouen, harfleur, formerly of importance, now chiefly deserted, etymology of the name, its history, beauty of the tower and spire of the church, havre, a great commercial town, its present appearance, founded in , history of, eminent men, henry, eldest son of henry iind, buried in rouen cathedral, henry ivth, his address to the inhabitants of dieppe, speech before the battle of arques, henry vth, his conduct at the capture of harfleur, builds the château du vieux palais, at rouen, herring and mackerel fishery, at dieppe, heylin, peter, his description of a norman inn, account of the great chamber of the palais de justice, at rouen, holy sepulture, chapel of the, in the church at dieppe, hospitals at rouen, annual charge of, houses, construction of, between yveto and rouen, house-rent, expence of, at rouen, huguenots, excesses committed by, in the church of st. ouen, hymn, in honor of st nicaise and st. mello, i. inns in normandy, described by peter heylin, inscription, on a bénitier, at dieppe, formerly upon crosses, at rouen, ivory, much wrought by the inhabitants of dieppe, j. joan of arc, burned at rouen, privileges granted to her family, jouvenet, cieling painted by, in the palais de justice, at rouen, his sketches for the dome of the hôtel des invalides, native of rouen, judith, lady, her epitaph at fécamp, k. kelp, made in large quantity near dieppe, l. lace, much smuggled into france, léry, church of, a fine specimen of norman architecture, library, public, at rouen, how formed, its regulations and revenue, lillebonne, ruins of the castle, metropolis of the caletes living, expence of, in france, livre d'ivoire, longueville, priory of, built by walter giffard, burial-place of the talbots, m. machon, jean, founder of the great bell, at rouen, his epitaph, malaunay manby, captain, ill rewarded, manuscript, by william de jumieges, fac-simile from, maurilius, archbishop of rouen, his epitaph, medallions, remarkable, on the portal of st. romain, in rouen cathedral, megissier, peter, one of the judges of joan of arc, his epitaph, millin, his account of a crime, screened under the privilege of st. romain, milner, rev. dr., his description of a monumental effigy in rouen cathedral, mint, at rouen, miserere, sculpture upon, in beverley minster, missal from jumieges, in the library, at rouen, missals, merit attached to writing, in early times, mont aux malades, near rouen, site of a ducal palace, mont ste. catherine, fort upon, priory, fortress probably roman, view from, montfaucon, his engravings of historical sculpture, at rouen, montivilliers, seat of an abbey in the seventh century, church, remarkable capitals in the church, present state of, monument, of the cardinals d'amboise, of the duc de brezé museum, at rouen, n. napoléon, benefactor to dieppe, his opinion as to the issue of the battle of arques, jealous of henry ivth, song in his honour, began a new bridge at rouen, cleared france of beggars, normandy, divided into departments, its former titular duchies, o. oath of the archbishop of rouen, orchideæ, abundant about rouen, p. palais de justice, at rouen, built on the site of the jewry, described, now used as a court of assize, great chamber in, parliament of normandy, parties, state of, in france, patent, of the abbot of the conards, pavilly, monastery and church of, pays de caux, the country of the caletes, formerly dignified with the epithet, noble, philip de champagne, painting by, in rouen cathedral, place de la pucelle, so called because joan of arc was burned there, monument in it in honor of joan of arc, house in it richly ornamented with sculpture, poirier, his account of the destruction of the châsse of st. romain, pollet, a suburb of dieppe, costume of its inhabitants, pommeraye, dom, his account of the outrages committed by the huguenots in the church of st. ouen, precious blood, the most sacred relic at fécamp, priory, of longueville, grâville, at rouen, on mont ste. catherine, procession des fous, held in the cathedral, at rouen, r. relics, in old times, often migratory, frequently collected on solemn occasions, representative system in france, révolution, advantages resulting from, to france, richard ist, duke of normandy, buried at fécamp, his extraordinary directions respecting his interment, richard coeur-de-lion, offends the archbishop of rouen, by building château gaillard, his heart buried at rouen, roads to paris, by dieppe, calais, and havre, compared, from dieppe to rouen, from yvetot to rouen, rolec and aubette, brought to rouen by the cardinal d'amboise, robert, paintings by, in the palace at rouen, rollo, his monument and epitaph, roth, idol so called, worshipped at rouen, rouen, seen to advantage on entering from dieppe, general character of, bridge of boats, stone bridge built by matilda, boulevards, grand cours, costume of the inhabitants, house-rent, annual expences of the city, population, probably a roman station, old castles, halles, privilege of st. romain, capitulation to henry vth, château du vieux palais, petit château, fort on mont ste. catherine, priory upon ditto, taken by charles ixth, mineral springs, church of st. paul, church of st. gervais, palace on the mont aux malades, old part of the church of st. ouen, cathedral, church of st. ouen, church of st; maclou, church of st. patrice, church of st. godard, house of the abbess of st. amand, palais de justice, place de la pucelle, tour de la grosse horloge, fountains, hospitals, mint, convent of the ursulines, public library, museum, academy, société d'emulation, botanic garden, flower-market, theatre, eminent men, etymology of the name, rousel, john, abbot of st. ouen, built the present church, s. st. amand, house of the abbess at rouen, ste. catherine, eminences dedicated to, st. gervais, church of, at rouen, st. godard, his monument, st. godard, church of, at rouen, originally dedicated to the virgin, the primitive cathedral of the city, famous for its painted glass, st. jacques, church of, at dieppe, pendants in the lady-chapel, chapel of the sepulchre, st. julien, lazar-house of, near rouen, its chapel, a fine specimen of norman architecture, monastery ceded to the carthusians, and now destroyed st. maclou, church of, at rouen, st. mello, buried in the crypt of st. gervais, at rouen, st. nicaise, buried in the crypt of st. gervais, at rouen, st. ouen, church of, at rouen, a fine specimen of pointed architecture, its history, described, details of, paintings in, privileges of, st. patrice, church of, at rouen, st. paul, church of, at rouen st. pierre, bernardin de, native of havre, st. remi, church of, at dieppe, inscription on its bénitier st. romain, archbishop of rouen, dragon destroyed by, his shrine in the cathedral, st. romain, privilege of, abuse committed under its plea, st. vallery, satyrium hircinum, plentiful near rouen, scuderi, george and magdalen, natives of havre, sculpture, on the capitals of the church at montivilliers, in the church of st. paul, over the entrances to rouen cathedral, head of christ, in fine character, in the church of st. ouen, on a house at rouen, senegal, first colonized from dieppe, société d'emulation, at rouen, stachys germanica, abundant, near grâville, stair-case of filagree stone-work, in the cathedral at rouen, in the church of st. maclou, t. talbot, fortress called the bastille, built by, at dieppe, theatre, at rouen, tour de beurre, in rouen cathedral, built with money raised from the sale of indulgences, tour de la grosse horloge, at rouen, u. upper normandy, limits of, ursulines, convent of, at rouen, v. van eyck, painting by, in the museum at rouen, vertot, abbé de, denies the existence of the kingdom of yvetot, viola rothomagensis, abundant on the hill of st. adrien, w. walter, archbishop of rouen, offended with richard coeur-de-lion, proverbial for his cunning, william longue epée, his monument and epitaph, william the conqueror, sailed from st. vallery to invade england, died in the palace on the mont aux malades, william of jumieges, the original autograph of his history at rouen, windows, rose, characteristic of french ecclesiastical architecture, y. yainville, church of, yvetot, present appearance of, said to have been formerly a kingdom, exempt before the revolution from taxes, team normandy: the scenery & romance of its ancient towns: depicted by gordon home part . chapter vii concerning mont st michel so, when their feet were planted on the plain that broaden'd toward the base of camelot, far off they saw the silver-misty morn rolling her smoke about the royal mount, that rose between the forest and the field. at times the summit of the high city flash'd; at times the spires and turrets half-way down pricked through the mist; at times the great gate shone only, that open'd on the field below: anon, the whole fair city disappeared. tennyson's _gareth and lynette_ "the majestic splendour of this gulf, its strategetic importance, have at all times attracted the attention of warriors." in this quaint fashion commences the third chapter of a book upon mont st michel which is to be purchased in the little town. we have already had a glimpse of the splendour of the gulf from avranches, but there are other aspects of the rock which are equally impressive. they are missed by all those who, instead of going by the picturesque and winding coast-road from pontaubault, take the straight and dusty _route nationale_ to pontorson, and then turn to follow the tramway that has in recent years been extended along the causeway to the mount itself. if one can manage to make it a rather late ride along the coast-road just mentioned, many beautiful distant views of mont st michel, backed by sunset lights, will be an ample reward. even on a grey and almost featureless evening, when the sea is leaden-hued, there may, perhaps, appear one of those thin crimson lines that are the last efforts of the setting sun. this often appears just behind the grey and dim rock, and the crimson is reflected in a delicate tinge upon the glistening sands. tiny rustic villages, with churches humble and unobtrusive, and prominent calvaries, are passed one after the other. at times the farmyards seem to have taken the road into their own hands, for a stone well-head will appear almost in the roadway, and chickens, pigs, and a litter of straw have to be allowed for by those who ride or drive along this rural way. when the rock is still some distance off, the road seems to determine to take a short cut across the sands, but thinking better of it, it runs along the outer margin of the reclaimed land, and there is nothing to prevent the sea from flooding over the road at its own discretion. once on the broad and solidly constructed causeway, the rock rapidly gathers in bulk and detail. it has, indeed, as one approaches, an almost fantastic and fairy-like outline. then as more and more grows from the hazy mass, one sees that this remarkable place has a crowded and much embattled loneliness. two round towers, sturdy and boldly machicolated, appear straight ahead, but oddly enough the wall between them has no opening of any sort, and the stranger is perplexed at the inhospitable curtain-wall that seems to refuse him admittance to the mediaeval delights within. it almost heightens the impression that the place belongs altogether to dreamland, for in that shadowy world all that is most desirable is so often beyond the reach of the dreamer. it is a very different impression that one gains if the steam train has been taken, for its arrival is awaited by a small crowd of vulture-like servants and porters from the hotels. the little crowd treats the incoming train-load of tourists as its carrion, and one has no time to notice whether there is a gateway or not before being swept along the sloping wooden staging that leads to the only entrance. the simple archway in the outer wall leads into the cour de l'avancee where those two great iron cannons, mentioned in an earlier chapter, are conspicuous objects. they were captured by the heroic garrison when the english, in , made their last great effort to obtain possession of the rock. beyond these, one passes through the barbican to the cour de la herse, which is largely occupied by the hotel poulard aine. then one passes through the porte du roi, and enters the town proper. the narrow little street is flanked by many an old house that has seen most of the vicissitudes that the little island city has suffered. in fact many of these shops which are now almost entirely given over to the sale of mementoes and books of photographs of the island, are individually of great interest. one of the most ancient in the upper part of the street, is pointed out as that occupied in the fourteenth century by tiphane de raguenel, the wife of the heroic bertrand du guesclin. it is almost impossible for those who are sensitive in such matters, not to feel some annoyance at the pleasant but persistent efforts of the vendors of souvenirs to induce every single visitor to purchase at each separate shop. to get an opportunity for closely examining the carved oaken beams and architectural details of the houses, one must make at least some small purchase at each trinket store in front of which one is inclined to pause. perhaps it would even be wise before attempting to look at anything architectural in this quaintest of old-world streets, to go from one end to the other, buying something of trifling cost, say a picture postcard, from each saleswoman. in this way, one might purchase immunity from the over-solicitous shop-keepers, and have the privilege of being able to realise the mediaeval character of the place without constant interruptions. nearly every visitor to mont st michel considers that this historic gem, in its wonderful setting of opalescent sand, can be "done" in a few hours. they think that if they climb up the steps to the museum--a new building made more conspicuous than it need be by a board bearing the word _musee_ in enormous letters--if they walk along the ramparts, stare for a moment at the gateways, and then go round the abbey buildings with one of the small crowds that the guide pilots through the maze of extraordinary vaulted passages and chambers, that they have done ample justice to this world-famous sight. if the rock had only one-half of its historic and fantastically arranged buildings, it would still deserve considerably more than this fleeting attention paid to it by such a large proportion of the tourists. so many of these poor folk come to mont st michel quite willing to learn the reasons for its past greatness, but they do not bring with them the smallest grains of knowledge. the guides, whose knowledge of english is limited to such words as "sirteenth senchury" (thirteenth century), give them no clues to the reasons for the existence of any buildings on the island, and quite a large proportion of visitors go away without any more knowledge than they could have obtained from the examination of a good book of photographs. to really appreciate in any degree the natural charms of mont st michel, at least one night should be spent on the rock. having debated between the rival houses of poularde aine and poularde jeune, and probably decided on the older branch of the family, perhaps with a view to being able to speak of their famous omelettes with enthusiasm, one is conducted to one of the houses or dependences connected with the hotel. if one has selected the maison rouge, it is necessary to make a long climb to one's bedroom. the long salle a manger, where dinner is served, is in a tall wedge-like building just outside the porte du roi and in the twilight of evening coffee can be taken on the little tables of the cafe that overflows on to the pavement of the narrow street. the cafe faces the head-quarters of the hotel, and is as much a part of it as any of the other buildings which contain the bedrooms. to the stranger it comes as a surprise to be handed a chinese lantern at bedtime, and to be conducted by one of the hotel servants almost to the top of the tall house just mentioned. suddenly the man opens a door and you step out into an oppressive darkness. here the use of the chinese lantern is obvious, for without some artificial light, the long series of worn stone steps, that must be climbed before reaching the maison rouge, would offer many opportunities for awkward falls. the bedrooms in this house, when one has finally reached a floor far above the little street, have a most enviable position. they are all provided with small balconies where the enormous sweep of sand or glistening ocean, according to the condition of the tides, is a sight which will drag the greatest sluggard from his bed at the first hour of dawn. right away down below are the hoary old houses of the town, hemmed in by the fortified wall that surrounds this side of the island. then stretching away towards the greeny-blue coast-line is the long line of digue or causeway on which one may see a distant puff of white smoke, betokening the arrival of the early train of the morning. the attaches of the rival hotels are already awaiting the arrival of the early batch of sight-seers. all over the delicately tinted sands there are constantly moving shadows from the light clouds forming over the sea, and blowing freshly from the west there comes an invigorating breeze. before even the museum can have a real interest for us, we must go back to the early times when mont st michel was a bare rock; when it was not even an island, and when the bay of mont st michel was covered by the forest of scissey. it seems that the romans raised a shrine to jupiter on the rock, which soon gave to it the name of mons jovis, afterwards to be contracted into mont-jou. they had displaced some earlier druidical or other sun-worshippers who had carried on their rites at this lonely spot; but the roman innovation soon became a thing of the past and the franks, after their conversion to christianity, built on the rock two oratories, one to st stephen and the other to st symphorian. it was then that the name mont-jou was abandoned in favour of mons-tumba. the smaller rock, now known as tombelaine, was called tumbella meaning the little tomb, to distinguish it from the larger rock. it is not known why the two rocks should have been associated with the word tomb, and it is quite possible that the tumba may simply mean a small hill. in time, hermits came and built their cells on both the rocks and gradually a small community was formed under the merovingian abbey of mandane. it was about this time, that is in the sixth century, that a great change came over the surroundings of the two rocks. hitherto, they had formed rocky excrescences at the edge of the low forest-land by which the country adjoining the sea was covered. gradually the sea commenced a steady encroachment. it had been probably in progress even since roman times, but its advance became more rapid, and after an earthquake, which occurred in the year , the whole of the forest of scissey was invaded, and the remains of the trees were buried under a great layer of sand. there were several villages in this piece of country, some of whose names have been preserved, and these suffered complete destruction with the forest. a thousand years afterwards, following a great storm and a consequent movement of the sand, a large number of oaks and considerable traces of the little village st etienne de paluel were laid bare. the foundations of houses, a well, and the font of a church were among the discoveries made. just about the time of the innundation, we come to the interesting story of the holy-minded st aubert who had been made bishop of avranches. he could see the rock as it may be seen to-day, although at that time it was crowned with no buildings visible at any distance, and the loneliness of the spot seems to have attracted him to retire thither for prayer and meditation. he eventually raised upon the rock a small chapel which he dedicated to michel the archangel. after this time, all the earlier names disappeared and the island was always known as mont st michel. replacing the hermits of mandane with twelve canons, the establishment grew and became prosperous. that this was so, must be attributed largely to the astonishing miracles which were supposed to have taken place in connection with the building of the chapel. two great rocks near the top of the mount, which were much in the way of the builders, were removed and sent thundering down the rocky precipice by the pressure of a child's foot when all the efforts of the men to induce the rock to move had been unavailing. the huge rock so displaced is now crowned by the tiny chapel of st aubert. the offerings brought by the numerous pilgrims to mont st michel gave the canons sufficient means to commence the building of an abbey, and the unique position of the rock soon made it a refuge for the franks of the western parts of neustria when the fierce norman pirates were harrying the country. in this way the village of mont st michel made its appearance at the foot of the rock. the contact of the canons with this new population brought some trouble in its wake. the holy men became contaminated with the world, and richard, duke of normandy, replaced them by thirty benedictines brought from mont-cassin. these monks were given the power of electing their own abbot who was invested with the most entire control over all the affairs of the people who dwelt upon the rock. this system of popular election seems to have worked admirably, for in the centuries that followed, the rulers of the community were generally men of remarkable character and great ideals. about fifty years before the conquest of england by duke william, the abbot of that time, hildebert ii., commenced work on the prodigious series of buildings that still crown the rock. his bold scheme of building massive walls round the highest point, in order to make a lofty platform whereon to raise a great church, was a work of such magnitude that when he was gathered to his fathers the foundations were by no means complete. those who came after him however, inspired by the great idea, kept up the work of building with wonderful enthusiasm. slowly, year by year, the ponderous walls of the crypts and undercrofts grew in the great space which it was necessary to fill. dark, irregularly built chambers, one side formed of the solid rock and the others composed of the almost equally massive masonry, grouped themselves round the unequal summit of the mount, until at last, towards the end of the eleventh century, the building of the nave of the church was actually in progress. roger ii., the eleventh of the abbots, commenced the buildings that preceded the extraordinary structure known as la merveille. soon after came robert de torigny, a pious man of great learning, who seems to have worked enthusiastically. he raised two great towers joined by a porch, the hostelry and infirmary on the south side and other buildings on the west. much of this work has unfortunately disappeared. torigny's coffin was discovered in under the north-west part of the great platform, and one may see a representation of the architect-abbot in the clever series of life-like models that have been placed in the museum. the bretons having made a destructive attack upon the mount in the early years of the thirteenth century and caused much damage to the buildings, jourdain the abbot of that time planned out "la merveille," which comprises three storeys of the most remarkable gothic halls. at the bottom are the cellar and almonry, then comes the salle des chevaliers and the dormitory, and above all are the beautiful cloisters and the refectory. jourdain, however, only lived to see one storey completed, but his successors carried on the work and raoul de villedieu finished the splendid cloister in . up to this time the island was defenceless, but during the abbatiate of toustain the ramparts and fortifications were commenced. in the buildings known as belle-chaise were constructed. they contained the entrance to the abbey before the chatelet made its appearance. after toustain came pierre le roy who built a tower behind belle-chaise and also the imposing-looking chatelet which contains the main entrance to the whole buildings. the fortifications that stood outside this gateway have to some extent disappeared, but what remain are shown in the accompanying illustration. in the early part of the fifteenth century, the choir of the church collapsed, but peace having been declared with england, soon afterwards d'estouteville was able to construct the wonderful foundations composed of ponderous round columns called the crypt of les gros-piliers, and above it there afterwards appeared the splendid gothic choir. the flamboyant tracery of the windows is filled with plain green leaded glass, and the fact that the recent restoration has left the church absolutely bare of any ecclesiastical paraphernalia gives one a splendid opportunity of studying this splendid work of the fifteenth century. the nave of the church has still to undergo the process of restoration, for at the present time the fraudulent character of its stone-vaulted roof is laid bare by the most casual glance, for at the unfinished edge adjoining the choir one may see the rough lath and plaster which for a long time must have deceived the visitors who have gazed at the lofty roof. the western end of the building is an eighteenth century work, although to glance at the great patches of orange-coloured lichen that spread themselves over so much of the stone-work, it would be easy to imagine that the work was of very great antiquity. in earlier times there were some further bays belonging to the nave beyond the present west front in the space now occupied by an open platform. there is a fine view from this position, but it is better still if one climbs the narrow staircase from the choir leading up to the asphalted walk beneath the flying buttresses. about the middle of the fourteenth century, tiphaine de raguenel, the wife of bertrand du guesclin, that splendid breton soldier, came from pontorson and made her home at mont st michel, in order not to be kept as a prisoner by the english. there are several facts recorded that throw light on the character of this noble lady, sometimes spoken of as "the fair maid of dinan." she had come to admire du guesclin for his prowess in military matters, and her feeling towards him having deepened, she had no hesitation in accepting his offer of marriage. it appears that du guesclin after this most happy event--for from all we are able to discover tiphaine seems to have shared his patriotic ideals--was inclined to remain at home rather than to continue his gallant, though at times almost hopeless struggle against the english. although it must have been a matter of great self-renunciation on her part, tiphaine felt that it would be much against her character for her to have any share in keeping her husband away from the scene of action, and by every means in her power she endeavoured to re-animate his former enthusiasm. in this her success was complete, and resuming his great responsibilities in the french army, much greater success attended him than at any time in the past. du guesclin was not a martyr, but he is as much the most striking figure of the fourteenth century as joan of arc is of the fifteenth. all through the period of anxiety through which the defenders of the mount had to pass when the hundred years' war was in progress, mont st michel was very largely helped against sudden attacks by the remarkable vigilance of their great watch-dogs. so valuable for the safety of the abbey and the little town were these dogs considered that louis xi. in allowed the annual sum of twenty-four pounds by tours-weight towards their keep. the document states that "from the earliest times it has been customary to have and nourish, at the said place, a certain number of great dogs, which are tied up by day, and at night brought outside the enclosure to keep watch till morning." it was during the reign of this same louis that the military order of chivalry of st michael was instituted. the king made three pilgrimages to the mount and the first chapter of this great order, which was for a long time looked upon as the most distinguished in france, was held in the salle des chevaliers. for a long while tombelaine, which lies so close to mont st michel, was in the occupation of the english, but in the account of the recovery of normandy from the english, written by jacques le bouvier, king of arms to charles vii., we find that the place surrendered very easily to the french. we are told that the fortress of tombelaine was "an exceedingly strong place and impregnable so long as the persons within it have provisions." the garrison numbered about a hundred men. they were allowed to go to cherbourg where they took ship to england about the same time as the garrisons from vire, avranches, coutances, and many other strongholds which were at this time falling like dead leaves. le bouvier at the end of his account of this wonderful break-up of the english fighting force in normandy, tells us that the whole of the duchy of normandy with all the cities, towns, and castles was brought into subjection to the king of france within one year and six days. "a very wonderful thing," he remarks, "and it plainly appears that our lord god therein manifested his grace, for never was so large a country conquered in so short a time, nor with the loss of so few people, nor with less injury, which is a great merit, honour and praise to the king of france." in the early part of the sixteenth century, mont st michel seems to have reached the high-water mark of its glories. after this time a decline commenced and cardinal le veneur reduced the number of monks to enlarge his own income. this new cardinal was the first of a series not chosen from the residents on the mount, for after the system of election among themselves which had answered so well, was abandoned, and this wealthy establishment became merely one of the coveted preferments of the church. there was no longer that enthusiasm for maintaining and continuing the architectural achievements of the past, for this new series of ecclesiastics seemed to look upon their appointment largely as a sponge which they might squeeze. in elizabethan times mont st michel once more assumed the character of a fortress and had to defend itself against the huguenots when its resources had been drained by these worldly-minded shepherds, and it is not surprising to find that the abbey which had withstood all the attacks of the english during the hundred years' war should often fall into the hands of the protestant armies, although in every case it was re-taken. a revival of the religious tone of the abbey took place early in the first quarter of the seventeenth century, when twelve benedictine monks from st maur were installed in the buildings. pilgrimages once more became the order of the day, but since the days of louis xi. part of the sub-structure of the abbey buildings had been converted into fearful dungeons, and the day came when the abbey became simply a most remarkable prison. in the time of louis xv., a frenchman named dubourg--a person who has often been spoken of as though he had been a victim of his religious convictions, but who seems to have been really a most reprehensible character--was placed in a wooden cage in one of the damp and gruesome vaults beneath the abbey. dubourg had been arrested for his libellous writings concerning the king and many important persons in the french court. he existed for a little over a year in the fearful wooden cage, and just before he died he went quite mad, being discovered during the next morning half-eaten by rats. a realistic representation of his ghastly end is given in the museum, but one must not imagine that the grating filling the semi-circular arch is at all like the actual spot where the wretched man lay. the cage itself was composed of bars of wood placed so closely together that dubourg was not able to put more than his fingers between them. the space inside was only about eight feet high and the width was scarcely greater. the cage itself was placed in a position where moisture dripped on to the miserable prisoner's body, and we can only marvel that he survived this fearful torture for so many months. during the french revolution the abbey was nothing more than a jail, and it continued to be devoted to this base use until about forty years ago. since that time, restoration has continued almost unceasingly, for in the prison period nothing was done to maintain the buildings, and there is still much work in hand which the french government who are now in control are most successfully carrying out. these are a few of the thrilling phases of the history of the rock. but what has been written scarcely does the smallest justice to its crowded pages. the only way of being fair to a spot so richly endowed with enthralling events seems to be in stirring the imagination by a preliminary visit, in order that one may come again armed with a close knowledge of all that has taken place since aubert raised his humble chapel upon the lonely rock. who does not know that sense of annoyance at being conducted over some historic building by a professional guide who mentions names and events that just whet the appetite and then leave a hungry feeling for want of any surrounding details or contemporary events which one knows would convert the mere "sight" into holy ground. i submit that a french guide, a french hand-book or a poor translation, can do little to relieve this hunger, that mont st michel is fully worthy of some preliminary consideration, and that it should not be treated to the contemptuous scurry of a day's trip. the tides that bring the sea across the great sweep of sand surrounding mont st michel, are intermittent, and it is possible to remain for a day or two on the island and be able to walk around it dry-shod at any hour. it is only at the really high tides that the waters of the bay of cancale give visitors the opportunity of seeing the fantastic buildings reflected in the sea. but although it is safer and much more pleasant to be able to examine every aspect of the rock from a boat, it is possible to walk over the sands and get the same views provided one is aware of the dangers of the quicksands which have claimed too many victims. it is somewhat terrifying that on what appears to be absolutely firm sand, a few taps of the foot will convert two or three yards beneath one's feet into a quaking mass. there is, however, no great danger at the foot of the rocks or fortifications, but to wander any distance away entails the gravest risks unless in company with a native who is fully aware of any dangerous localities. the sands are sufficiently firm to allow those who know the route to drive horses and carts to tombelaine, but this should not encourage strangers to take any chances, for the fate of the english lady who was swallowed up by the sands in sight of the ramparts and whose body now lies in the little churchyard of the town, is so distressing that any repetition of such tragedies would tend to cast a shade over the glories of the mount. you may buy among the numerous photographs and pictures for sale in the trinket shops, coloured post-cards which show flaming sunsets behind the abbey, but nothing that i have yet seen does the smallest justice to the reality. standing on the causeway and looking up to the great height of the tower that crowns the highest point, the gilded st michael with his outspread wings seems almost ready to soar away into the immensity of the canopy of heaven. through the traceried windows of the chancel of the church, the evening light on the opposite side of the rock glows through the green glass, for from this position the upper windows are opposite to one another and the light passes right through the building. the great mass of curiously simple yet most striking structures that girdle the summit of the rock and form the platform beneath the church, though built at different times, have joined in one consenescence and now present the appearance of one of those cities that dwell in the imagination when reading of "many tower'd camelot" or the turreted walls of fairyland. down below these great and inaccessible buildings comes an almost perpendicular drop of rocks, bare except for stray patches of grass or isolated bushes that have taken root in crevices. then between this and the fortified wall, with its circular bastions, encircling the base of the rock, the roofs of the little town are huddled in picturesque confusion. the necessity of accommodating the modern pilgrims has unfortunately led to the erection of one or two houses that in some measure jar with their mediaeval surroundings. another unwelcome note is struck by the needlessly aggressive board on the museum which has already been mentioned. however, when a sunset is glowing behind the mount, these modern intrusions are subdued into insignificance, and there is nothing left to disturb the harmony of the scene. a walk round the ramparts reveals an endless series of picturesque groupings of the old houses with their time-worn stone walls, over which tower the chatelet and la merveille. long flights of stone steps from the highest part of the narrow street lead up to the main entrance of the abbey buildings. here, beneath the great archway of the chatelet, sits an old blind woman who is almost as permanent a feature as the masonry on which she sits. ascending the wide flight of steps, the salle des gardes is reached. it is in the lower portion of the building known as belle-chaise, mentioned earlier in this chapter. from this point a large portion of the seemingly endless series of buildings are traversed by the visitor, who is conducted by a regular guide. you ascend a great staircase, between massive stone walls spanned by two bridges, the first a strongly built structure of stone, the next a slighter one of wood, and then reach a breezy rampart where great views over the distant coasts spread themselves out. from here you enter the church, its floor now littered with the debris of restoration. then follow the cloister and the refectory, and down below them on the second floor of the merveille is the salle des chevaliers. besides the wonderful gothic halls with their vaulted roofs and perfect simplicity of design, there are the endless series of crypts and dungeons, which leave a very strong impression on the minds of all those whose knowledge of architecture is lean. there is the shadowy crypt of les gros pilliers down below the chancel of the church; there is the charnier where the holy men were buried in the early days of the abbey; and there is the great dark space filled by the enormous wheel which was worked by the prisoners when mont st michel was nothing more than a great jail. it was by this means that the food for the occupants of the buildings was raised from down below. without knowing it, in passing from one dark chamber to another, the guide takes his little flock of peering and wondering visitors all round the summit of the rock, for it is hard, even for those who endeavour to do so, to keep the cardinal points in mind, when, except for a chance view from a narrow window, there is nothing to correct the impression that you are still on the same side of the mount as the merveille. at last the perambulation is finished--the dazzling sunshine is once more all around you as you come out to the steep steps that lead towards the ramparts. chapter viii concerning coutances and some parts of the cotentin when at last it is necessary to bid farewell to mont st michel, one is not compelled to lose sight of the distant grey silhouette for a long while. it remains in sight across the buttercup fields and sunny pastures on the road to pontaubault. then again, when climbing the zig-zag hill towards avranches the bay of mont st michel is spread out. you may see the mount again from avranches itself, and then if you follow the coast-road towards granville instead of the rather monotonous road that goes to its destination with the directness of a gun-shot, there are further views of the wonderful rock and its humble companion tombelaine. keeping along this pretty road through the little village of genets, where you actually touch the ocean, there is much pretty scenery to be enjoyed all the way to the busy town of granville. it is a watering-place and a port, the two aspects of the town being divided from each other by the great rocky promontory of lihou. if one climbs up right above the place this conformation is plainly visible, for down below is the stretch of sandy beach, with its frailly constructed concert rooms and cafes sheltering under the gaunt red cliffs, while over the shoulder of the peninsula appears a glimpse of the piers and the masts of sailing ships. there is much that is picturesque in the seaport side of the town, particularly towards evening, when the red and green harbour-lights are reflected in the sea. there are usually five or six sailing ships loading or discharging their cargoes by the quays, and you will generally find a british tramp steamer lying against one of the wharves. the sturdy crocketed spire of the sombre old church of notre dame stands out above the long line of shuttered houses down by the harbour. it is a wonderful contrast, this old portion of granville that surmounts the promontory, to the ephemeral and gay aspect of the watering-place on the northern side. but these sort of contrasts are to be found elsewhere than at granville, for at dieppe it is much the same, although the view of that popular resort that is most familiar in england, is the hideous casino and the wide sweep of gardens that occupy the sea-front. those who have not been there would scarcely believe that the town possesses a castle perched upon towering cliffs, or that its splendid old church of saint-jacques is the real glory of the place. granville cannot boast of quite so much in the way of antiquities, but there is something peculiarly fascinating about its dark church, in which the light seems unable to penetrate, and whose walls assume almost the same tones as the rocks from which the masonry was hewn. i should like to describe the scenery of the twenty miles of country that lie between granville and coutances, but i have only passed over it on one occasion. it was nine o'clock in the evening, and the long drawn-out twilight had nearly faded away as i climbed up the long ascent which commences the road to coutances, and before i had reached the village of brehal it was quite dark. the road became absolutely deserted, and although one or two people on bicycles passed me about this time, they were carrying no lamps as is the usual custom in france, where the rules governing the use of a _bicyclette_ are so numerous and intricate, but so absolutely ignored. my own lamp seemed to be a grave distraction among the invisible occupants of the roadside meadows, and often much lowing rose up on either side. the hedges would suddenly whirr with countless grasshoppers, although, no doubt, they had been amusing themselves with their monotonous noises for hours. the strange sound seemed to follow me in a most persistent fashion, and then would be merged into the croaking of a vast assemblage of frogs. these sounds, however, carry with them no real menace, however late the hour, but there is something which may almost strike terror into the heart, though it might almost be considered foolish by those who have not experienced a midnight ride in this country. the clipped and shaven trees that in daylight merely appear ridiculous, in the darkness assume an altogether different character. to the vivid imagination, it is easy to see a witch's broom swaying in the wind; a group of curious and distorted stems will suggest a row of large but painfully thin brownies, holding hands as they dance. every moment, two or three figures of gaunt and lanky witches in spreading skirts will alarm you as they suddenly appear round a corner. when they are not so uncanny in their outlines, the trees will appear like clipped poodles standing upon their hind legs, or they will suddenly assume the character of a grove of palm trees. after a long stretch of this sort of country, it is pleasant to pass through some sleeping village where there are just two or three lighted windows to show that there are still a few people awake besides oneself in this lonely country. i can imagine that the village of hyenville has some claims to beauty. i know at least that it lies in a valley, watered by the river sienne, and that the darkness allowed me to see an old stone bridge, with a cross raised above the centre of the parapet. soon after this i began to descend the hill that leads into coutances. a bend in the road, as i was rapidly descending, brought into view a whole blaze of lights, and i felt that here at last there were people and hotels, and an end to the ghostly sights of the open country. then i came to houses, but they were all quite dark, and there was not a single human being in sight. following this came a choice of streets without a possibility of knowing which one would lead in the direction of the hotel i was hoping to reach; but my perplexity was at length relieved by the advent of a tall youth whose cadaverous features were shown up by the street lamp overhead. he gave his directions clearly enough, but although i followed them carefully right up the hill past the cathedral, i began to think that i had overshot the mark, when another passer-by appeared in the silent street. i found that i was within a few yards of the hotel; but on hurrying forward, i found to my astonishment, that the whole building was completely shut up and no light appeared even within the courtyard. as i had passed the cathedral eleven reverbrating notes had echoed over the town, and it seemed as though coutances had retired earlier on this night of all nights in order that i might learn to travel at more rational hours. going inside the courtyard, my anxiety was suddenly relieved by seeing the light of a candle in a stable on the further side; a man was putting up a horse, and he at once volunteered to arouse some one who would find a bedroom. after some shouting to the gallery above, a maid appeared, and a few minutes afterwards mine host himself, clad in a long flannel night robe and protecting a flickering candle-flame with his hand, appeared at a doorway. his long grey beard gave him a most venerable aspect. the note of welcome in his cheery voice was unmistakable and soon the maid who had spoken from the balcony had shown the way up a winding circular staircase to a welcome exchange to the shelter of a haystack which i had begun to fear would be my only resting-place for the night. in the morning, the hotel d'angleterre proved to be a most picturesque old hostelry. galleries ran round three sides of the courtyard, and the circular staircase was enclosed in one of those round towers that are such a distinctive feature of the older type of french inn. the long main street does not always look deserted and in daylight it appeared as sunny and cheerful as one expects to find the chief thoroughfare of a thriving french town. coutances stands on such a bold hill that the street, almost of necessity, drops precipitously, and the cathedral which ranks with the best in france, stands out boldly from all points of view. it was principally built in the thirteenth century, but a church which had stood in its place two centuries before, had been consecrated by bishop geoffrey de montbray in , in the presence of duke william, afterwards william i. of england. the two western towers of the present cathedral are not exactly similar, and owing to their curious formation of clustered spires they are not symmetrical. it is for this reason that they are often described as being unpleasing. i am unable to echo such criticism, for in looking at the original ideas that are most plainly manifest in this most astonishing cathedral one seems to be in close touch with the long forgotten builders and architects whose notions of proportion and beauty they contrived to stamp so indelibly upon their masterpiece. from the central tower there is a view over an enormous sweep of country which includes a stretch of the coast, for coutances is only half a dozen miles from the sea. this central tower rises from a square base at the intersection of the transepts with the nave. it runs up almost without a break in an octagonal form to a parapet ornamented with open quatrefoils. the interior has a clean and fresh appearance owing to the recent restorations and is chiefly remarkable for the balustraded triforium which is continued round the whole church. in many of the windows there is glass belonging to the sixteenth century and some dates as early as the fourteenth century. besides the cathedral, the long main street of coutances possesses the churches of st nicholas and st pierre. in st nicholas one may see a somewhat unusual feature in the carved inscriptions dating from early in the seventeenth century which appear on the plain round columns. here, as in the cathedral, the idea of the balustrade under the clerestory is carried out. the fourteen stations of the cross that as usual meet one in the aisles of the nave, are in this church painted with a most unusual vividness and reality, in powerful contrast to so many of these crucifixion scenes to be seen in roman catholic churches. the church of st pierre is illustrated here, with the cathedral beyond, but the drawing does not include the great central tower which is crowned by a pyramidal spire. this church belongs to a later period than the cathedral as one may see by a glance at the classic work in the western tower, for most of the building is subsequent to the fifteenth century. st pierre and the cathedral form a most interesting study in the development from early french architecture to the renaissance; but for picturesqueness in domestic architecture coutances cannot hold up its head with lisieux, vire, or rouen. there is still a remnant of one of the town gateways and to those who spend any considerable time in the city some other quaint corners may be found. from the western side there is a beautiful view of the town with the great western towers of the cathedral rising gracefully above the quarries in the bois des vignettes. another feature of coutances is the aqueduct. it unfortunately does not date from roman times when the place was known as constantia, for there is nothing roman about the ivy-clad arches that cross the valley on the western side. from coutances northwards to cherbourg stretches that large tract of normandy which used to be known as the cotentin. at first the country is full of deep valleys and smiling hills covered with rich pastures and woodland, but as you approach lessay at the head of an inlet of the sea the road passes over a flat heathy desert. the church at lessay is a most perfect example of norman work. the situation is quite pretty, for near by flows the little river ay, and the roofs are brilliant with orange lichen. the great square tower with its round-headed norman windows, is crowned with a cupola. with the exception of the windows in the north aisle the whole of the interior is of pure norman work. there is a double triforium and the round, circular arches rest on ponderous pillars and there is also a typical norman semi-circular apse. the village, which is a very ancient one, grew round the benedictine convent established here by one turstan halduc in , and there may still be seen the wonderfully picturesque castle with its round towers. following the estuary of the river from lessay on a minor road you come to the hamlet of st germain-sur-ay. the country all around is flat, but the wide stretches of sand in the inlet have some attractiveness to those who are fond of breezy and open scenery, and the little church in the village is as old as that of lessay. one could follow this pretty coast-line northwards until the seaboard becomes bold, but we will turn aside to the little town of la haye-du-puits. there is a junction here on the railway for carentan and st lo, but the place seems to have gone on quite unaltered by this communication with the large centres of population. the remains of the castle, where lived during the eleventh century the turstan halduc just mentioned, are to be seen on the railway side of the town. the dungeon tower, picturesquely smothered in ivy, is all that remains of this norman fortress. the other portion is on the opposite side of the road, but it only dates from the sixteenth century, when it was rebuilt. turstan had a son named odo, who was seneschal to william the norman, and he is known to have received certain important lands in sussex as a reward for his services. during the next century the owner of the castle was that richard de la haye whose story is a most interesting one. he was escaping from geoffrey plantagenet, count of anjou, when he had the ill luck to fall in with some moorish pirates by whom he was captured and kept as a slave for some years. he however succeeded in regaining his liberty, and after his return to france, he and his wife, mathilde de vernon, founded the abbey of blanchelande. the ruins of this establishment are scarcely more than two miles from la haye du puits, but they unfortunately consist of little more than some arches of the abbey church and some of the walls of the lesser buildings. immediately north of la haye there is some more heathy ground, but it is higher than the country surrounding lessay. a round windmill, much resembling the ruined structure that stands out conspicuously on the bare tableland of alderney, is the first of these picturesque features that we have seen in this part of the country. it is worth mention also on account of the fact that it was at st sauveur-le-vicomte, only about seven miles distant, that the first recorded windmill was put up in france about the year , almost the same time as the first reference to such structures occurs in england. st sauveur has its castle now occupied by the hospital. it was given to sir john chandos by edward iii. after the treaty of bretigny in , and that courageous soldier, who saw so much fighting in france during the hundred years war, added much to the fortress which had already been in existence since very early times in the history of the duchy. a road runs from st sauveur straight towards the sea. it passes the corner of a forest and then goes right down to the low sandy harbour of port bail. it is a wonderful country for atmospheric effects across the embanked swamps and sandhills that lie between the hamlet and the sea. one of the two churches has a bold, square tower, dating from the fifteenth century--it now serves as a lighthouse. the harbour has two other lights and, although it can only be entered at certain tides, the little port contrives to carry on a considerable export trade of farm produce, most of it being consumed in the channel islands. the railway goes on to its terminus at cartaret, a nicely situated little seaside village close to the cape of the same name. here, if you tire of shrimping on the wide stretch of sands, it is possible to desert normandy by the little steamer that during the summer plies between this point and gorey in jersey. modern influences have given cartaret a more civilised flavour than it had a few years ago, and it now has something of the aspect of a watering-place. northwards from cartaret, a road follows the coast-line two or three miles from the cliffs to les pieux. then one can go on to flamanville by the cape which takes its name from the village, and there see the seventeenth century moated manor house. cherbourg, the greatest naval port of france, is not often visited by those who travel in normandy, for with the exception of the enormous breakwater, there is nothing beyond the sights of a huge dockyard town that is of any note. the breakwater, however, is a most remarkable work. it stands about two miles from the shore, is more than yards long by yards wide, and has a most formidable appearance with its circular forts and batteries of guns. the church of la trinite was built during the english occupation and must have been barely finished before the evacuation of the place in . since that time the post has only been once attacked by the english, and that was as recently as , when lord howe destroyed and burnt the forts, shipping and naval stores. leaving cherbourg we will take our way southwards again to valognes, a town which suffered terribly during the ceaseless wars between england and france. in , edward iii. completely destroyed the place. it was captured by the english seventy-one years afterwards and did not again become french until that remarkable year , when the whole of normandy and part of guienne was cleared of englishmen by the victorious french armies under the count of clermont and the duke of alencon. the montgommery, whose defeat at domfront castle has already been mentioned, held valognes against the catholic army, but it afterwards was captured by the victorious henry of navarre after the battle of ivry near evreux. valognes possesses a good museum containing many roman relics from the neighbourhood. a short distance from the town, on the east side, lies the village of alleaume where there remain the ivy-grown ruins of the castle in which duke william was residing when the news was brought to him of the insurrection of his barons under the viscount of the cotentin. it was at this place that william's fool revealed to him the danger in which he stood, and it was from here that he rode in hot haste to the castle of falaise, a stronghold the duke seemed to regard as safer than any other in his possession. still farther southwards lies the town of carentan, in the centre of a great butter-making district. it is, however, a dull place--it can scarcely be called a city even though it possesses a cathedral. the earliest part of this building is the west front which is of twelfth century work. the spire of the central tower has much the same appearance as those crowning the two western towers at st lo, but there is nothing about the building that inspires any particular enthusiasm although the tracery of some of the windows, especially of the reticulated one in the south transept, is exceptionally fine. chapter ix concerning st lo and bayeux the richest pasture lands occupy the great butter-making district that lies north of st lo. the grass in every meadow seems to grow with particular luxuriance, and the sleepy cows that are privileged to dwell in this choice country, show by their complaisant expressions the satisfaction they feel with their surroundings. it is wonderful to lie in one of these sunny pastures, when the buttercups have gilded the grass, and to watch the motionless red and white cattle as they solemnly let the hours drift past them. during a whole sunny afternoon, which i once spent in those pastoral surroundings, i can scarcely remember the slightest movement taking place among the somnolent herd. there was a gentle breeze that made waves in the silky sea of grass and sometimes stirred the fresh green leaves of the trees overhead. the birds were singing sweetly, and the distant tolling of the cathedral bells at carentan added a richness to the sounds of nature. imagine this scene repeated a thousand times in every direction and you have a good idea of this strip of pastoral normandy. about four miles north of st lo, the main road drops down into the pleasant little village of pont hebert and then passes over the vire where it flows through a lovely vale. in either direction the brimming waters of the river glide between brilliant green meadows, and as it winds away into the distance, the trees become more and more blue and form a charming contrast to the brighter colours near at hand. to come across the peasants of this pretty country in the garb one so frequently sees depicted as the usual dress of normandy, it is necessary to be there on a sunday or some fete day. on such days the wonderful frilled caps, that stand out for quite a foot above the head, are seen on every peasant woman. they are always of the most elaborate designs, and it is scarcely necessary to say that they are of a dazzling whiteness. the men have their characteristic dark blue close-fitting coats and the high-crowned cap that being worn on week days is much more frequently in evidence than the remarkable creations worn by the womenfolk. there is a long climb from pont hebert to st lo but there are plenty of pretty cottages scattered along the road, and these with crimson stonecrop on the roofs and may and lilac blossoming in the gardens, are pictures that prevent you from finding the way tedious. at last, from the considerable height you have reached, st lo, dominated by its great church, appears on a hill scarcely a mile away. the old town, perched upon the flat surface of a mass of rock with precipitous sides, has much the same position as domfront. but here we are shut in by other hills and there is no unlimited view of green forest-lands. the place, too, has a busy city-like aspect so that the comparison cannot be carried very far. when you have climbed the steep street that leads up through a quaint gateway to the extensive plateau above, you pass through the rue thiers and reach one of the finest views of the church. on one side of the street, there are picturesque houses with tiled roofs and curiously clustered chimneys, and beyond them, across a wide gravelly space, rises the majestic bulk of the west front of notre dame. from the wide flight of steps that leads to the main entrance, the eye travels upwards to the three deeply-recessed windows that occupy most of the surface of this end of the nave. then the two great towers, seemingly similar, but really full of individual ornament, rise majestically to a height equal to that of the highest portion of the nave. then higher still, soaring away into the blue sky above, come the enormous stone spires perforated with great multi-foiled openings all the way to the apex. both towers belong to the fifteenth century, but they were not built at quite the same time. in the chancel there is a double arcade of graceful pillars without capitals. there is much fine old glass full of beautiful colours that make a curious effect when the sunlight falls through them upon the black and white marble slabs of the floor. wedged up against the north-west corner of the exterior stands a comparatively modern house, but this incongruous companionship is no strange thing in normandy, although, as we have seen at falaise, there are instances in which efforts are being made to scrape off the humble domestic architecture that clings, barnacle-like, upon the walls of so many of the finest churches. on the north side of notre dame, there is an admirably designed outside pulpit with a great stone canopy overhead full of elaborate tracery. it overhangs the pavement, and is a noticeable object as you go towards the place de la prefecture. on this wide and open terrace, a band plays on sunday evenings. there are seats under the trees by the stone balustrade from which one may look across the roofs of the lower town filling the space beneath. the great gravelly place des beaux-regards that runs from the western side of the church, is terminated at the very edge of the rocky platform, and looking over the stone parapet you see the vire flowing a hundred feet below. this view must have been very much finer before warehouses and factory-like buildings came to spoil the river-side scenery, but even now it has qualities which are unique. facing the west end of the church, the most striking gabled front of the maison dieu forms part of one side of the open space. this building may at first appear almost too richly carved and ornate to be anything but a modern reproduction of a mediaeval house, but it has been so carefully preserved that the whole of the details of the front belong to the original time of the construction of the house. the lower portion is of heavy stone-work, above, the floors project one over the other, and the beauty of the timber-framing and the leaded windows is most striking. st lo teems with soldiers, and it has a town-crier who wears a dark blue uniform and carries a drum to call attention to his announcements. in the lower part of the town, in the rue des halles, you may find the corn-market now held in the church that was dedicated to thomas a becket. the building was in course of construction when the primate happened to be at st lo and he was asked to name the saint to whom the church should be dedicated. his advice was that they should wait until some saintly son of the church should die for its sake. strangely enough he himself died for the privileges of the church, and thus his name was given to this now desecrated house of god. the remains of the fortifications that crown the rock are scarcely noticeable at the present time, and it is very much a matter of regret that the town has, with the exception of the tour beaux-regards, lost the walls and towers that witnessed so many sieges and assaults from early norman times right up to the days of henry of navarre. it was one of the towns that was held by geoffrey plantagenet in stephen's reign, and it was burnt by edward iii. about the same time as valognes. then again in the religious wars of the sixteenth century, a most terrific attack was made on st lo by matignon who overcame the resistance of the garrison after colombieres, the leader, had been shot dead upon the ramparts. it is fortunate for travellers in hot weather that exactly half-way between st lo and bayeux there lies the shade of the extensive forest of cerisy through which the main road cuts in a perfectly straight line. at semilly there is a picturesque calvary. the great wooden cross towers up to a remarkable height so that the figure of our lord is almost lost among the overhanging trees, and down below a double flight of mossy stone steps leads up to the little walled-in space where the wayfarer may kneel in prayer at the foot of the cross. onward from this point, the dust and heat of the roadway can become excessive, so that when at last the shade of the forest is reached, its cool glades of slender beech-trees entice you from the glaring sunshine--for towards the middle of the day the roadway receives no suggestion of shadows from the trees on either side. in this part of the country, it is a common sight to meet the peasant women riding their black donkeys with the milk cans resting in panniers on either side. the cans are of brass with spherical bodies and small necks, and are kept brilliantly burnished. the forest left behind, an extensive pottery district is passed through. the tuilleries may be seen by the roadside in nearly all the villages, naron being entirely given up to this manufacture. great embankments of dark brown jars show above the hedges, and the furnaces in which the earthenware is baked, are almost as frequent as the cottages. there are some particularly quaint, but absolutely simple patterns of narrow necked jugs that appear for sale in some of the shops at bayeux and caen. soon the famous norman cathedral with its three lofty spires appears straight ahead. in a few minutes the narrow streets of this historic city are entered. the place has altogether a different aspect to the busy and cheerful st lo. the ground is almost level, it is difficult to find any really striking views, and we miss the atmosphere of the more favourably situated town. perhaps it is because of the evil influence of caen, but certainly bayeux lacks the cleanliness and absence of smells that distinguishes coutances and avranches from some of the other norman towns. it is, however, rich in carved fronts and timber-framed houses, and probably is the nearest rival to lisieux in these features. the visitor is inclined to imagine that he will find the tapestry for which he makes a point of including bayeux in his tour, at the cathedral or some building adjoining it, but this is not the case. it is necessary to traverse two or three small streets to a tree-grown public square where behind a great wooden gateway is situated the museum. as a home for such a priceless relic as this great piece of needlework, the museum seems scarcely adequate. it has a somewhat dusty and forlorn appearance, and although the tapestry is well set out in a long series of glazed wooden cases, one feels that the risks of fire and other mischances are greater here than they would be were the tapestry kept in a more modern and more fire-proof home. queen mathilda or whoever may have been either the actual producer or the inspirer of the tapestry must have used brilliant colours upon this great length of linen. during the nine centuries that have passed since the work was completed the linen has assumed the colour of light brown canvas, but despite this, the greens, blues, reds, and buffs of the stitches show out plainly against the unworked background. there is scarcely an english history without a reproduction of one of the scenes portrayed in the long series of pictures, and london has in the south kensington museum a most carefully produced copy of the original. even the chapter-house of westminster abbey has its coloured reproductions of the tapestry, so that it is seldom that any one goes to bayeux without some knowledge of the historic events portrayed in the needlework. there are fifty-eight separate scenes on the feet of linen. they commence with harold's instructions from edward the confessor to convey to william the norman the fact that he (harold) is to become king of england. then follows the whole story leading up to the flight of the english at senlac hill. even if this wonderful piece of work finds a more secure resting-place in paris, bayeux will still attract many pilgrims for its cathedral and its domestic architecture compare favourably with many other norman towns. the misfortunes that attended the early years of the life of the cathedral were so numerous and consistent that the existence of the great structure to-day is almost a matter for surprise. it seems that the first church made its appearance during the eleventh century, and it was in it that harold unwittingly took that sacred oath on the holy relics, but by some accident the church was destroyed by fire and there is probably nothing left of this earliest building except the crypt. eleven years after the conquest of england, william was present at bayeux when a new building built by his half-brother odo, bishop of bayeux, was consecrated. ten years after his death, however, this second church was burnt down. they rebuilt it once more a few years later, but a third time a fire wrought much destruction. the portions of the cathedral that survived this century of conflagrations can be seen in the two great western towers, in the arches of the norman nave, and a few other portions. the rest of the buildings are in the early french period of pointed architecture, with the exception of the central tower which is partly of the flamboyant period, but the upper portion is as modern as the middle of last century. the spandrels of the nave arcades are covered over with a diaper work of half a dozen or more different patterns, some of them scaly, some representing interwoven basket-work, while others are composed simply of a series of circles, joined together with lines. there are curious little panels in each of these spandrels that are carved with the most quaint and curious devices. some are strange, chinese-looking dragons, and some show odd-looking figures or mitred saints. the panel showing harold taking the oath is modern. there is a most imposing pulpit surmounted by a canopy where a female figure seated on a globe is surrounded by cherubs, clouds (or are they rocks?) and fearful lightning. at a shrine dedicated to john the baptist, the altar bears a painting in the centre showing the saint's dripping head resting in the charger. quite close to the west front of the cathedral there stands a house that still bears its very tall chimney dating from mediaeval times. not far from this there is one of the timber-framed fifteenth century houses ornamented with curious carvings of small figures, and down in the rue st malo there is an even richer example of the same type of building. on the other side of the road, nearer the cathedral, a corner house stands out conspicuously. [illustration: an ancient house in the rue st malo, bayeux] it is shown in the illustration given here and its curious detail makes it one of the most quaint of all the ancient houses in the city. some of these old buildings date from the year , when normandy was swept clear of the english, and it is probably owing to the consideration of the leader of the french army that there are any survivals of this time. the lord of montenay was leading the duke of alencon's troops and with him were pierre de louvain, robert conigrain and a number of free archers. after they had battered the walls of bayeux with their cannon for fifteen days, and after they had done much work with mines and trenches, the french were ready for an assault. the king of france, however, and the notables who have been mentioned "had pity for the destruction of the city and would not consent to the assault." without their orders, however, the troops, whose ardour could not be restrained, attacked in one place, but not having had the advice of their leaders the onslaught was quite indecisive, both sides suffering equally from arrows and culverins. it was soon after this that matthew gough, the english leader, was obliged to surrender the city, and we are told that nine hundred of the bravest and the best soldiers of the duchy of normandy came out and were allowed to march to cherbourg. the french lords "for the honour of courtesy" lent some of their horses to carry the ladies and the other gentlewomen, and they also supplied carts to convey the ordinary womenfolk who went with their husbands. "it was," says jacques le bouvier, who describes the scene, "a thing pitiful to behold. some carried the smallest of the children in their arms, and some were led by hand, and in this way the english lost possession of bayeux." [illustration: the gateway of the chateau] chapter x concerning caen and the coast towards trouville caen, like mediaeval london, is famed for its bells and its smells. if you climb up to any height in the town you will see at once that the place is crowded with the spires and towers of churches; and, if you explore any of the streets, you are sure to discover how rudimentary are the notions of sanitation in the historic old city. if you come to caen determined to thoroughly examine all the churches, you must allow at least two or three days for this purpose, for although you might endeavour to "do" the place in one single day, you would remember nothing but the fatigue, and the features of all the churches would become completely confused. my first visit to caen, several years ago, is associated with a day of sight-seeing commenced at a very early hour. i had been deposited at one of the quays by the steamer that had started at sunrise and had slowly glided along the ten miles of canal from ouistreham, reaching its destination at about five o'clock. the town seemed thoroughly awake at this time, the weather being brilliantly fine. white-capped women were everywhere to be seen sweeping the cobbled streets with their peculiarly fragile-looking brooms. it was so early by the actual time, however, that it seemed wise to go straight to the hotel and to postpone the commencement of sight-seeing until a more rational hour. my rooms at the hotel, however, were not yet vacated, so that it was impossible to go to my bedroom till eight o'clock. the hotel courtyard, though picturesque, with its three superimposed galleries and its cylindrical tower containing the staircase, was not, at this hour in the morning at least, a place to linger in. it seemed therefore the wisest plan to begin an exploration of some of the adjoining streets to fill the time. after having seen the exterior of three or four churches, the interiors of some others; after having explored a dozen curious courtyards and the upper part of the town, where the chateau stands, the clocks began to strike seven, although to me it seemed like noon. by half-past eight the afternoon seemed well advanced, and when dejeuner made its appearance at the hotel it seemed as though the day would never cease. i had by this time seen several more churches and interesting old buildings, and my whole senses had become so jaded that i would scarcely have moved a yard to have seen the finest piece of architecture in the whole of normandy. the circumstances of this day, were, no doubt, exceptional, but i mention them as a warning to those who with a pathetic conscientiousness endeavour to see far more than they can possibly comprehend in the space of a very few hours. it would be far better to spend one's whole time in the great church of the abbaye aux hommes, and photograph in one's mind the simplicity of the early norman structure, than to have a confused recollection of this, st pierre, the church of the abbaye aux darnes and half a dozen others. the galleried hotel i have mentioned was known as the hotel st barbe. it is now converted into a warehouse, but no one need regret this for it was more pleasant to look at than to actually stay in. i am glad, personally, to have had this experience; to have seen the country carts, with the blue sheep-skins over the horse collars, drive into the courtyard, and to have watched the servants of the hotel eating their meals at a long table in the open air. there was a spanish flavour about the place that is not found in the modern hotels. there is no town i have ever known more confusing in its plan than caen, and, although i have stayed there for nearly a week on one occasion, i am still a little uncertain in which direction to turn for the castle when i am at the church of st jean. the streets, as a rule, are narrow and have a busy appearance that is noticeable after the quiet of bayeux. the clatter and noise of the omnibuses has been subdued in recent years by the introduction of electric trams which sweep round the corners with a terrifying speed, for after a long sojourn in the country and quiet little towns one loses the agility and wariness of the town-bred folk. caen, of course, does not compete with lisieux for its leading position as the possessor of the largest number of old houses, but it nevertheless can show some quaint carved fronts in the rue st pierre and the narrow streets adjoining. at the present time the marks of antiquity are being removed from the beautiful renaissance courtyard of the bourse near st pierre. the restoration has been going on for some years, and the steps that lead up to the entrance in one corner of the quadrangle are no longer stained with the blackish-green of a prolonged period of damp. but it is better, however, that this sixteenth century house should assume a fictitious newness rather than fall entirely into disrepair. it was originally the house of one of the wealthy families of caen named le valois, and was known as the hotel d'escoville. another splendid house is the hotel de la monnaie built by the famous and princely merchant etienne duval, sieur de mondrainville, whose great wealth enabled him to get sufficient supplies into metz to make it possible for the place to hold out during its siege in . in his most admirably written book "highways and byways in normandy," mr dearmer gives an interesting sketch of this remarkable man whose success brought him jealous enemies. they succeeded in bringing charges against him for which he was exiled, and at another time he was imprisoned in the castle at caen until, with great difficulty, he had proved the baseness of the attacks upon his character. duval was over seventy when he died, being, like job, wealthy and respected, for he had survived the disasters that had fallen upon him. the gateway of the chateau is the best and most imposing portion of the fortifications of caen. the castle being now used as barracks, visitors as a rule are unable to enter, but as the gateway may be seen from outside the deep moat, the rest of the place need not tantalise one. in william the conqueror's time the castle was being built, and the town walls included the two great abbeys for which caen is chiefly famous. these two magnificent examples of norman architecture have been restored with great thoroughness so that the marks of antiquity that one might expect are entirely wanting in both buildings. the exterior of the great church of st etienne disappoints so many, largely from the fact that the gaunt west front is the only view one really has of the building except from a distance. inside, services seem to go on at most times of the day, and when you are quietly looking at the mighty nave with its plain, semicircular arches and massive piers, you are suddenly startled by the entry from somewhere of a procession of priests loudly singing some awe-inspiring chant, the guttural tones of the singers echoing through the aisles. following the clerical party will come a rabble of nuns, children and ordinary laity, and before you have scarcely had time to think a service has commenced, people are kneeling, and if you do not make haste towards the doors a priest will probably succeed in reaching you with a collecting dish in which one is not inclined to place even a sou if the service has hindered the exploration of the church. owing to the perpetuation of an error in some of the english guides to normandy, it is often thought that a thigh-bone of the founder of the abbey is still lying beneath the marble slab in the sanctuary, but this is a great mistake, for that last poor relic of william the conqueror was lost during the revolution. the whole story of the death, the burial, and the destruction of the tomb and remains of the founder of the abbey are most miserable and even gruesome. william was at rouen when he died, and we need scarcely remind ourselves of that tragic scene discovered by the clergy when they came to the house not long after the great man had expired. every one of william's suite had immediately recognised the changed state of affairs now that the inflexible will that had controlled the two kingdoms had been removed, and each, concerned for himself, had betaken himself with indecent haste to england or wherever his presence might be most opportune. in this way, there being no one left to watch the corpse, the archbishop of rouen discovered that the house and even the bed had been pillaged, so that the royal body was lying in great disorder until reverently tended by a norman gentleman named herluin. having fulfilled william's wishes and brought the remains to caen, a stately funeral was arranged. as the procession slowly passed through the narrow streets, however, it was interrupted by an alarm of fire-some of the wooden houses blazing fiercely just when the bier was passing. the flames grew so quickly that in some danger the mournful procession was dispersed and the coffin was only attended by a few monks when the gates of the abbaye aux hommes were reached. eventually the burial ceremonies were in progress beside the open grave within the church, but another interruption ensued. scarcely had the bishop of evreux concluded his address when everybody was startled at hearing the loud voice of ascelin resounding through the church. he was a well-known man, a burgher, and a possessor of considerable wealth, and it was therefore with considerable anxiety that the clergy heard his claim upon the ground in which they were about to bury william. it was the actual site of a house that had belonged to ascelin's father, for the dead king had shown no consideration to private claims when he was building the great abbey to appease the wrath of the church. the disturbance having been settled by the payment for the grave of a sum which ascelin was induced to accept, the proceedings were resumed. but then came the worst scene of all, for it has been recorded that the coffin containing the ponderous body of the king had not been made with sufficient strength, and as it was being lowered into the grave, the boards gave way, and so gruesome was the result that the church was soon emptied. it thus came about that once more in the last phase of all william was deserted except by a few monks. the monument which was raised over the conqueror's grave, was, however, of a most gorgeous character. it was literally encrusted with precious gems, and it is known that enormous quantities of gold from the accumulated stores of wealth which william had made were used by otto the goldsmith (sometimes known as aurifaber) who was entrusted with the production of this most princely tomb. such a striking object as this could scarcely pass through many centuries in safety, and we find that in the huguenot wars of the seventeenth century it was largely destroyed and the stone coffin was broken open, the bones being scattered. we only know what became of a thigh-bone which was somehow rescued by a monk belonging to the abbey. he kept it for some time, and in it was replaced in a new, but much less gorgeous tomb. about one hundred years later, it was moved to another part of the church, but in the revolution this third tomb was broken into, and the last relic of the conqueror was lost. then after some years, the prefet of calvados placed upon the site of the desecrated tomb the slab of black marble that still marks the spot. the inscription reads "hic sepultus est, invictissimus guielmus conquestor, normanniae dux et angliae rex, hujusce domus conditor qui obit anno mlxxxvii." when lanfranc had been sent to the pope by william with a view to making some arrangement by which the king could retain his wife matilda and at the same time the good offices of the church, his side of the bargain consisted in undertaking to build two great abbeys at caen, one for men and one for women. the first we have already been examining, the other is at the eastern side of the town on the hill beyond the castle. it is a more completely norman building than st etienne, but its simple, semi-circular arches and round-headed windows contrast strangely with the huge pontifical canopy of draped velvet that is suspended above the altar, and very effectually blocks the view of the norman apse beyond. the smallness of the windows throughout the building subdues the light within, and thus gives st trinite a somewhat different character to st etienne. the capitals of the piers of the arcade are carved with strange-looking monkeys and other designs, and there are chevron mouldings conspicuous in the nave. the tomb of queen mathilda is in the choir. like that of her husband it has been disturbed more than once, so that the marble slab on top is all that remains of the original. opposite the place reine mathilde stands the desecrated church of st gilles, one of the numerous beautiful buildings in caen now in partial ruin and occupied as warehouses, wine-vaults or workshops. they are all worth looking for, and if possible examining inside as well as out, for they include some beautiful flamboyant structures and others of earlier date, such as st nicholas, illustrated here, which in part dates from norman times. st etienne le vieux, quite close to the abbaye aux hommes, is a beautiful building rich in elaborate carving and rows of gargoyles. it was built in the early years of the fifteenth century in place of one which had fallen into ruin when henry v. besieged caen. it is still unrestored, and if you peep inside the open doors you will see the interior filled with ladders, boxes, brooms, and a thousand odds and ends, this most beautiful structure being used as a municipal workshop. we have more than once referred to the church of st pierre, but as yet we have made no reference to its architecture. the tower and graceful spire needs no detailed description, for it appears in the coloured illustration adjoining, and from it one may see what a strikingly perfect structure this is for such an early date as . it is a marvel of construction, for the spire within is hollow, and without any interior framework or supports at all. although it is so seemingly frail, it was used during the sixteenth century for military purposes, having been selected as a good position for firing upon the castle, and it naturally became a target for the guns inside the fortress. you cannot now see the holes made by the cannon balls, but although they were not repaired for many years the tower remained perfectly stable, as a proof of the excellent work of nicholas, the englishman who built it. unlike the church of the abbaye aux dames, st pierre is brilliantly lit inside by large, traceried windows that let in the light through their painted glass. in the nave the roof is covered with the most elaborate vaulting with great pendants dropping from the centre of each section; but for the most crowded ornament one must examine the chancel and the chapels. the church of st jean is not conspicuous, but it is notable for two or three features. the western tower is six and a half feet out of perpendicular, the triforium has a noticeable balustrade running all round, and the chancel is longer than the nave. st sauveur, in the rue st pierre is of the same period as st jean, but its tower if it had been crocketed would have very closely resembled that of st pierre, and it is chiefly notable for the fact that it is two churches thrown into one--that of st eustace being joined on to it. another feature of caen that is often overlooked is the charm of its old courtyards. behind some of the rather plain stone fronts, the archways lead into little paved quadrangles that have curious well-heads, rustic outside staircases, and odd-shaped dormer windows on the steep roofs. one of these courtyards behind a house in the rue de bayeux is illustrated here, but to do justice to the quaintnesses that are to be revealed, it would have been necessary to give several examples. in the boulevard st pierre, where the pavements are shaded by pink horse chestnuts there stands the tour le roy. it is the most noticeable remnant of the days when caen was a walled and strongly fortified city, but as you look at it to-day it seems too much like a good piece of the sham antique to be found at large exhibitions. it is the restoration that is at fault, and not the tower itself, which is really old, and no doubt is in quiet rebellion at the false complexion it is obliged to wear. the view of caen from across the race-course is a beautiful one, but under some aspects this is quite eclipsed by the wonderful groupings of the church towers seen from the canal as it goes out of the town towards the east. i can remember one particular afternoon when there was a curious mistiness through which the western sunlight passed, turning everything into a strange, dull gold. it was a light that suppressed all that was crude and commercial near at hand and emphasised the medievalism of the place by throwing out spires and towers in softly tinted silhouettes. i love to think of caen robed in this cloth of gold, and the best i can wish for every one who goes there with the proper motives, is that they may see the place in that same light. on the left, a few miles out of caen on the road to creully, stands the abbaye d'ardennes where charles vii. lodged when his army was besieging the city in . the buildings are now used as a farm, and the church is generally stacked with hay and straw up to the triforium. although they start towards the east, the canal and the river orne taking parallel courses run generally towards the north, both entering the sea by the village of ouistreham, the ancient port of caen. along the margin of the canal there is a good road, and almost hidden by the long grass outside the tall trees that line the canal on each bank, runs the steam tramway to cabourg and the coast to the west of the orne. except when the fussy little piece of machinery drawing three or four curious, open-sided trams, is actually passing, the tramway escapes notice, for the ground is level and the miniature rails are laid on the ground without any excavating or embanking. the scenery as you go along the tramway, the road, or the canal, is charming, the pastures on either side being exceedingly rich, and the red and white cattle seem to revel in the long grass and buttercups. heronville, blainville and other sleepy villages are pleasantly perched on the slight rise on the western side of the canal. their churches, with red roofs all subdued with lichen into the softest browns, rise above the cottages or farm buildings that surround them in the ideal fashion that is finally repeated at ouistreham where locks impound the waters of the canal, and a great lighthouse stands out more conspicuously than the church tower. seen through the framework of closely trimmed trees ouistreham makes a notable picture. the great norman church is so exceedingly imposing for such a mere village, that it is easy to understand how, as a port in the middle ages, ouistreham flourished exceedingly. the tramway crosses the canal at benouville on its way to cabourg, and leaving the shade of birches and poplars takes its way over the open fields towards the sea. benouville is best remembered on account of its big chateau with a great classic portico much resembling a section of waterloo place perched upon a fine terraced slope. ranville has an old church tower standing in lonely fashion by itself, and you pass a conspicuous calvary as you go on to the curious little seaside resort known as le home-sur-mer. the houses are bare and (if one may coin a word) seasidey. perched here and there on the sandy ridge between the road and the shore, they have scarcely anything more to suggest a garden than the thin wiry grass that contrives to exist in such soil. down on the wide sandy beach there is an extensive sweep of the coast to be seen stretching from beyond ouistreham to the bold cliffs of le havre. keeping along the road by the tramway you have been out of sight of the sea, but in a few minutes the pleasant leafiness of cabourg has been reached. here everything has the full flavour of a seaside resort, for we find a casino, a long esplanade, hotels, shops and bathing apparatus. it is a somewhat strong dose of modern life after the slumbering old world towns and villages we have been exploring, and it is therefore with great satisfaction that we turn toward the village of dives lying close at hand. the place possesses a splendid old market hall, more striking perhaps than that of ecouche and a picturesque inn--the hotel guillaume le conquerant. the building is of stone with tiled roofs, and in the two courtyards there are galleries and much ancient timber-framing, but unfortunately the proprietor has not been content to preserve the place in its natural picturesqueness. he has crowded the exterior, as well as the rooms, with a thousand additions of a meretricious character which detract very much from the charm of the fine old inn and defeat the owner's object, that of making it attractive on account of its age and associations. madame de sevigne wrote many of her letters in one of the rooms, but we know that she saw none of the sham antique lamps, the well-head, or the excess of flowers that blaze in the courtyards. on account of its name, the unwary are trapped into thinking that william the norman--for he had still to defeat harold--could have frequently been seen strolling about this hostelry, when his forces for invading england were gathering and his fleet of ships were building. this is, of course, a total misapprehension, for the only structure that contains anything that dates back to is the church. even this building dates chiefly from the fourteenth century, but there is to be seen, besides the norman walls, a carved wooden cross that is believed to have been found in the sea, and therefore to have some connection with william's great fleet and its momentous voyage to england. the names of the leading men who accompanied william are engraved upon two marble slabs inside the church, and on the hill above the village a short column put up by m. de caumont, commemorates the site upon which william is believed to have inspected his forces previous to their embarkation. it is a difficult matter to form any clear idea of the size of this army for the estimates vary from , to , , and there is also much uncertainty as to the number of ships employed in transporting the host across the channel. the lowest estimates suggest vessels, and there is every reason to believe that they were quite small. the building of so large a fleet of even small boats between the winter and summer of must have employed an enormous crowd of men, and we may be justified in picturing a very busy scene on the shores of this portion of the coast of normandy. duke william's ship, which was named the _mora_, had been presented to him by his wife mathilda, and most of the vessels had been built and manned by the norman barons and prelates, the bishop of bayeux preparing no less than a hundred ships. the conquest of england must have almost been regarded as a holy crusade! when the fleet left the mouth of the river dives it did not make at once for pevensey bay. the ships instead worked along the coast eastwards to the somme, where they waited until a south wind blew, then the vessels all left the estuary each carrying a light, for it was almost dark. by the next morning the white chalk of beachy head was in sight, and at nine o'clock william had landed on english soil. close to dives and in sight of the hill on which the normans were mustered, there is a small watering-place known as houlgate-sur-mer. the houses are charmingly situated among trees, and the place has in recent years become known as one of those quiet resorts where princes and princesses with their families may be seen enjoying the simple pleasures of the seaside, _incognito_. this fact, of course, gets known to enterprising journalists who come down and photograph these members of the european royal families wherever they can get them in particularly unconventional surroundings. from houlgate all the way to trouville the country is wooded and hilly, and in the hollows, where the timber-framed farms with their thatched roofs are picturesquely arranged, there is much to attract the visitor who, wearying of the gaiety of trouville and its imitators along the coast, wishes to find solitudes and natural surroundings. chapter xi some notes on the history of normandy the early inhabitants of normandy submitted to the roman legions under titurus sabinus in b.c. , only a few years before caesar's first attempt upon britain. by their repeated attacks upon roman territory the gaulish tribes had brought upon themselves the invasion which, after some stubborn fighting, made their country a province of the roman empire. inter-tribal strife having now ceased, the civilisation of rome made its way all over the country including that northern portion known as neustria, much of which from the days of rollo came to be called normandy. traces of the roman occupation are scattered all over the province, the most remarkable being the finely preserved theatre at lillebonne, a corruption of juliabona, mentioned in another chapter. in the second century rouen, under its roman name rotomagos, is mentioned by ptolemy. it was then merely the capital of the tribe of velocasses, but in diocletian's reign it had become not only the port of roman paris, but also the most important town in the province. in time the position occupied by rotomagos became recognised as one having greater strategical advantages than juliabona, a little further down the river, and this gallo-roman precursor of the modern rouen became the headquarters of the provincial governor. the site of rotomagos would appear to include the palais de justice and the cathedral of the present day. after the four centuries of roman rule came the incursions of the savage hordes of northern europe, and of the great army of huns, under attila, who marched through gaul in a.d. . the romans with their auxiliaries engaged attila at chalons--the battle in which fabulous numbers of men are said to have fallen on both sides. the roman power was soon completely withdrawn from gaul, and the franks under clovis, after the battle of soissons, made themselves complete masters of the country. in clovis died. he had embraced christianity fifteen years before, having been baptised at rheims, probably through the influence of his wife clothilda. then for two hundred and fifty years france was under the merovingian kings, and throughout much of this period there was very little settled government, neustria, together with the rest of france, suffering from the lawlessness that prevailed under these "sluggard" kings. rouen was still the centre of many of the events connected with the history of neustria. we know something of the story of hilparik, a king of neustria, whose brutal behaviour to his various queens and the numerous murders and revenges that darkened his reign, form a most unsavoury chapter in the story of this portion of france. following this period came the time when france was ruled by the mayors of the palace who, owing to the weakness of the sovereigns, gradually assumed the whole of the royal power. after charles martel, the most famous of these mayors, had defeated the saracens at tours, came his son pepin-le-bref, the father of charlemagne. childeric, the last of the merovingian kings, had been put out of the way in a monastery and pepin had become the king of france. charlemagne, however, soon made himself greater still as emperor of an enormous portion of europe--france, italy, and germany all coming under his rule. at his death charlemagne divided his empire. his successor louis le debonnaire, owing to his easy-going weakness, fell a prey to charlemagne's other sons, and at his death, charles the bald became king of france and the country west of the rhine. the other portions of the empire falling to lothaire and the younger louis. during all this period, france had suffered from endless fighting and the famines that came as an unevitable consequence, and just about this time neustria suffered still further owing to the incursions of the danes. even in charlemagne's time the black-sailed ships of the northmen had been seen hovering along the coast near the mouth of the seine, and it has been said that the great emperor wept at the sight of some of these awe-inspiring pirates. in the year the northmen had sailed up the seine as far as rouen, but they found little to plunder, for during the reign of the merovingian kings, the town had been reduced to a mere shadow of its former prosperity. there had been a great fire and a great plague, and its ruin had been rendered complete during the civil strife that succeeded the death of charlemagne. wave after wave came the northern invasions led by such men as bjorn ironside, and ragnar lodbrog. charles the bald, fearing to meet these dreaded warriors, bribed them away from the walls of paris in the year . but they came again twelve years afterwards in search of more of the frenchmen's gold. when charles the fat, the german emperor, became also king of france, he had to suffer for his treacherous murder of a danish chief, for soon afterwards came the great rollo with a large fleet of galleys, and paris was besieged once more. odo, count of paris, held out successfully, but when the king came from germany with his army, instead of attacking the danes, he induced them to retire by offering them a bribe of lbs. of silver. before long odo became king of france, but after ten years of constant fighting, he died and was succeeded by charles the simple. this title does an injustice to his character, for he certainly did more for france than most of his predecessors. finding the northmen too firmly established in neustria to have any hope of successfully driving them out of the country, he made a statesmanlike arrangement with rollo. the dane was to do homage to the french king, to abandon his gods thor, odin and the rest for christianity, and in return was to be made ruler of the country between the river epte and the sea, and westwards as far as the borders of brittany rollo was also to be given the hand of the princess gisela in marriage. rouen became the capital of the new duchy of normandy, and the old name of neustria disappeared. the northmen were not at this time numerous, but they continued to come over in considerable numbers establishing centres such as that of bayeux, where only danish was spoken. as in england, this warrior people showed the most astonishing adaptability to the higher civilisation with which they had come into contact, and the new generations that sprang up on french soil added to the vigour and daring of their ancestors the manners and advanced customs of france, although the northmen continued to be called "the pirates" for a considerable time. when rollo died he was succeeded by his son william longsword, and from an incident mentioned by mr t.a. cook in his "story of rouen," we can see the attitude of the normans towards charles the simple. he had sent down to rouen two court gallants to sympathise with the princess gisela, his daughter, for the rough treatment she had received at the hands of rollo, but they were both promptly siezed and hanged in what is now the place du marche vieux. great stone castles were beginning to appear at all the chief places in normandy, and when duke richard had succeeded harold blacktooth we find that the duchy was assuming an ordered existence internally. the feudal system had then reached its fullest development, and the laws established by rollo were properly administered. with the accession of hugh capet to the throne of france, normandy had become a most loyal as well as powerful fief of the crown. the tenth century witnessed also an attempt on the part of the serfs of the duchy to throw off something of the awful grip of the feudal power. these peasants were the descendants of celts, of romans, and of franks, and their efforts to form a representative assembly bear a pathetic resemblance to the movement towards a similar end in russia of to-day. the representatives of the serfs were treated with the most fearful cruelty and sent back to their villages; but the movement did not fail to have its effects, for the condition of the villains in normandy was always better than in other parts of france. broadly speaking, all the successors of rollo, the first duke of normandy, governed the country with wisdom and ability, and although there was more or less constant war, either with the french, who were always hoping to regain the lost province, or with rebellious barons who disputed the authority of the dukes, yet the country progressed steadily and became prosperous. abbeys and churches that the invaders had laid waste were rebuilt on a larger scale. at jumieges there are still to be seen some remains of the church that william longsword began to build for the unfortunate monks who had been left homeless after their abbey had been destroyed by the "pirates." richard i., who died in , had added to the cathedral at rouen, and the abbey of st ouen prospered greatly in the religious revival that became so widespread during the eleventh century. duke richard ii. had been assisted on one occasion by olaf, king of norway, and before his return to the north that monarch, impressed no doubt by the pomp of the ceremonial, was in baptised in the cathedral at rouen. after richard ii. came robert the magnificent, who was called also robert the devil by the people. it was he, who from the walls of his castle at falaise, if the legend be true, first saw arlette the tanner's daughter who afterwards became the mother of william the bastard. as a boy william had a perilous life, and it is almost marvellous that he survived to change his appellation to that of "conqueror." robert the magnificent had joined one of the crusades to the holy land when william was only seven years old, but before he left normandy, he had made it known that he wished the boy to succeed him. for twenty years there was civil war between the greater barons and the supporters of the heir, but in the end william showed himself sufficiently strong to establish his power. he won a great battle at val-es-dunes where he had been met by the barons led by guy of burgundy, and, having taken some of the most formidable fortresses in the duchy, he turned his attention to his foes outside with equal success. soon after this william married mathilda a daughter of count baldwin of flanders, but although by this act he made peace with her country, william soon found himself in trouble with the church. bishop mauger, whom he had appointed to the see of rouen, found fault with the marriage owing to its being within the forbidden degrees of relationship, and the papal sanction having been refused, william only obtained his wishes through the agency of lanfranc. all his life william appears to have set a stern example of purity in family life, and his relations with the church, from this time to his death, seem to have been most friendly. it was largely due to his religious life as well as the support he gave to the monasteries that william was able to give the colour of a religious crusade to his project for invading england. harold had slighted the sacredness of the holy relics of the saints of normandy, and william was to show england that their king's action was not to pass unpunished. in this way the norman host that assembled at dives, while the great fleet was being prepared, included many who came from outside william's dominions. after the whole of england had been completely subjugated william had his time and attention largely taken up with affairs in normandy. his son robert was soon in open rebellion, and assisted by the french king, philip i., robert brought about the death of his father, for it was while devastating a portion of french territory that william received the injury which resulted in his death. robert then became duke of normandy, and there followed those sanguinary quarrels between the three brothers william rufus, king of england, henry beauclerc and robert. finally, after his return from palestine, robert came to england to endeavour to make peace with his younger brother henry, who was now king, but the quarrel was not to be settled in this way. henry, determined to add normandy to the english crown, crossed the channel with a large army and defeated his brother at tinchebrai in . with the accession of stephen to the english throne in , came the long struggle between that king and maud. when henry ii. married eleanor of aquitaine, not only that great province but also maine and anjou came under his sway, so that for a time normandy was only a portion of the huge section of france belonging to the english crown. during his long reign henry spent much time in normandy, and argentan and avranches are memorable in connection with the tragedy of thomas a becket. during the absence of richard coeur-de-lion in palestine john became exceedingly friendly with philip augustus, the french king, but when richard was dead he found cause to quarrel with the new english king and, after the fall of the chateau gaillard, john soon discovered that he had lost the duchy of normandy and had earned for himself the name of "lackland." from this time, namely, the commencement of the thirteenth century, normandy belonged to the crown of france although english armies were, until , in frequent occupation of the larger towns and fortresses. team normandy: the scenery & romance of its ancient towns: depicted by gordon home preface this book is not a guide. it is an attempt to convey by pictures and description a clear impression of the normandy which awaits the visitor. the route described could, however, be followed without covering the same ground for more than five or six miles, and anyone choosing to do this would find in his path some of the richest architecture and scenery that the province possesses. as a means of reviving memories of past visits to normandy, i may perhaps venture to hope that the illustrations of this book--as far as the reproductions are successful--may not be ineffectual. gordon home epsom, _october_ contents preface list of coloured illustrations list of line illustrations chapter i some features of normandy chapter ii by the banks of the seine chapter iii concerning rouen, the ancient capital of normandy chapter iv concerning the cathedral city of evreux and the road to bernay chapter v concerning lisieux and the romantic town of falaise chapter vi from argentan to avranches chapter vii concerning mont st michel chapter viii concerning coutances and some parts of the cotentin chapter ix concerning st lo and bayeux chapter x concerning caen and the coast towards trouville chapter xi some notes on the history of normandy list of coloured illustrations mont st michel from the causeway on the road between conches and beaumont-le-roger this is typical of the poplar-bordered roads of normandy. the chateau gaillard from the road by the seine the village of le petit andely appears below the castle rock, and is partly hidden by the island. the chalk cliffs on the left often look like ruined walls. a typical reach of the seine between rouen and le petit andely on one side great chalk cliffs rise precipitously, and on the other are broad flat pastures. the church at gisors, seen from the walls of the norman castle the tour de la grosse horloge, rouen it is the belfry of the city, and was commenced in . the cathedral at rouen showing a peep of the portail de la calende, and some of the quaint houses of the oldest part of the city. the cathedral of evreux seen from above on the right, just where the light touches some of the roofs of the houses, the fine old belfry can be seen. a typical farmyard scene in normandy the curious little thatched mushroom above the cart is to be found in most of the norman farms. the bridge at beaumont-le-roger on the steep hill beyond stands the ruined abbey church. in the rue aux fevres, lisieux the second tiled gable from the left belongs to the fine sixteenth century house called the manoir de francois i. the church of st jacques at lisieux one of the quaint umber fronted houses for which the town is famous appears on the left. falaise castle the favourite stronghold of william the conqueror. the porte des cordeliers at falaise a thirteenth century gateway that overlooks the steep valley of the ante. the chateau d'o a seventeenth century manor house surrounded by a wide moat. the great view over the forests to the south from the ramparts of domfront castle down below can be seen the river varennes, and to the left of the railway the little norman church of notre-dame-sur-l'eau. the clock gate, vire a view of mont st michel and the bay of cancale from the jardin des plantes at avranches on the left is the low coast-line of normandy, and on the right appears the islet of tombelaine. distant view of mont st michel the long main street of coutances in the foreground is the church of st pierre, and in the distance is the cathedral. the great western towers of the church of notre dame at st lo they are of different dates, and differ in the arcading and other ornament. the norman towers of bayeux cathedral st pierre, caen ouistreham list of line illustrations the fortified farm near gisors a seventeenth century house at argentan the old market house at ecouche one of the towers in the walls of domfront the chËtelet and la mervfille at mont st michel the dark opening through the archway on the left is the main entrance to the abbey. on the right can be seen the tall narrow windows that light the three floors of abbot jourdain's great work. an ancient house in the rue st malo, bayeux the gateway of the chateau the disused church of st nicholas at caen a courtyard in the rue de bayeux at caen chapter i some features of normandy very large ants, magpies in every meadow, and coffee-cups without handles, but of great girth, are some of the objects that soon become familiar to strangers who wander in that part of france which was at one time as much part of england as any of the counties of this island. the ants and the coffee-cups certainly give one a sense of being in a foreign land, but when one wanders through the fertile country among the thatched villages and farms that so forcibly remind one of devonshire, one feels a friendliness in the landscapes that scarcely requires the stimulus of the kindly attitude of the peasants towards _les anglais_. if one were to change the dark blue smock and the peculiar peaked hat of the country folk of normandy for the less distinctive clothes of the english peasant, in a very large number of cases the frenchmen would pass as english. the norman farmer so often has features strongly typical of the southern counties of england, that it is surprising that with his wife and his daughters there should be so little resemblance. perhaps this is because the french women dress their hair in such a different manner to those on the northern side of the channel, and they certainly, taken as a whole, dress with better effect than their english neighbours; or it may be that the similar ideas prevailing among the men as to how much of the face should be shaved have given the stronger sex an artificial resemblance. in the towns there is little to suggest in any degree that the mediaeval kings of england ruled this large portion of france, and at mont st michel the only english objects besides the ebb and flow of tourists are the two great iron _michelettes_ captured by the french in . everyone who comes to the wonderful rock is informed that these two guns are english; but as they have been there for nearly five hundred years, no one feels much shame at seeing them in captivity, and only a very highly specialised antiquary would be able to recognise any british features in them. everyone, however, who visits normandy from england with any enthusiasm, is familiar with the essential features of norman and early pointed architecture, and it is thus with distinct pleasure that the churches are often found to be strikingly similar to some of the finest examples of the earlier periods in england. when we remember that the norman masons and master-builders had been improving the crude saxon architecture in england even before the conquest, and that, during the reigns of the norman kings, "frenchmen," as the saxons called them, were working on churches and castles in every part of our island, it is no matter for surprise to find that buildings belonging to the eleventh, twelfth, and even the thirteenth century, besides being of similar general design, are often covered with precisely the same patterns of ornament. when the period of decorated gothic began to prevail towards the end of the thirteenth century, the styles on each side of the channel gradually diverged, so that after that time the english periods do not agree with those of normandy. there is also, even in the churches that most resemble english structures, a strangeness that assails one unless familiarity has taken the edge off one's perceptions. though not the case with all the fine churches and cathedrals of normandy, yet with an unpleasantly large proportion--unfortunately including the magnificent church of st ouen at rouen--there is beyond the gaudy tinsel that crowds the altars, an untidiness that detracts from the sense of reverence that stately norman or gothic does not fail to inspire. in the north transept of st ouen, some of the walls and pillars have at various times been made to bear large printed notices which have been pasted down, and when out of date they have been only roughly torn off, leaving fragments that soon become discoloured and seriously mar the dignified antiquity of the stone-work. but beyond this, one finds that the great black stands for candles that burn beside the altars are generally streaked with the wax that has guttered from a dozen flames, and that even the floor is covered with lumps of wax--the countless stains of only partially scraped-up gutterings of past offerings. there is also that peculiarly unpleasant smell so often given out by the burning wax that greets one on entering the cool twilight of the building. the worn and tattered appearance of the rush-seated chairs in the churches is easily explained when one sees the almost constant use to which they are put. in the morning, or even as late as six in the evening, one finds classes of boys or girls being catechised and instructed by priests and nuns. the visitor on pushing open the swing door of an entrance will frequently be met by a monotonous voice that echoes through the apparently empty church. as he slowly takes his way along an aisle, the voice will cease, and suddenly break out in a simple but loudly sung gregorian air, soon joined by a score or more of childish voices; then, as the stranger comes abreast of a side chapel, he causes a grave distraction among the rows of round, closely cropped heads. the rather nasal voice from the sallow figure in the cassock rises higher, and as the echoing footsteps of the person who does nothing but stare about him become more and more distant, the sing-song tune grows in volume once more, and the rows of little french boys are again in the way of becoming good catholics. in another side chapel the confessional box bears a large white card on which is printed in bold letters, "m. le cure." he is on duty at the present time, for, from behind the curtained lattices, the stranger hears a soft mumble of words, and he is constrained to move silently towards the patch of blazing whiteness that betokens the free air and sunshine without. the cheerful clatter of the traffic on the cobbles is typical of all the towns of normandy, as it is of the whole republic, but caen has reduced this form of noise by exchanging its omnibuses, that always suggested trams that had left the rails, for swift electric trams that only disturb the streets by their gongs. in rouen, the electric cars, which the britisher rejoices to discover were made in england--the driver being obliged to read the positions of his levers in english--are a huge boon to everyone who goes sight-seeing in that city. being swept along in a smoothly running car is certainly preferable to jolting one's way over the uneven paving on a bicycle, but it is only in the largest towns that one has such a choice. although the only road that is depicted in this book is as straight as any built by the romans and is bordered by poplars, it is only one type of the great _routes nationales_ that connect the larger towns. in the hilly parts of normandy the poplar bordered roads entirely disappear, and however straight the engineers may have tried to make their ways, they have been forced to give them a zig-zag on the steep slopes that breaks up the monotony of the great perspectives so often to be seen stretching away for great distances in front and behind. it must not be imagined that normandy is without the usual winding country road where every bend has beyond it some possibilities in the way of fresh views. an examination of a good road map of the country will show that although the straight roads are numerous, there are others that wind and twist almost as much as the average english turnpike. as a rule, the _route nationale_ is about the same width as most main roads, but it has on either side an equal space of grass. this is frequently scraped off by the cantoniers, and the grass is placed in great piles ready for removal. when these have been cleared away the thoroughfare is of enormous width, and in case of need, regiments could march in the centre with artillery on one side, and a supply train on the other, without impeding one another. level crossings for railways are more frequent than bridges. the gates are generally controlled by women in the family sort of fashion that one sees at the lodge of an english park where a right-of-way exists, and yet accidents do not seem to happen. the railways of normandy are those of the chemin de fer de l'ouest, and one soon becomes familiar with the very low platforms of the stations that are raised scarcely above the rails. the porters wear blue smocks and trousers of the same material, secured at the waist by a belt of perpendicular red and black stripes. the railway carriages have always two foot-boards, and the doors besides the usual handles have a second one half-way down the panels presumably for additional security. it is really in the nature of a bolt that turns on a pivot and falls into a bracket. on the doors, the class of the carriages is always marked in heavy roman numerals. the third-class compartments have windows only in the doors, are innocent of any form of cushions and are generally only divided half-way up. the second and first-class compartments are always much better and will bear comparison with those of the best english railways, whereas the usual third-class compartment is of that primitive type abandoned twenty or more years ago, north of the channel. the locomotives are usually dirty and black with outside cylinders, and great drum-shaped steam-domes. they seem to do the work that is required of them efficiently, although if one is travelling in a third-class compartment the top speed seems extraordinarily slow. the railway officials handle bicycles with wonderful care, and this is perhaps remarkable when we realize that french railways carry them any distance simply charging a penny for registration. the hotels of normandy are not what they were twenty years ago. improvements in sanitation have brought about most welcome changes, so that one can enter the courtyard of most hotels without being met by the aggressive odours that formerly jostled one another for space. when you realize the very large number of english folk who annually pass from town to town in normandy it may perhaps be wondered why the proprietors of hotels do not take the trouble to prepare a room that will answer to the drawing-room of an english hotel. after dinner in france, a lady has absolutely no choice between a possible seat in the courtyard and her bedroom, for the estaminet generally contains a group of noisy frenchmen, and even if it is vacant the room partakes too much of the character of a bar-parlour to be suitable for ladies. except in the large hotels in rouen i have only found one which boasts of any sort of room besides the estaminet; it was the hotel des trois marie at argentan. when this defect has been remedied, i can imagine that english people will tour in normandy more than they do even at the present time. the small washing basin and jug that apologetically appears upon the bedroom washstand has still an almost universal sway, and it is not sufficiently odd to excuse itself on the score of picturesqueness. under that heading come the tiled floors in the bedrooms, the square and mountainous eiderdowns that recline upon the beds, and the matches that take several seconds to ignite and leave a sulphurous odour that does not dissipate itself for several minutes. chapter ii by the banks of the seine if you come to normandy from southampton, france is entered at the mouth of the seine and you are at once introduced to some of the loveliest scenery that normandy possesses. the headland outside havre is composed of ochreish rock which appears in patches where the grass will not grow. the heights are occupied by no less than three lighthouses only one of which is now in use. as the ship gets closer, a great spire appears round the cliff in the silvery shimmer of the morning haze and then a thousand roofs reflect the sunlight. there are boats from havre that take passengers up the winding river to rouen and in this way much of the beautiful scenery may be enjoyed. by this means, however, the country appears as only a series of changing pictures and to see anything of the detail of such charming places as caudebec, and lillebonne, or the architectural features of tancarville castle and the abbey of jumieges, the road must be followed instead of the more leisurely river. havre with its great docks, its busy streets, and fast electric tramcars that frighten away foot passengers with noisy motor horns does not compel a very long stay, although one may chance to find much interest among the shipping, when such vessels as mr vanderbilt's magnificent steam yacht, without a mark on its spotless paint, is lying in one of the inner basins. if you wander up and down some of the old streets by the harbour you will find more than one many-storied house with shutters brightly painted, and dormers on its ancient roof. the church of notre dame in the rue de paris has a tower that was in earlier times a beacon, and it was here that three brothers named raoulin who had been murdered by the governor villars in , are buried. on the opposite side of the estuary of the seine, lies honfleur with its extraordinary church tower that stands in the market-place quite detached from the church of st catherine to which it belongs. it is entirely constructed of timber and has great struts supporting the angles of its walls. the houses along the quay have a most paintable appearance, their overhanging floors and innumerable windows forming a picturesque background to the fishing-boats. harfleur, on the same side of the river as havre, is on the road to tancarville. we pass through it on our way to caudebec. the great spire of the church, dating from the fifteenth century, rears itself above this ancient port where the black-sailed ships of the northmen often appeared in the early days before rollo had forced charles the simple (he should have been called "the straightforward") to grant him the great tract of french territory that we are now about to explore. the seine, winding beneath bold cliffs on one side and along the edge of flat, rich meadowlands on the other, comes near the magnificent ruin of tancarville castle whose walls enclose an eighteenth century chateau. the situation on an isolated chalk cliff one hundred feet high was more formidable a century ago than it is to-day, for then the seine ran close beneath the forbidding walls, while now it has changed its course somewhat. the entrance to the castle is approached under the shadow of the great circular corner tower that stands out so boldly at one extremity of the buildings, and the gate house has on either side semi-circular towers fifty-two feet in height. above the archway there are three floors sparingly lighted by very small windows, one to each storey. they point out the first floor as containing the torture chamber, and in the towers adjoining are the hopelessly strong prisons. the iron bars are still in the windows and in one instance the positions of the rings to which the prisoners were chained are still visible. there are still floors in the eagle's tower that forms the boldest portion of the castle, and it is a curious feature that the building is angular inside although perfectly cylindrical on the exterior. near the chateau you may see the ruined chapel and the remains of the salle des chevaliers with its big fireplace. then higher than the entrance towers is the tour coquesart built in the fifteenth century and having four storeys with a fireplace in each. the keep is near this, but outside the present castle and separated from it by a moat. the earliest parts of the castle all belong to the eleventh century, but so much destruction was wrought by henry v. in that the greater part of the ruins belong to a few years after that date. the name of tancarville had found a place among the great families of england before the last of the members of this distinguished french name lost his life at the battle of agincourt. the heiress of the family married one of the harcourts and eventually the possessions came into the hands of dunois the bastard of orleans. from tancarville there is a road that brings you down to that which runs from quilleboeuf, and by it one is soon brought to the picturesquely situated little town of lillebonne, famous for its roman theatre. it was the capital of the caletes and was known as juliabona, being mentioned in the iters of antoninus. the theatre is so well known that no one has difficulty in finding it, and compared to most of the roman remains in england, it is well worth seeing. the place held no fewer than three thousand people upon the semi-circular tiers of seats that are now covered with turf. years ago, there was much stone-work to be seen, but this has largely disappeared, and it is only in the upper portions that many traces of mason's work are visible. a passage runs round the upper part of the theatre and the walls are composed of narrow stones that are not much larger than bricks. the great castle was built by william the norman, and it was here that he gathered together his barons to mature and work out his project which made him afterwards william the conqueror. it will be natural to associate the fine round tower of the castle with this historic conference, but unfortunately, it was only built in the fourteenth century. from more than one point of view lillebonne makes beautiful pictures, its roofs dominated by the great tower of the parish church as well as by the ruins of the castle. we have lost sight of the seine since we left tancarville, but a ten-mile run brings us to the summit of a hill overlooking caudebec and a great sweep of the beautiful river. the church raises its picturesque outline against the rolling white clouds, and forms a picture that compels admiration. on descending into the town, the antiquity and the quaintness of sixteenth century houses greet you frequently, and you do not wonder that caudebec has attracted so many painters. there is a wide quay, shaded by an avenue of beautiful trees, and there are views across the broad, shining waters of the seine, which here as in most of its length attracts us by its breadth. the beautiful chalk hills drop steeply down to the water's edge on the northern shores in striking contrast to the flatness of the opposite banks. on the side of the river facing caudebec, the peninsula enclosed by the windings of the seine includes the great forest of brotonne, and all around the town, the steep hills that tumble picturesquely on every side, are richly clothed with woods, so that with its architectural delights within, and its setting of forest, river and hill, caudebec well deserves the name it has won for itself in england as well as in france. just off the road to rouen from caudebec and scarcely two miles away, is st wandrille, situated in a charming hollow watered by the fontanelle, a humble tributary of the great river. in those beautiful surroundings stand the ruins of the abbey church, almost entirely dating from the thirteenth century. much destruction was done during the revolution, but there is enough of the south transept and nave still in existence to show what the complete building must have been. in the wonderfully preserved cloister which is the gem of st wandrille, there are some beautiful details in the doorway leading from the church, and there is much interest in the refectory and chapter house. down in the piece of country included in a long and narrow loop of the river stand the splendid ruins of the abbey of jumieges with its three towers that stand out so conspicuously over the richly wooded country. when you get to the village and are close to the ruins of the great benedictine abbey, you are not surprised that it was at one time numbered amongst the richest and most notable of the monastic foundations. the founder was st philibert, but whatever the buildings which made their appearance in the seventh century may have been, is completely beyond our knowledge, for jumieges was situated too close to the seine to be overlooked by the harrying ship-loads of pirates from the north, who in the year demolished everything. william longue-epee, son of rollo the great leader of these northmen, curiously enough commenced the rebuilding of the abbey, and it was completed in the year of the english conquest. nearly the whole of the nave and towers present a splendid example of early norman architecture, and it is much more inspiring to look upon the fine west front of this ruin than that of st etienne at caen which has an aspect so dull and uninspiring. the great round arches of the nave are supported by pillars which have the early type of capital distinguishing eleventh century work. the little chapel of st pierre adjoining the abbey church is particularly interesting on account of the western portion which includes some of that early work built in the first half of the tenth century by william longue-epee. the tombstone of nicholas lerour, the abbot who was among the judges by whom the saintly joan of arc was condemned to death, is to be seen with others in the house which now serves as a museum. associated with the same tragedy is another tombstone, that of agnes sorel, the mistress of charles vii., that heartless king who made no effort to save the girl who had given him his throne. jumieges continued to be a perfectly preserved abbey occupied by its monks and hundreds of persons associated with them until scarcely more than a century ago. it was then allowed to go to complete ruin, and no restrictions seem to have been placed upon the people of the neighbourhood who as is usual under such circumstances, used the splendid buildings as a storehouse of ready dressed stone. making our way back to the highway, we pass through beautiful scenery, and once more reach the banks of the seine at the town of duclair which stands below the escarpment of chalk hills. there are wharves by the river-side which give the place a thriving aspect, for a considerable export trade is carried on in dairy produce. after following the river-side for a time, the road begins to cut across the neck of land between two bends of the seine. it climbs up towards the forest of roumare and passes fairly close to the village of st martin de boscherville where the church of st george stands out conspicuously on its hillside. this splendid norman building is the church of the abbey built in the middle of the eleventh century by raoul de tancarville who was william's chamberlain at the time of the conquest of england. the abbey buildings are now in ruins but the church has remained almost untouched during the eight centuries and more which have passed during which normandy was often bathed in blood, and when towns and castles were sacked two or three times over. when the forest of roumare, has been left behind, you come to canteleu, a little village that stands at the top of a steep hill, commanding a huge view over rouen, the historic capital of normandy. you can see the shipping lying in the river, the factories, the spire of the cathedral, and the many church towers as well as the light framework of the modern moving bridge. this is the present day representative of the fantastic mediaeval city that witnessed the tragedy of joan of arc's trial and martyrdom. we will pass rouen now, returning to it again in the next chapter. the river for some distance becomes frequently punctuated with islands. large extents of forest including those of rouvray, bonde and elbeuf, spread themselves over the high ground to the west. the view from above elbeuf in spite of its many tall chimney shafts includes such a fine stretch of fertile country that the scene is not easily forgotten. following the windings of the river through pont-de-l'arche and the forest of louviers we come to that pleasant old town; but although close to the seine, it stands on the little river eure. louviers remains in the memory as a town whose church is more crowded with elaborately carved stone-work than any outside rouen. there is something rather odd, in the close juxtaposition of the hotel mouton d'argent with its smooth plastered front and the almost overpowering mass of detail that faces it on the other side of the road. there is something curious, too, in the severe plainness of the tower that almost suggests the unnecessarily shabby clothing worn by some men whose wives are always to be seen in the most elaborate and costly gowns. internally the church shows its twelfth century origin, but all the intricate stone-work outside belongs to the fifteenth century. the porch which is, if possible, richer than the buttresses of the aisles, belongs to the flamboyant period, and actually dates from the year . in the clerestory there is much sixteenth century glass and the aisles which are low and double give a rather unusual appearance. the town contains several quaint and ancient houses, one of them supported by wooden posts projects over the pavement, another at the corner of the marche des oeufs has a very rich though battered piece of carved oak at the angle of the walls. it seems as if it had caught the infection of the extraordinary detail of the church porch. down by the river there are many timber-framed houses with their foundations touching the water, with narrow wooden bridges crossing to the warehouses that line the other side. the place de rouen has a shady avenue of limes leading straight down to a great house in a garden beyond which rise wooded hills. towards the river runs another avenue of limes trimmed squarely on top. these are pleasant features of so many french towns that make up for some of the deficiencies in other matters. we could stay at louviers for some time without exhausting all its attractions, but ten miles away at the extremity of another deep loop of the seine there stands the great and historic chateau-gaillard that towers above le petit-andely, the pretty village standing invitingly by a cleft in the hills. the road we traverse is that which appears so conspicuously in turner's great painting of the chateau-gaillard. it crosses the bridge close under the towering chalk cliffs where the ruin stands so boldly. there is a road that follows the right bank of the river close to the railway, and it is from there that one of the strangest views of the castle is to be obtained. you may see it thrown up by a blaze of sunlight against the grassy heights behind that are all dark beneath the shadow of a cloud. the stone of the towers and heavily buttressed walls appears almost as white as the chalk which crops out in the form of cliffs along the river-side. an island crowded with willows that overhang the water partially hides the village of le petit-andely, and close at hand above the steep slopes of grass that rise from the roadway tower great masses of gleaming white chalk projecting from the vivid turf as though they were the worn ruins of other castles. the whiteness is only broken by the horizontal lines of flints and the blue-grey shadows that fill the crevices. from the hill above the chateau there is another and even more striking view. it is the one that appears in turner's picture just mentioned, and gives one some idea of the magnificent position that richard coeur de lion chose, when in he decided to build an impregnable fortress on this bend of the seine. it was soon after his return from captivity which followed the disastrous crusade that richard commenced to show philippe auguste that he was determined to hold his french possessions with his whole strength. philippe had warned john when the news of the release of the lion-hearted king from captivity had become known, that "the devil was unchained," and the building of this castle showed that richard was making the most of his opportunities. the french king was, with some justification, furious with his neighbour, for richard had recently given his word not to fortify this place, and some fierce fighting would have ensued on top of the threats which the monarchs exchanged, but for the death of the english king in . when john assumed the crown of england, however, philippe soon found cause to quarrel with him, and thus the great siege of the castle was only postponed for three or four years. the french king brought his army across the peninsula formed by the seine, and having succeeded in destroying the bridge beneath the castle, he constructed one for himself with boats and soon afterwards managed to capture the island, despite its strong fortifications. the leader of the english garrison was the courageous roger de lacy, constable of chester. from his knowledge of the character of his new king, de lacy would have expected little assistance from the outside and would have relied upon his own resources to defend richard's masterpiece. john made one attempt to succour the garrison. he brought his army across the level country and essayed to destroy the bridge of boats constructed by the french. this one effort proving unsuccessful he took no other measures to distract the besieging army, and left roger de lacy to the undivided attention of the frenchmen. then followed a terrible struggle. the french king succeeded in drawing his lines closer to the castle itself and eventually obtained possession of the outer fortifications and the village of le petit-andely, from which the inhabitants fled to the protection of the castle. the governor had no wish to have all his supplies consumed by non-combatants, and soon compelled these defenceless folk to go out of the protection of his huge walls. at first the besiegers seemed to have allowed the people to pass unmolested, but probably realizing the embarrassment they would have been to the garrison, they altered their minds, and drove most of them back to the castle. here they gained a reception almost as hostile as that of the enemy, and after being shot down by the arrows of the french they remained for days in a starving condition in a hollow between the hostile lines. here they would all have died of hunger, but philippe at last took pity on the terrible plight of these defenceless women and children and old folks, and having allowed them a small supply of provisions they were at last released from their ghastly position. such a tragedy as this lends terrible pathos to the grassy steeps and hollows surrounding the chateau and one may almost be astonished that such callousness could have existed in these days of chivalry. the siege was continued with rigour and a most strenuous attack was made upon the end of the castle that adjoined the high ground that overlooks the ruins. with magnificent courage the frenchmen succeeded in mining the walls, and having rushed into the breach they soon made themselves masters of the outer courtyard. continuing the assault, a small party of intrepid soldiers gained a foothold within the next series of fortifications, causing the english to retreat to the inner courtyard dominated by the enormous keep. despite the magnificent resistance offered by de lacy's men the besiegers raised their engines in front of the gate, and when at last they had forced an entry they contrived a feat that almost seems incredible--they cut off the garrison from their retreat to the keep. thus this most famous of castles fell within half a dozen years of its completion. in the hundred years' war the chateau-gaillard was naturally one of the centres of the fiercest fighting, and the pages of history are full of references to the sieges and captures of the fortress, proving how even with the most primitive weapons these ponderous and unscalable walls were not as impregnable as they may have seemed to the builders. like the abbey of jumieges, this proud structure became nothing more than a quarry, for in the seventeenth century permission was given to two religious houses, one at le petit-andely and the other at le grand-andely to take whatever stone-work they required for their monastic establishments. records show how more damage would have been done to the castle but for the frequent quarrels between these two religious houses as to their rights over the various parts of the ruins. when you climb up to the ruined citadel and look out of the windows that are now battered and shapeless, you can easily feel how the heart of the bold richard must have swelled within him when he saw how his castle dominated an enormous belt of country. but you cannot help wondering whether he ever had misgivings over the unwelcome proximity of the chalky heights that rise so closely above the site of the ruin. we ourselves, are inclined to forget these questions of military strength in the serene beauty of the silvery river flowing on its serpentine course past groups of poplars, rich pastures dotted with cattle, forest lands and villages set amidst blossoming orchards. down below are the warm chocolate-red roofs of the little town that has shared with the chateau its good and evil fortunes. the church with its slender spire occupies the central position, and it dates from precisely the same years as those which witnessed the advent of the fortress above. the little streets of the town are full of quaint timber-framed houses, and it is not surprising that this is one of the spots by the beautiful banks of the seine that has attained a name for its picturesqueness. with scarcely any perceptible division le grand-andely joins the smaller village. it stands higher in the valley and is chiefly memorable for its beautiful inn, the hotel du grand cerf. it is opposite the richly ornamented stone-work of the church of notre dame and dates chiefly from the sixteenth century. the hall contains a great fireplace, richly ornamented with a renaissance frieze and a fine iron stove-back. the courtyard shows carved timbers and in front the elaborate moulding beneath the eaves is supported by carved brackets. unlike that old hostelry at dives which is mentioned in another chapter, this hotel is not over restored, although in the days of a past proprietor the house contained a great number of antiques and its fame attracted many distinguished visitors, including sir walter scott and victor hugo. in writing of the hotel i am likely to forget the splendid painted glass in the church, but details of the stories told in these beautiful works of the sixteenth century are given in all good guides. there is a pleasant valley behind les andelys running up towards the great plateau that occupies such an enormous area of this portion of normandy. the scenery as you go along the first part of the valley, through the little village of harquency with its tiny norman church, and cottages with thatched roofs all velvety with moss, is very charming. the country is entirely hedge-less, but as you look down upon the rather thirsty-looking valley below the road, the scenery savours much of kent; the chalky fields, wooded uplands and big, picturesque farms suggesting some of the agricultural districts of the english county. when we join the broad and straight national road running towards gisors we have reached the tableland just mentioned. there are perhaps, here and there, a group of stately elms, breaking the broad sweep of arable land that extends with no more undulations for many leagues than those of a sheet of old-fashioned glass. the horizon is formed by simply the same broad fields, vanishing in a thin, blue line over the rim of the earth. [illustration: the fortified farm near gisors] at les thilliers, a small hamlet that, owing to situation at cross-roads figures conspicuously upon the milestones of the neighbourhood, the road to gisors goes towards the east, and after crossing the valley of the epte, you run down an easy gradient, passing a fine fortified farm-house with circular towers at each corner of its four sides and in a few minutes have turned into the historic old town of gisors. it is as picturesque as any place in normandy with the exception of mont st michel. the river epte gliding slowly through its little canals at the sides of some of the streets, forms innumerable pictures when reflecting the quaint houses and gardens whose walls are generally grown over with creepers. near the ascent to the castle is one of the washing places where the women let their soap suds float away on the translucent water as they scrub vigorously. they kneel upon a long wooden platform sheltered by a charming old roof supported upon a heavy timber framework that is a picture in itself. if you stay at the hotel de l'ecu de france you are quite close to the castle that towers upon its hill right in the middle of the town. most people who come to gisors are surprised to find how historic is its castle, and how many have been the conflicts that have taken place around it. the position between rouen and paris and on the frontier of the duchy gave it an importance in the days of the norman kings that led to the erection of a most formidable stronghold. in the eleventh century, when william rufus was on the throne of england, he made the place much stronger. both henry i. and henry ii. added to its fortifications so that gisors became in time as formidable a castle as the chateau gaillard. during the hundred years' war, gisors, which is often spoken of as the key to normandy, after fierce struggles had become french. then again, a determined assault would leave the flag of england fluttering upon its ramparts until again the frenchmen would contrive to make themselves masters of the place. and so these constant changes of ownership went on until at last about the year , a date which we shall find associated with the fall of every english stronghold in normandy, gisors surrendered to charles vii. and has remained french ever since. the outer baileys are defended by some great towers of massive norman masonry from which you look all over the town and surrounding country. but within the inner courtyard rises a great mound dominated by the keep which you may still climb by a solid stone staircase. from here the view is very much finer than from the other towers and its commanding position would seem to give the defenders splendid opportunities for tiring out any besieging force. the concierge of the castle, a genial old woman of gipsy-like appearance takes you down to the fearful dungeon beneath one of the great towers on the eastern side, known as the tour des prisonniers. here you may see the carvings in the stone-work executed by some of the prisoners who had been cast into this black abyss. these carvings include representations of crucifixes, st christopher, and many excellently conceived and patiently wrought figures of other saints. we have already had a fine view of the splendid renaissance exterior of the church which is dedicated to the saints gervais and protais. the choir is the earliest part of the building. it belongs to the thirteenth century, while the nave and most of the remaining portions date from the fifteenth or sixteenth century. it is a building of intense architectural interest and to some extent rivals the castle in the attention it deserves. chapter iii concerning rouen, the ancient capital of normandy when whole volumes have been written on rouen it would be idle to attempt even a fragment of its history in a book of this nature. but all who go to rouen should know something of its story in order to be able to make the most of the antiquities that the great city still retains. how much we would give to have an opportunity for seeing the rouen which has vanished, for to-day as we walk along the modern streets there is often nothing to remind us of the centuries crowded with momentous events that have taken place where now the electric cars sweep to and fro and do their best to make one forget the rouen of mediaeval times. of course, no one goes to the city expecting to find ancient walls and towers, or a really strong flavour of the middle ages, any more than one expects to obtain such impressions in the city of london. rouen, however, contains sufficient relics of its past to convey a powerful impression upon the minds of all who have strong imaginations. there is the cathedral which contains the work of many centuries; there is the beautiful and inspiring church of st ouen; there is the archway of the grosse horloge; there is the crypt of the church of st gervais, that dates from the dim fifth century; and there are still in the narrow streets between the cathedral and the quays along the river-side, many tall, overhanging houses, whose age appears in the sloping wall surfaces and in the ancient timbers that show themselves under the eaves and between the plaster-work. two of the most attractive views in rouen are illustrated here. one of them shows the portail de la calende of the cathedral appearing at the end of a narrow street of antique, gabled houses, while overhead towers the stupendous fleche that forms the most prominent feature of rouen. the other is the grosse horloge and if there had been space for a third it would have shown something of the interior of the church of st ouen. the view of the city from the hill of bon secours forms another imposing feature, but i think that it hardly equals what we have already seen on the road from caudebec. when you come out of the railway station known as the _rive droite_ a short street leads up to one of the most important thoroughfares, the rue jeanne d'arc. it is perfectly straight and contains nothing in it that is not perfectly modern, but at the highest point you may see a marble tablet affixed to a wall. it bears a representation in the form of a gilded outline of the castle towers as they stood in the time of the maid of orleans, and a short distance behind this wall, but approached from another street, there still remains the keep of rouen's historic castle. the circular tower contains the room which you may see to-day where joan was brought before her judges and the instruments of torture by which the saintly maiden was to be frightened into giving careless answers to the questions with which she was plied by her clever judges. this stone vaulted room, although restored, is of thrilling interest to those who have studied the history of joan of arc, for, as we are told by mr theodore cook in his "story of rouen," these are the only walls which are known to have echoed with her voice. those who have made a careful study of the ancient houses in the older streets of rouen have been successful in tracing other buildings associated with the period of joan of arc's trial. the rue st romain, that narrow and not very salubrious thoroughfare that runs between the rue de la republique and the west front of the cathedral, has still some of the old canons' lodgings where some of the men who judged joan of arc actually lived. among them, was canon guillaume le desert who outlived all his fellow judges. there is still to be seen the house where lived the architect who designed the palace for henry v. near mal s'y frotte. mr cook mentions that he has discovered a record which states that the iron cage in which joan of arc was chained by her hands, feet and neck was seen by a workman in this very house. in the quaint and narrow streets that are still existing near the rue st romain, many strange-looking houses have survived to the present day. they stand on the site of the earliest nucleus of the present city, and it is in this neighbourhood that one gets most in touch with the rouen that has so nearly vanished. in this interesting portion of the city you come across the marvellously rich grosse horloge already mentioned. a casual glance would give one the impression that the structure was no older than the seventeenth century, but the actual date of its building is , and the clock itself dates from about , and is as old as any in france. the dial you see to-day is brilliantly coloured and has a red centre while the elaborate decoration that covers nearly the whole surface of the walls is freely gilded, giving an exceedingly rich appearance. the two fourteenth century bells, one known as la rouvel or the silver bell on account of the legend that silver coins were thrown into the mould when it was cast, and the other known as cache-ribaut, are still in the tower, la rouvel being still rung for a quarter of an hour at nine o'clock in the evening. it is the ancient curfew, and the tower de la grosse horloge is nothing more than the historic belfry of rouen, although one might imagine by the way it stands over the street on an elliptical arch, that it had formed one of the gates of the city. at the foot of the belfry is one of those richly sculptured fountains that are to be seen in two or three places in the older streets. the carving is very much blackened with age, and the detail is not very easily discernible, but a close examination will show that the story of arethusa, and alpheus, the river-god, is portrayed. the fountain was given to rouen by the duke of luxembourg early in the eighteenth century. adjoining the imposing rue jeanne d'arc is the fine gothic palais de justice, part of which was built by louis xii. in the year , the central portion being added by leroux, sixteen years later. these great buildings were put up chiefly for the uses of the echiquier--the supreme court of the duchy at that time--but it was also to be used as an exchange for merchants who before this date had been in the habit of transacting much of their business in the cathedral. the historic hall where the echiquier met is still to be seen. the carved oak of the roof has great gilded pendants that stand out against the blackness of the wood-work, and the crucifixion presented by louis xii. may be noticed among the portraits in the chambre du conseille. the earliest portions of the great cathedral of notre dame date from the twelfth century, the north tower showing most palpably the transition from norman work to the early french style of gothic. by the year when louis ix. came to rouen to spend christmas, the choir, transepts and nave of the cathedral, almost as they may be seen to-day, had been completed. the chapel to st mary did not make its appearance for some years, and the side _portails_ were only added in the fifteenth century. the elaborate work on the west front belongs to the century following, and although the ideas of modern architects have varied as to this portion of the cathedral, the consensus of opinion seems to agree that it is one of the most perfect examples of the flamboyant style so prevalent in the churches of normandy. the detail of this masterpiece of the latest phase of gothic architecture is almost bewildering, but the ornament in every place has a purpose, so that the whole mass of detail has a reposeful dignity which can only have been retained by the most consummate skill. the canopied niches are in many instances vacant, but there are still rows of saints in the long lines of recesses. the rose window is a most perfect piece of work; it is filled with painted glass in which strong blues and crimsons are predominant. above the central tower known as the tour de pierre, that was built partially in the thirteenth century, there rises the astonishing iron spire that is one of the highest in the world. its weight is enormous despite the fact that it is merely an open framework. the architect of this masterly piece of work whose name was alavoine seems to have devoted himself with the same intensity as barry, to whom we owe the royal courts of justice in london, for he worked upon it from , the year following the destruction of the wooden spire by lightning, until , the year of his death. the spire, however, which was commenced almost immediately after the loss of the old one, remained incomplete for over forty years and it was not entirely finished until . the flight of eight hundred and twelve steps that is perfectly safe for any one with steady nerves goes right up inside the spire until, as you look out between the iron framework, rouen lies beneath your feet, a confused mass of detail cut through by the silver river. the tower of st romain is on the north side of the cathedral. it was finished towards the end of the fifteenth century, but the lower portion is of very much earlier date for it is the only portion of the cathedral that was standing when richard i. on his way to the holy land knelt before archbishop gautier to receive the sword and banner which he carried with him to the crusade. the tour de beurre is on the southern side--its name being originated in connection with those of the faithful who during certain lents paid for indulgences in order to be allowed to eat butter. it was commenced in , and took twenty-two years to complete. in this great tower there used to hang a famous bell. it was called the georges d'amboise after the great cardinal to whom rouen owes so much, not only as builder of the tower and the facade, but also as the originator of sanitary reforms and a thousand other benefits for which the city had reason to be grateful. the great bell was no less than feet in circumference, its weight being , lbs. the man who succeeded in casting it, whose name was jean le machon, seems to have been so overwhelmed at his success that scarcely a month later he died. at last when louis xvi. came to rouen, they rang georges d'amboise so loudly that a crack appeared, and a few years later, during the revolution, le machon's masterpiece was melted down for cannon. inside the cathedral there are, besides the glories of the splendid gothic architecture, the tombs of henry plantagenet, the eldest son of henry ii., and richard i. there are also the beautifully carved miserere seats in the choir which are of particular interest in the way they illustrate many details of daily life in the fifteenth century. the stone figure representing richard coeur de lion lies outside the railings of the sanctuary. the heart of the king which has long since fallen into dust is contained in a casket that is enclosed in the stone beneath the effigy. the figure of henry plantagenet is not the original--you may see that in the museum, which contains so many fascinating objects that are associated with the early history of rouen. the splendid sixteenth century monument of the two cardinals d'amboise is to be seen in the chapelle de la sainte vierge. the kneeling figures in the canopied recess represent the two cardinals--that on the right, which is said to be a very good portrait, represents the famous man who added so much to the cathedral--the one on the left shows his nephew, the second cardinal georges d'amboise. in the middle of the recess there is a fine sculpture showing st george and the dragon, and most of the other surfaces of the tomb are composed of richly ornamented niches, containing statuettes of saints, bishops, the virgin and child, and the twelve apostles. another remarkable tomb is that of louis de breze, considered to be one of the finest specimens of renaissance work. it is built in two storeys--the upper one showing a thrilling representation of the knight in complete armour and mounted upon his war-horse, but upon the sarcophagus below he is shown with terrible reality as a naked corpse. the sculptor was possibly jean goujon, whose name is sometimes associated with the monument to the two cardinals, which is of an earlier date. the tomb of rollo, the founder of the duchy of normandy, and the first of the normans to embrace the christian religion, lies in a chapel adjoining the south transept. the effigy belongs to the fourteenth century, but the marble tablet gives an inscription which may be translated as follows: "here lies rollo, the first duke and founder and father of normandy, of which he was at first the terror and scourge, but afterwards the restorer. baptised in by francon, archbishop of rouen, and died in . his remains were at first deposited in the ancient sanctuary, at present the upper end of the nave. the altar having been removed, the remains of the prince were placed here by the blessed maurille, archbishop of rouen in the year ." the effigy of william longsword, rollo's son, is in another chapel of the nave, that adjoining the north transept. his effigy, like that of his father, dates from the fourteenth century. it is in surroundings of this character that we are brought most in touch with the rouen of our imaginations. we have already in a preceding chapter seen something of the interior of the church of st ouen, which to many is more inspiring than the cathedral. the original church belonged to the abbey of st ouen, established in the reign of clothaire i. when the northmen came sailing up the river, laying waste to everything within their reach, the place was destroyed, but after rollo's conversion to christianity the abbey was renovated, and in a new church was commenced, which having taken about eighty years to complete was almost immediately burnt down. another fire having taken place a century later, jean roussel, who was abbot in , commenced this present building. it was an enormous work to undertake but yet within twenty-one years the choirs and transepts were almost entirely completed. this great abbot was buried in the mary chapel behind the high altar. on the tomb he is called marc d'argent and the date of his death is given as december , . after this the building of the church went on all through the century. the man who was master mason in this period was alexandre barneval, but he seems to have become jealous of an apprentice who built the rose window that is still such a splendid feature of the north transept, for in a moment of passion he killed the apprentice and for this crime was sentenced to death in the year . st ouen was completed in the sixteenth century, but the west front as it appears to-day has two spires which made their appearance in recent times. the exterior, however, is not the chief charm of st ouen; it is the magnificent interior, so huge and yet so inspiring, that so completely satisfies one's ideas of proportion. wherever you stand, the vistas of arches, all dark and gloomy, relieved here and there by a blaze of coloured glass, are so splendid that you cannot easily imagine anything finer. a notable feature of the aisles is the enormous space of glass covering the outer walls, so that the framework of the windows seems scarcely adequate to support the vaulted roof above. the central tower is supported by magnificent clustered piers of dark and swarthy masonry, and the views of these from the transepts or from the aisles of the nave make some of the finest pictures that are to be obtained in this masterpiece of gothic architecture. the tower that rises from the north transept belongs, it is believed, to the twelfth century church that was burnt. on the western front it is interesting to find statues of william the conqueror, henry ii. and richard coeur de lion among other dukes of normandy, and the most famous archbishops of rouen. besides the cathedral and st ouen there is the splendid church of st maclou. its western front suddenly appears, filling a gap in the blocks of modern shops on the right hand side as you go up the rue de la republic. the richness of the mass of carved stone-work arrests your attention, for after having seen the magnificent facade of the cathedral you would think the city could boast nothing else of such extraordinary splendour. the name maclou comes from scotland, for it was a member of this clan, who, having fled to brittany, became bishop of aleth and died in . since the tenth century a shrine to his memory had been placed outside the walls of rouen. the present building was designed by pierre robin and it dates from between and , but the present spire is modern, having replaced the old one about the time of the revolution. the richly carved doors of the west front are the work of jean goujon. the organ loft rests on two columns of black marble, which are also his work; but although the dim interior is full of interest and its rose windows blaze with fifteenth century glass, it is the west front and carved doors that are the most memorable features of the building. in the place du marche vieux you may see the actual spot where joan of arc was burnt, a stone on the ground bearing the words "jeanne darc, mai, ." to all who have really studied the life, the trial and the death of the maid of orleans--and surely no one should visit rouen without such knowledge--this is the most sacred spot in the city, for as we stand here we can almost hear her words addressed to cauchon, "it is you who have brought me to this death." we can see her confessor holding aloft the cross and we seem to hear her breathe the redeemer's name before she expires. chapter iv concerning the cathedral city of evreux and the road to bernay the tolling of the deep-toned bourdon in the cathedral tower reverberates over the old town of evreux as we pass along the cobbled streets. there is a yellow evening light overhead, and the painted stucco walls of the houses reflect the soft, glowing colour of the west. in the courtyard of the hotel du grand cerf, too, every thing is bathed in this beautiful light and the double line of closely trimmed laurels has not yet been deserted by the golden flood. but evreux does not really require a fine evening to make it attractive, although there is no town in existence that is not improved under such conditions. with the magnificent cathedral, the belfry, the norman church of st taurin and the museum, besides many quaint peeps by the much sub-divided river iton that flows through the town, there is sufficient to interest one even on the dullest of dull days. of all the cathedral interiors in normandy there are none that possess a finer or more perfectly proportioned nave than evreux, and if i were asked to point out the two most impressive interiors of the churches in this division of france i should couple the cathedral at evreux with st ouen at rouen. it was our own henry i. who having destroyed the previous building set to work to build a new one and it is his nave that we see to-day. the whole cathedral has since that time been made to reflect the changing ideals of the seven centuries that have passed. the west front belongs entirely to the renaissance period and the north transept is in the flamboyant style of the fifteenth century so much in evidence in normandy and so infrequent in england. the central tower with its tall steeple now encased in scaffolding was built in by cardinal balue, bishop of evreux and inventor of the fearful wooden cages in one of which the prisoner dubourg died at mont st michel. in most of the windows there is old and richly coloured glass; those in the chancel have stronger tones, but they all transform the shafts of light into gorgeous rainbow effects which stand out in wonderful contrast to the delicate, creamy white of the stone-work. pale blue banners are suspended in the chancel, and the groining above is coloured on each side of the bosses for a short distance, so that as one looks up the great sweep of the nave, the banners and the brilliant fifteenth century glass appear as vivid patches of colour beyond the uniform, creamy grey on either side. the norman towers at the west end of the cathedral are completely hidden in the mask of classical work planted on top of the older stone-work in the sixteenth century, and more recent restoration has altered some of the other features of the exterior. at the present day the process of restoration still goes on, but the faults of our grandfathers fortunately are not repeated. leaving the place parvis by the rue de l'horloge you come to the great open space in front of the hotel de ville and the theatre with the museum on the right, in which there are several roman remains discovered at vieil-evreux, among them being a bronze statue of jupiter stator. on the opposite side of the place stands the beautiful town belfry built at the end of the fifteenth century. there was an earlier one before that time, but i do not know whether it had been destroyed during the wars with the english, or whether the people of evreux merely raised the present graceful tower in place of the older one with a view to beautifying the town. the bell, which was cast in may have hung in the former structure, and there is some fascination in hearing its notes when one realises how these same sound waves have fallen on the ears of the long procession of players who have performed their parts within its hearing. a branch of the iton runs past the foot of the tower in canal fashion; it is backed by old houses and crossed by many a bridge, and helps to build up a suitable foreground to the beautiful old belfry, which seems to look across to the brand new hotel de ville with an injured expression. from the boulevard chambaudouin there is a good view of one side of the bishop's palace which lies on the south side of the cathedral, and is joined to it by a gallery and the remains of the cloister. the walls are strongly fortified, and in front of them runs a branch of one of the canals of the iton, that must have originally served as a moat. out towards the long straight avenue that runs out of the town in the direction of caen, there may be seen the norman church of st taurin. it is all that is left of the benedictine abbey that once stood here. many people who explore this interesting church fail to see the silver-gilt reliquary of the twelfth century that is shown to visitors who make the necessary inquiries. the richness of its enamels and the elaborate ornamentation studded with imitation gems that have replaced the real ones, makes this casket almost unique. many scenes from the life of the saint are shown in the windows of the choir of the church. they are really most interesting, and the glass is very beautiful. the south door must have been crowded with the most elaborate ornament, but the delicately carved stone-work has been hacked away and the thin pillars replaced by crude, uncarved chunks of stone. there is norman arcading outside the north transept as well as just above the floor in the north aisle. st taurin is a somewhat dilapidated and cob-webby church, but it is certainly one of the interesting features of evreux. instead of keeping on the road to caen after reaching the end of the great avenue just mentioned, we turn towards the south and soon enter pretty pastoral scenery. the cottages are almost in every instance thatched, with ridges plastered over with a kind of cobb mud. in the cracks in this curious ridging, grass seeds and all sorts of wild flowers are soon deposited, so that upon the roof of nearly every cottage there is a luxuriant growth of grass and flowers. in some cases yellow irises alone ornament the roofs, and they frequently grow on the tops of the walls that are treated in a similar fashion. a few miles out of evreux you pass a hamlet with a quaint little church built right upon the roadway with no churchyard or wall of any description. a few broken gravestones of quite recent date litter the narrow, dusty space between the north side of the church and the roadway. inside there is an untidy aspect to everything, but there are some windows containing very fine thirteenth century glass which the genial old cure shows with great delight, for it is said that they were intended for the cathedral at evreux, but by some chance remained in this obscure hamlet. the cure also points out the damage done to the windows by _socialistes_ at a recent date. by the roadside towards conches, there are magpies everywhere, punctuated by yellow hammers and nightingales. the cottages have thatch of a very deep brown colour over the hipped roofs, closely resembling those in the out-of-the-way parts of sussex. it a beautiful country, and the delightfully situated town of conches at the edge of its forest is well matched with its surroundings. in the middle of the day the inhabitants seem to entirely disappear from the sunny street, and everything has a placid and reposeful appearance as though the place revelled in its quaintness. backed by the dense masses of forest there is a sloping green where an avenue of great chestnuts tower above the long, low roof of the timber-framed cattle shelter. on the highest part of the hill stands the castle, whose round, central tower shows above the trees that grow thickly on the slopes of the hill. close to the castle is the graceful church, and beyond are the clustered roofs of the houses. a viaduct runs full tilt against the hill nearly beneath the church, and then the railway pierces the hill on its way towards bernay. the tall spire of the church of st foy is comparatively new, for the whole structure was rebuilt in the fifteenth century, but its stained glass is of exceptional interest. its richness of colour and the interest of the subjects indicate some unusually gifted artist, and one is not surprised to discover that they were designed by aldegrevers, who was trained by that great master albrecht dyrer. altogether there are twenty-one of these beautiful windows. seven occupy the eastern end of the apse and give scenes taken from the life of st foy. you can reach the castle by passing through the quaint archway of the hotel de ville, and then passing through the shady public garden you plunge into the dry moat that surrounds the fortified mound. there is not very much to see but what appears in a distant view of the town, and in many ways the outside groupings of the worn ruin and the church roofs and spire above the houses are better than the scenes in the town itself. the hotel croix blanche is a pleasant little house for dejeuner. everything is extremely simple and typical of the family methods of the small french inn, where excellent cooking goes along with many primitive usages. the cool salle-a-manger is reached through the general living-room and kitchen, which is largely filled with the table where you may see the proprietor and his family partaking of their own meals. there seems no room to cook anything at all, and yet when you are seated in the next room the daughter of the family, an attractive and neatly dressed girl, gracefully serves the most admirable courses, worthy and perhaps better than what one may expect to obtain in the best hotel in rouen. there is a road that passes right through the forest of conches towards rugles, but that must be left for another occasion if we are to see anything of the charms of beaumont-le-roger, the perfectly situated little town that lies half-way between conches and bernay. the long street of the town containing some very charming peeps as you go towards the church is really a terrace on the limestone hills that rises behind the houses on the right, and falls steeply on the left. spaces between the houses and narrow turnings give glimpses of the rich green country down below. from the lower level you see the rocky ridge above clothed in a profusion of trees. the most perfect picture in the town is from the river bank just by the bridge. in the foreground is the mirror-like stream that gives its own rendering of the scene that is built up above it. leaning upon a parapet of the bridge is a man with a rod who is causing tragedies in the life that teems beneath the glassy surface. beyond the bridge appear some quaint red roofs with one tower-like house with an overhanging upper storey. higher up comes the precipitous hill divided into terraces by the huge walls that surround the abbey buildings, and still higher, but much below the highest part of the hill, are the picturesque ruins of the abbey. on the summit of the ridge dominating all are the insignificant remains of the castle built by roger a la barbe, whose name survives in that of the town. his family were the founders of the abbey that flourished for several centuries, but finally, about a hundred years ago, the buildings were converted to the uses of a factory! spinning and weaving might have still been going on but for a big fire that destroyed the whole place. there was, however, a considerably more complete series of buildings left than we can see to-day, but scarcely more than fifty years ago the place was largely demolished for building materials. the view from the river rille is therefore the best the ruin can boast, for seen from that point the arches rise up against the green background as a stately ruin, and the tangled mass of weeds and debris are invisible. the entrance is most inviting. it is down at the foot of the cliff, and the archway with the steep ascent inside suggests all sorts of delights beyond, as it stands there just by the main street of the town. i was sorry afterwards, that i had accepted that hospitality, for with the exception of a group of merry children playing in an orchard and some big caves hollowed out of the foot of the cliff that rises still higher, i saw nothing but a jungle of nettles. this warning should not, however, suggest that beaumont-le-roger is a poor place to visit. not only is it a charming, i may say a fascinating spot to visit, but it is also a place in which to stay, for the longer you remain there the less do you like the idea of leaving. the church of st nicholas standing in the main street where it becomes much wider and forms a small place, is a beautiful old building whose mellow colours on stone-work and tiles glow vividly on a sunny afternoon. there is a great stone wall forming the side of the rocky platform that supports the building and the entrance is by steps that lead up to the west end. the tower belongs to the flamboyant period and high up on its parapet you may see a small statue of regulus who does duty as a "jack-smite-the-clock." just by the porch there leans against a wall a most ponderous grave slab which was made for the tomb of jehan du moustier a soldier of the fourteenth century who fought for that charles of navarre who was surnamed "the bad." the classic additions to the western part of the church seem strangely out of sympathy with the gargoyles overhead and the thirteenth century arcades of the nave, but this mixing up of styles is really more incongruous in description than in reality. when you have decided to leave beaumont-le-roger and have passed across the old bridge and out into the well-watered plain, the position of the little town suggests that of the village of pulborough in sussex, where a road goes downhill to a bridge and then crosses the rich meadowland where the river arun winds among the pastures in just the same fashion as the rille. at a bend in the road to bernay stands the village of serquigny. it is just at the edge of the forest of beaumont which we have been skirting, and besides having a church partially belonging to the twelfth century it has traces of a roman camp. all the rest of the way to bernay the road follows the railway and the river charentonne until the long--and when you are looking out for the hotel--seemingly endless street of bernay is reached. after the wonderful combination of charms that are flaunted by beaumont-le-roger it is possible to grumble at the plainer features of bernay, but there is really no reason to hurry out of the town for there is much quaint architecture to be seen, and near the hotel du lion d'or there is a house built right over the street resting on solid wooden posts. but more interesting than the domestic architecture are the remains of the abbey founded by judith of brittany very early in the eleventh century for it is probably one of the oldest romanesque remains in normandy. the church is cut up into various rooms and shops at the choir end, and there has been much indiscriminate ill-treatment of the ancient stone-work. much of the structure, including the plain round arches and square columns, is of the very earliest norman period, having been built in the first half of the eleventh century, but in later times classic ornament was added to the work of those shadowy times when the kingdom of normandy had not long been established. so much alteration in the styles of decoration has taken place in the building that it is possible to be certain of the date of only some portions of the structure. the hotel de ville now occupies part of the abbey buildings. at the eastern side of the town stands st croix, a fifteenth century church with a most spacious interior. there is much beautiful glass dating from three hundred years ago in the windows of the nave and transepts, but perhaps the feature which will be remembered most when other impressions have vanished, will be the finely carved statues belonging to the fourteenth century which were brought here from the abbey of bec. the south transept contains a monument to guillaume arvilarensis, an abbot of bec who died in . upon the great altar which is believed to have been brought from the abbey of bec, there are eight marble columns surrounding a small white marble figure of the child jesus. another church at bernay is that of notre dame de la couture. it has much fourteenth century work and behind the high altar there are five chapels, the centre one containing a copy of the "sacred image" of notre dame which stands by the column immediately to the right of the entrance. much more could be said of these three churches with their various styles of architecture extending from the very earliest period down to the classic work of the seventeenth century. but this is not the place for intricate descriptions of architectural detail which are chiefly useful in books which are intended for carrying from place to place. chapter v concerning lisieux and the romantic town of falaise lisieux is so rich in the curious timber-framed houses of the middle and later ages that there are some examples actually visible immediately outside the railway station whereas in most cases one usually finds an aggregation of uninteresting modern buildings. as you go towards the centre of the town the old houses, which have only been dotted about here and there, join hands and form whole streets of the most romantic and almost stage-like picturesqueness. the narrow street illustrated here is the rue aux fevres. its houses are astonishingly fine, and it forms--especially in the evening--a background suitable for any of the stirring scenes that took place in such grand old towns as lisieux in medieval days. this street is however, only one of several that reek of history. in the rue des boucheries and in the grande rue there are lovely overhanging gables and curious timber-framing that is now at any angle but what was originally intended. there is really so much individual quaintness in these houses that they deserve infinitely more than the scurry past them which so frequently is all their attractions obtain. the narrowness and fustiness of the rue aux fevres certainly hinder you from spending much time in examining the houses but there are two which deserve a few minutes' individual attention. one which has a very wide gable and the upper floors boarded is believed to be of very great antiquity, dating from as early a period as the thirteenth century. it is numbered thirty-three, and must not be confused with the richly ornamented manoir de francois i. the timber work of this house, especially of the two lower floors is covered with elaborate carving including curious animals and quaint little figures, and also the salamander of the royal house. for this reason the photographs sold in the shops label the house "manoir de la salamandre." the place is now fast going to ruin--a most pitiable sight and i for one, would prefer to see the place restored rather than it should be allowed to become so hopelessly dilapidated and rotten that the question of its preservation should come to be considered lightly. if the town authorities of lisieux chose to do so, they could encourage the townsfolk to enrich many of their streets by a judicious flaking off of the plaster which in so many cases tries to hide all the pleasant features of houses that have seen at least three centuries, but this sort of work when in the hands of only partially educated folk is liable to produce a worse state of affairs than if things had been left untouched. an example of what over-restoration can do, may be seen when we reach the beautiful old inn at dives. the two churches of lisieux are well fitted to their surroundings, and although st jacques has no graceful tower or fleche, the quaintness of its shingled belfry makes up for the lack of the more stately towers of st pierre. where the stone-work has stopped short the buttresses are roofed with the quaintest semi-circular caps, and over the clock there are two more odd-looking pepper boxes perched upon the steep slope that projects from the square belfry. over all there is a low pyramidal roof, stained with orange lichen and making a great contrast in colour to the weather-beaten stone-work down below. there are small patches of tiled roofing to the buttresses at the western ends of the aisles and these also add colour to this picturesque building. the great double flight of stone steps which lead to the imposing western door have balustrades filled with flamboyant tracery, but although the church is built up in this way, the floor in the interior is not level, for it slopes gently up towards the east. the building was commenced during the reign of louis xii. and not finished until nearly the end of the reign of francois i. it is therefore coeval with that richly carved house in the rue aux fevres. along the sides of the church there project a double row of thirsty-looking gargoyles--the upper ones having their shoulders supported by the mass of masonry supporting the flying buttresses. the interior is richer than the exterior, and you may see on some of the pillars remains of sixteenth century paintings. a picture dating from occupies a position in the chapel of st ursin in the south aisle; it shows the relic of the saint being brought to lisieux in . the wide and sunny place thiers is dominated by the great church of st pierre, which was left practically in its present form in the year . the first church was begun some years before the conquest of england but about a century later it suffered the fate of bayeux being burnt down in . it was reconstructed soon afterwards and shows to-day the first period of gothic architecture that became prevalent in normandy. only the north tower dates from this period, the other one had to be rebuilt during the reign of henri iii. and the spire only made its appearance in the seventeenth century. the lady chapel is of particular interest owing to the statement that it was built by that bishop of beauvais who took such a prominent part in the trial of joan of arc. the main arches over the big west door are now bare of carving or ornament and the hotel de ville is built right up against the north-west corner, but despite this st pierre has the most imposing and stately appearance, and there are many features such as the curious turrets of the south transept that impress themselves on the memory more than some of the other churches we have seen. lisieux is one of those cheerful towns that appear always clean and bright under the dullest skies, so that when the sun shines every view seems freshly painted and blazing with colour. the freshness of the atmosphere, too, is seldom tainted with those peculiar odours that some french towns produce with such enormous prodigality, and lisieux may therefore claim a further point in its favour. it is generally a wide, hedgeless stretch of country that lies between lisieux and falaise, but for the first ten miles there are big farm-houses with timber-framed barns and many orchards bearing a profusion of blossom near the roadside. a small farm perched above the road and quite out of sight, invites the thirsty passer-by to turn aside up a steep path to partake of cider or coffee. it is a simple, almost bare room where the refreshment is served, but its quaintness and shadowy coolness are most refreshing. the fireplace has an open hearth with a wood fire which can soon be blown into a blaze by the big bellows that hang against the chimney corner. a table by one of the windows is generally occupied in her spare moments by the farmer's pretty daughter who puts aside her knitting to fetch the cider or to blow up the fire for coffee. they are a most genial family and seem to find infinite delight in plying english folk with questions for i imagine that not many find their way to this sequestered corner among waving trees and lovely orchards. a sudden descent before reaching st pierre-sur-dives gives a great view over the level country below where everything is brilliantly green and garden-like. the village first shows its imposing church through the trees of a straight avenue leading towards the village which also possesses a fine market hall that must be at least six hundred years old. the church is now undergoing restoration externally, but by dodging the falling cement dust you may go inside, perhaps to be disappointed that there is not more of the norman work that has been noticed in the southern tower that rises above the entrance. the village, or it should really be called a small town, for its population is over a thousand, has much in it that is attractive and quaint, and it might gain more attention if everyone who passes through its streets were not hurrying forward to falaise. the country now becomes a great plain, hedgeless, and at times almost featureless. the sun in the afternoon throws the shadows of the roadside trees at right angles, so that the road becomes divided into accurate squares by the thin lines of shadow. the straight run from st pierre is broken where the road crosses the dives. it is a pretty spot with a farm, a manor-house and a washing place for women just below the bridge, and then follows more open road and more interminable perspectives cutting through the open plain until, with considerable satisfaction, the great thoroughfare from caen is joined and soon afterwards a glimpse of the castle greets us as we enter falaise. there is something peculiarly fascinating about falaise, for it combines many of the features that are sparingly distributed in other towns. its position on a hill with deep valleys on all sides, its romantic castle, the two beautiful churches and the splendid thirteenth century gateway, form the best remembered attractions, but beyond these there are the hundred and one pretty groupings of the cottages that crowd both banks of the little river ante down in the valley under the awe-inspiring castle. even then, no mention has been made of the ancient fronts that greet one in many of the streets, and the charms of some of the sudden openings between the houses that give views of the steep, wooded hollows that almost touch the main street, have been slighted. a huge cube of solid masonry with a great cylindrical tower alongside perched upon a mass of rock precipitous on two sides is the distant view of the castle, and coming closer, although you can see the buttresses that spring from the rocky foundations, the description still holds good. you should see the fortress in the twilight with a golden suffusion in the sky and strange, purplish shadows on the castle walls. it then has much the appearance of one of those unassailable strongholds where a beautiful princess is lying in captivity waiting for a chivalrous knight who with a band of faithful men will attempt to scale the inaccessible walls. under some skies, the castle assumes the character of one of turner's impressions, half real and half imaginary, and under no skies does this most formidable relic of feudal days ever lose its grand and awesome aspect. the entrance is through a gateway, the porte st. nicolas, which was built in the thirteenth century. there you are taken in hand by a pleasant concierge who will lead you first of all to the tour la reine, where he will point out a great breach in the wall made by henri iv. when he successfully assaulted the castle after a bombardment with his artillery which he had kept up for a week. this was in , and since then no other fighting has taken place round these grand old walls. the ivy that clings to the ruins and the avenue of limes that leads up to the great keep are full of jackdaws which wheel round the rock in great flights. you have a close view of the great tour talbot, and then pass through a small doorway in the northern face of the citadel. inside, the appearance of the walls reveals the restoration which has taken place within recent years. but this, fortunately, does not detract to any serious extent from the interest of the whole place. up on the ramparts there are fine views over the surrounding country, and immediately beneath the precipice below nestle the picturesque, browny-red roofs of the lower part of the town. just at the foot of the castle rock there is still to be seen a tannery which is of rather unusual interest in connection with the story of how robert le diable was first struck by the charms of arlette, the beautiful daughter of a tanner. the norman duke was supposed to have been looking over the battlements when he saw this girl washing clothes in the river, and we are told that owing to the warmth of the day she had drawn up her dress, so that her feet, which are spoken of as being particularly beautiful were revealed to his admiring gaze. arlette afterwards became the mother of william the conqueror, and the room is pointed out in the south-west corner of the keep in which we are asked to believe that the conqueror of england was born. it is, however, unfortunate for the legend that archaeologists do not allow such an early date for the present castle, and thus we are not even allowed to associate these ramparts with the legend just mentioned. it must have been a strong building that preceded this present structure, for during the eleventh century william the norman was often obliged to retreat for safety to his impregnable birthplace. the tour talbot has below its lowest floor what seems to be a dungeon, but it is said that prisoners were not kept here, the place being used merely for storing food. the gloomy chamber, however, is generally called an oubliette. above, there are other floors, the top one having been used by the governor of the castle. in the thickness of the wall there is a deep well which now contains no water. one of the rooms in the keep is pointed out as that in which prince arthur was kept in confinement, but although it is known that the unfortunate youth was imprisoned in this castle, the selection of the room seems to be somewhat arbitrary. in the news of joan of arc's continued successes was brought to the earl of salisbury who was then governor of falaise castle, and it was from here that he started with an army to endeavour to stop that triumphal progress. in when the french completely overcame the numerous english garrisons in the towns of normandy, falaise with its magnificent position held out for some time. the defenders sallied out from the walls of the town but were forced back again, and notwithstanding their courage, the town capitulated to the duke of alencon's army at almost the same time as avranches and a dozen other strongly defended towns. we can picture to ourselves the men in glinting head-pieces sallying from the splendid old gateway known as the port des cordeliers. it has not lost its formidable appearance even to-day, though as you look through the archway the scene is quiet enough, and the steep flight of outside steps leads up to scenes of quiet domestic life. the windows overlook the narrow valley beneath where the humble roofs of the cottages jostle one another for space. there are many people who visit falaise who never have the curiosity to explore this unusually pleasing part of the town. in the spring when the lilac bushes add their brilliant colour to the russet brown tiles and soft creams of the stone-work, there are pictures on every side. looking in the cottages you may see, generally within a few feet of the door, one of those ingenious weaving machines that are worked with a treadle, and take up scarcely any space at all. if you ask permission, the cottagers have not the slightest objection to allowing you to watch them at their work, and when one sees how rapidly great lengths of striped material grow under the revolving metal framework, you wonder that falaise is not able to supply the demands of the whole republic for this class of material. just by the hotel de ville and the church of la trinite stands the imposing statue of william the conqueror. he is mounted on the enormous war-horse of the period and the whole effect is strong and spirited. the most notable feature of the exterior of the church of la trinite is the curious passage-way that goes underneath the lady chapel behind the high altar. the whole of the exterior is covered with rich carving, crocketed finials, innumerable gargoyles and the usual enriched mouldings of gothic architecture. the charm of the interior is heightened if one enters in the twilight when vespers are proceeding. there is just sufficient light to show up the tracery of the windows and the massive pointed arches in the choir. a few candles burn by the altar beyond the dark mass of figures forming the congregation. a gregorian chant fills the building with its solemn tones and the smoke of a swinging censer ascends in the shadowy chancel. then, as the service proceeds, one candle above the altar seems to suddenly ignite the next, and a line of fire travels all over the great erection surrounding the figure of the virgin, leaving in its trail a blaze of countless candles that throw out the details of the architecture in strong relief. soon the collection is made, and as the priest passes round the metal dish, he is followed by the cocked-hatted official whose appearance is so surprising to those who are not familiar with french churches. as the priest passes the dish to each row the official brings his metal-headed staff down upon the pavement with a noisy bang that is calculated to startle the unwary into dropping their money anywhere else than in the plate. in time the bell rings beside the altar, and the priest robed in white and gold elevates the host before the kneeling congregation. once more the man in the cocked hat becomes prominent as he steps into the open space between the transepts and tolls the big bell in the tower above. then a smaller and much more cheerful bell is rung, and fearing the arrival of another collecting priest we slip out of the swinging doors into the twilight that has now almost been swallowed up in the gathering darkness. the consecration of the splendid norman church of st gervais took place in the presence of henry i. but there is nothing particularly english in any part of the exterior. the central tower has four tall and deeply recessed arches (the middle ones contain windows) on each side, giving a rich arcaded appearance. above, rises a tall pointed roof ornamented with four odd-looking dormers near the apex. every one remarks on their similarity to dovecots and one almost imagines that they must have been built as a place of shelter on stormy days for the great gilded cock that forms the weather vane. the nave is still norman on the south side, plain round-headed windows lighting the clerestory, but the aisles were rebuilt in the flamboyant period and present a rich mass of ornament in contrast to the unadorned masonry of the nave. the western end until lately had to endure the indignity of having its wall surfaces largely hidden by shops and houses. these have now disappeared, but the stone-work has not been restored, and you may still see a section of the interior of the house that formerly used the west end of the south aisle as one of its walls. you can see where the staircases went, and you may notice also how wantonly these domestic builders cut away the buttresses and architectural enrichments to suit the convenience of their own needs. as you go from the market-place along the street that runs from st gervais to the suburb of guibray, the shops on the left are exchanged for a low wall over which you see deep, grassy hollows that come right up to the edge of the street. two fine houses, white-shuttered and having the usual vacant appearance, stand on steep slopes surrounded by great cedars of lebanon and a copper beech. the church of guibray is chiefly norman--it is very white inside and there is some round-headed arcading in the aisles. the clustered columns of the nave have simple, pointed arches, and there is a carved marble altarpiece showing angels supporting the virgin who is gazing upwards. the aisles of the chancel are restored norman, and the stone-work is bright green just above the floor through the dampness that seems to have defied the efforts of the restorers. chapter vi from argentan to avranches between tall poplars whose stems are splotched with grey lichen and whose feet are grown over with browny-green moss, runs the road from falaise to argentan, straight and white, with scarcely more than the slightest bend, for the whole eight miles. it is typical of the roads in this part of the country and beyond the large stone four or five kilometres outside falaise, marking the boundary between calvados and orne, and the railway which one passes soon afterwards, there is nothing to break the undulating monotony of the boundless plain. we cannot all hope to have this somewhat dull stretch of country relieved by any exciting event, but i can remember one spring afternoon being overtaken by two mounted gendarmes in blue uniforms, galloping for their very lives. i looked down the road into the cloud of dust raised by the horses' hoofs, but the country on all sides lay calm and deserted, and i was left in doubt as to the reason for this astonishing haste. half an hour afterwards a group of people appeared in the distance, and on approaching closer, they proved to be the two gendarmes leading their blown horses as they walked beside a picturesque group of apparently simple peasants, the three men wearing the typical soft, baggy cap and blue smock of the country folk. the little group had a gloomy aspect, which was explained when i noticed that the peasants were joined together by a bright steel chain. evidently something was very much amiss with one of the peaceful villages lying near the road. after a time, at the end of the long white perspective, appear the towers of the great church of st germain that dominate the town where henry ii. was staying when he made that rash exclamation concerning his "turbulent priest." it was from argentan that those four knights set out for england and canterbury to carry out the deed, for which henry lay in ashes for five weeks in this very place. but there is little at the present time at argentan to remind one that it is in any way associated with the murder of becket. the castle that now exists is occupied by the courts of justice and was partially built in the renaissance period. standing close to it, is an exceedingly tall building with a great gable that suggests an ecclesiastical origin, and on looking a little closer one soon discovers blocked up gothic windows and others from which the tracery has been hacked. this was the chapel of the castle which has been so completely robbed of its sanctity that it is now cut up into small lodgings, and in one of its diminutive shops, picture post-cards of the town are sold. the ruins of the old castle are not very conspicuous, for in the seventeenth century the great keep was demolished. there is still a fairly noticeable round tower--the tour marguerite--which has a pointed roof above its corbels, or perhaps they should be called machicolations. in the place henri iv. stands a prominent building that projects over the pavement supported by massive pointed arches, and with this building in the foreground there is one of the best views of st germain that one can find in the town. just before coming to the clock that is suspended over the road by the porch of the church, there is a butcher's shop at the street corner that has a piece of oak carving preserved on account of its interest while the rest of the building has been made featureless with even plaster. the carving shows adam and eve standing on either side of a formal tree of life, and the butcher, who is pleased to find a stranger who notices this little curiosity, tells him with great pride that his house dates from the fifteenth century. the porch of st germain is richly ornamented, but it takes a second place to the south porch of the church of notre dame at louviers and may perhaps seem scarcely worthy of comment after st maclou at rouen. the structure as a whole was commenced in , and the last portion of the work only dates from the middle of the seventeenth century. the vaulting of the nave has a very new and well-kept appearance and the side altars, in contrast to so many of even the large churches, are almost dignified in their somewhat restrained and classic style. the high altar is a stupendous erection of two storeys with corinthian pillars. nine long, white, pendant banners are conspicuous on the walls of the chancel. the great altars and the lesser ones that crowd the side chapels are subject to the accumulation of dirt as everything else in buildings sacred or lay, and at certain times of the day, a woman may be seen vigorously flapping the brass candlesticks and countless altar ornaments with a big feather broom. on the north side of the chancel some of the windows have sections of old painted glass, and in one of them there is part of a ship with men in crow's nests backed by clouds, a really vigorous colour scheme. keeping to the high ground, there is to the south of this church an open place, and beyond it there are some large barracks, where, on the other side of a low wall may be seen the elaborately prepared steeple-chase for training soldiers to be able to surmount every conceivable form of obstacle. awkward iron railings, wide ditches, walls of different composition and varying height are frequently scaled, and it is practice of this sort that has made the french soldier famous for the facility with which he can storm fortifications. the river orne finds its way through the lower part of the town and here there are to be found some of the most pleasing bits of antique domestic architecture. one of the quaintest of these built in is the galleried building illustrated here, and from a parallel street not many yards off there is a peep of a house that has been built right over the stream which is scarcely less picturesque. [illustration: a seventeenth century house at argentan] the church of st martin is passed on entering argentan from falaise. its east end crowds right up against the pavement and it is somewhat unusual to find the entrances at this portion of the building. the stained glass in the choir of st martin is its most noticeable feature--the pictures showing various scenes in the life of christ. as in all french towns argentan knows how to decorate on fete days. coming out of the darkness of the church in the late twilight on one of these occasions, i discovered that the town had suddenly become festooned with a long perspective of arches stretching right away down the leafy avenue that goes out of the town--to the north in one direction, and to st germain in the other. the arches were entirely composed without a single exception of large crimson-red chinese lanterns. the effect was astonishingly good, but despite all the decoration, the townsfolk seemed determined to preserve the quiet of the sabbath, and although there were crowds everywhere, the only noise that broke the stillness was that of the steam round-about that had been erected on a triangular patch of grass. the dark crowds of people illuminated by flaring lights stood in perfect quiet as they watched the great noisy mass of moving animals and boats, occupied almost entirely by children, keep up its perpetual dazzle and roar. the fair--for there were many side-shows--was certainly quieter than any i have witnessed in england. a long, straight road, poplar-bordered and level, runs southwards from argentan to mortree, a village of no importance except for the fact that one must pass through it if one wishes to visit the beautiful chateau d'o. this sixteenth century mansion like so many to be seen in this part of france, is in a somewhat pathetic state of disrepair, but as far as one may see from the exterior, it would not require any very great sum to completely restore the broken stone-work and other signs of decay. these, while perhaps adding to the picturesqueness of the buildings, do not bring out that aspect of carefully preserved antiquity which is the charm of most of the houses of this period in england. the great expanse of water in the moat is very green and covered by large tracts of weed, but the water is supplied by a spring, and fish thrive in it. the approach to the chateau across the moat leads to an arched entrance through which you enter the large courtyard overlooked on three sides by the richly ornamented buildings, the fourth side being only protected from the moat by a low wall. it would be hard to find a more charming spot than this with its views across the moat to the gardens beyond, backed by great masses of foliage. going on past mortree the main road will bring one after about eight miles to the old town of alencon, which has been famed ever since the time of louis xiv. for the lace which is even at the present day worked in the villages of this neighbourhood, more especially at the hamlet of damigny. the cottagers use pure linen thread which is worth the almost incredible sum of £ per lb. they work on parchment from patterns which are supplied by the merchants in alencon. the women go on from early morning until the light fails, and earn something about a shilling per day! the castle of alencon, built by henry i. in the twelfth century, was pulled down with the exception of the keep, by the order of henry of navarre, the famous contemporary of queen elizabeth. this keep is still in existence, and is now used as a prison. near it is the palais de justice, standing where the other buildings were situated. the west porch of the church of notre dame is richly ornamented with elaborate canopies, here and there with statues. one of these represents st john, and it will be seen that he is standing with his face towards the church. a legend states that this position was taken by the statue when the church was being ransacked by protestants in the sixteenth century. another road from argentan is the great _route nationale_ that runs in a fairly direct line to granville. as one rides out of the town there is a pretty view on looking back, of st germain standing on the slight eminence above the orne. keeping along by that river the road touches it again at the little town of ecouche. the old market hall standing on massive pillars, is the most attractive feature of the place. its old tiled roof and half-timbered upper storey remind one forcibly of some of those fortunate old towns in england that have preserved this feature. the church has lost its original nave, and instead, there is a curious barn-like structure, built evidently with a view to economy, being scarcely more than half the height of the original: the vacant space has been very roughly filled up, and the numerous holes and crevices support a fine growth of weeds, and a strong young tree has also taken root in the ramshackle stone work. from the central tower, gargoyles grin above the elaborately carved buttresses and finials in remarkable contrast to the jerry-built addition. [illustration: the old market house at ecouche] passing through rich country, you leave the valley of the orne, and on both sides of the road are spread wide and fascinating views over the orchard-clad country that disappears in the distant blue of the horizon. wonderful patches of shadow, when large clouds are flying over the heavens, fall on this great tract of country and while in dull weather it may seem a little monotonous, in days of sunshine and shade it is full of a haunting beauty that is most remarkable. about seven miles from argentan one passes fromentelle, a quiet hamlet full of thatched cottages and curious weathercocks, and then five miles further on, having descended into the valley of the little river rouvre, briouze is entered. here there is a wide and very extensive market-place with another quaint little structure, smaller than the one at ecouche, but having a curious bell-turret in the centre of the roof. on monday, which is market day, briouze presents a most busy scene, and there are plenty of opportunities of studying the genial looking country farmers, their wives, and the large carts in which they drive from the farms. in the midst of the booths, you may see a bronze statue commemorating the "sapeurs, pompiers" and others of this little place who fell in . leaving the main road which goes on to flers, we may take the road to domfront, which passes through three pretty villages and much pleasant country. bellau, the first village, is full of quaint houses and charming old-world scenes. the church is right in the middle on an open space without an enclosure of any description. standing with one's back to this building, there is a pretty view down the road leading to the south, a patch of blue distance appearing in the opening between the old gables. to all those who may wish to either paint or photograph this charming scene, i would recommend avoiding the hour in the afternoon when the children come out of school. i was commencing a drawing one sunny afternoon--it must have been about three o'clock--and the place seemed almost deserted. indeed, i had been looking for a country group of peasants to fill the great white space of sunny road, when in twos and threes, the juvenile population flooded out towards me. for some reason which i could not altogether fathom, the boys arranged themselves in a long, regular line, occupying exactly one half of the view, the remaining space being filled by an equally long line of little girls. all my efforts failed to induce the children to break up the arrangement they had made. they merely altered their formation by advancing three or four paces nearer with almost military precision. they were still standing in their unbroken rows when i left the village. passing a curious roadside cross which bears the date and a long latin inscription splashed over with lichen, one arrives at la ferriere aux etangs, a quaint village with a narrow and steep street containing one conspicuously old, timber-framed house. but it is scarcely necessary to point out individual cottages in this part of normandy, for wherever one looks, the cottages are covered with thick, purply-grey thatch, and the walls below are of grey wooden framework, filled in with plaster, generally coloured a creamy-white. when there are deep shadows under the eaves and the fruit trees in blossom stand out against the dark thatch, one can easily understand how captivating is the rural charm of this part of normandy. gradually the road ascends, but no great views are apparent, although one is right above the beautiful valley of the varennes, until quite near to domfront. then, suddenly there appears an enormous stretch of slightly undulating country to the south and west. as far as one can see, the whole land seems to be covered by one vast forest. but though part of this is real forest-land, much of it is composed of orchards and hedgerow trees, which are planted so closely together that, at a short distance, they assume the aspect of close-growing woods. the first impression of the great stretch of forest-land does not lose its striking aspect, even when one has explored the whole of the town. the road that brings one into the old town runs along a ridge and after passing one of the remains of the old gateways, it rises slightly to the highest part of the mass of rock upon which domfront is perched. the streets are narrow and parallel to accommodate themselves to the confined space within the walls. at the western end of the granite ridge, and separated from the town by a narrow defile, stands all that is left of the castle--a massive but somewhat shapeless ruin. at the western end of the ramparts, one looks down a precipitous descent to the river varennes which has by some unusual agency, cut itself a channel through the rocky ridge if it did not merely occupy an existing gap. at the present time, besides the river, the road and railway pass through the narrow gorge. the castle has one of those sites that appealed irresistibly to the warlike barons of the eleventh century. in this case it was william i., duc de belleme, who decided to raise a great fortress on this rock that he had every reason to believe would prove an impregnable stronghold, but although only built in , it was taken by duke william thirty-seven years later, being one of the first brilliant feats by which william the norman showed his strength outside his own duchy. a century or more later, henry ii., when at domfront, received the pope's nuncio by whom a reconciliation was in some degree patched up between the king and becket. richard i. is known to have been at the castle at various times. in the sixteenth century, a most thrilling siege was conducted during the period when catherine de medicis was controlling the throne. a royalist force, numbering some seven or eight thousand horse and foot, surrounded this formidable rock which was defended by the calvinist comte de montgommery. with him was another protestant, ambroise le balafre, who had made himself a despot at domfront, but whose career was cut short by one of montgommery's men with whom he had quarrelled. they buried him in the little church of notre-dame-sur-l'eau--the wonderfully preserved norman building that one sees beneath one's feet when standing on the ramparts of the castle. the body, however, was not long allowed to remain there, for when the royal army surrounded the castle they brought out the corpse and hung it in a conspicuous place to annoy the besieged. like corfe castle in england, and many other magnificently fortified strongholds, domfront was capable of defence by a mere handful. in this case the original garrison consisted of one hundred and fifty, and after many desertions the force was reduced to less than fifty. a great breach had been made by the six pieces of artillery placed on the hill on the opposite side of the gorge, and through this the besiegers endeavoured to enter. the attenuated garrison, with magnificent courage, held the breach after a most desperate and bloody fight. but after all this display of courage, it was found impossible to continue the defence, for by the next morning there were barely more than a dozen men left to fight. finally montgommery was obliged to surrender unconditionally, and not long afterwards he was executed in paris. you may see the breach where this terrible fight took place at the present day, and as you watch the curious effects of the blue shadows falling among the forest trees that stretch away towards the south, you may feel that you are looking over almost the same scene that was gazed upon by the notable figures in history who have made their exits and entrances at domfront. so little has the church of notre-dame-sur-l'eau altered in its appearance since it was built by the duc de belleme that, were he to visit the ruins of his castle, he would marvel no doubt that the men of the nine centuries which have passed, should have consistently respected this sturdy little building. there are traces of aisles having existed, but otherwise the exterior of the church can have seen no change at all in this long period. inside, however, the crude whitewash, the curious assemblage of enormous seventeenth century gravestones that are leant against the walls, and the terribly jarring almost life-sized crucifix, all give one that feeling of revulsion that is inseparable from an ill-kept place of worship. on the banks of the river outside, women may be seen washing clothes; the sounds of the railway come from the station near by, and overhead, rising above the foliage at its feet, are the broken walls and shattered keep from which we have been gazing. [illustration: one of the towers in the walls of domfront] the walls of the town, punctuated by many a quaint tower, have lost their fearsome aspect owing to the domestic uses to which the towers are palpably devoted. one of them appears in the adjoining illustration, and it is typical of the half-dozen or so that still rise above the pretty gardens that are perched along the steep ascent. but though domfront is full of almost thrilling suggestions of medievalism and the glamour of an ancient town, yet there is a curious lack of picturesque arrangement, so that if one were to be led away by the totally uninteresting photographs that may be seen in the shops, one would miss one of the most unique spots in normandy. stretching away towards flers, there is a tract of green country all ups and downs, but with no distant views except the peep of domfront that appears a few miles north of the town. crowning the ridge of the hill is the keep of the castle, resembling a closed fist with the second finger raised, and near it, the bell-cote of the palais de justice and the spire of the church break the line of the old houses. ferns grow by the roadside on every bank, but the cottages and farms are below the average of rustic beauty that one soon demands in this part of france. flers is a somewhat busy manufacturing town where cotton and thread mills have robbed the place of its charm. at first sight one might imagine the church which bears the date was of considerably greater age, but inside one is almost astounded at the ramshackle galleries, the white-washed roof of rough boards discoloured by damp, and the general squalor of the place relieved only by a ponderous altar-piece of classic design. the castle is still in good preservation but although it dates from early norman times, it is chiefly of the sixteenth century. out in the country again, going westwards, the cottage industry of weaving is apparent in nearly every cottage one sees. the loud click-a-ti-clack--click-a-ti-clack of the looms can be heard on every side as one passes such villages as landisacq. everywhere the scenery is exceedingly english, the steep hillsides are often covered with orchards, and the delicate green of the apple-trees in spring-time, half-smothered in pinky-white blossom, gives the country a garden-like aspect. you may see a man harrowing a field on a sudden slope with a cloud of dust blowing up from the dry light soil, and you may hear him make that curious hullaballooing by which the peasants direct their horses, so different from the grunting "way-yup there" of the english ploughman. coming down a long descent, a great stretch of country to the north that includes the battlefield of tinchebrai comes into view. it is hard to associate the rich green pastures, smiling orchards, and peaceful cattle, with anything so gruesome as a battle between armies led by brothers. but it was near the little town of tinchebrai that the two brothers, henry i., king of england, and robert duke of normandy fought for the possession of normandy. henry's army was greatly superior to that of his brother, for he had the valuable help of the counts of conches, breteuil, thorigny, mortagne, montfort, and two or three others as powerful. but despite all this array, the battle for some time was very considerably in robert's favour, and it was only when henry, heavily pressed by his brother's brilliant charge, ordered his reserves to envelop the rear, that the great battle went in favour of the english king. among the prisoners were robert and his youthful son william, the counts of mortain, estouteville, ferrieres, and a large number of notable men. until his death, twenty-seven years later, henry kept his brother captive in cardiff castle, and it has been said that, owing to an effort to escape, henry was sufficiently lacking in all humane feelings towards his unfortunate brother, to have both his eyes put out. it seems a strange thing that exactly sixty years after the battle of hastings, a norman king of england, should conquer the country which had belonged to his father. the old church of st remy at tinchebrai, part of which dates from the twelfth century, has been abandoned for a new building, but the inn--the hotel lion d'or--which bears the date , is still in use. vire, however, is only ten miles off, and its rich mediaeval architecture urges us forward. standing in the midst of the cobbled street, there suddenly appears right ahead a splendid thirteenth century gateway--the tour de l'horloge--that makes one of the richest pictures in normandy. it is not always one can see the curious old tower thrown up by a blaze of gold in the west, but those who are fortunate enough to see such an effect may get a small suggestion of the scene from the illustration given here. the little painted figure of the virgin and child stands in a niche just over the arch, and by it appears the prayer "marie protege la ville!" one of the charms of vire is its cleanliness, for i can recall no unpleasant smells having interfered with the pleasure of exploring the old streets. there is a great market on the northern side of the town, open and breezy. it slopes clear away without any intervening buildings to a great expanse of green wooded country, suggestive of some of the views that lie all around one at avranches. the dark old church of notre dame dates mainly from the twelfth century. houses and small shops are built up against it between the buttresses in a familiar, almost confidential manner, and on the south side, the row of gargoyles have an almost humorous appearance. the drips upon the pavement and shops below were evidently a nuisance, and rain water-spouts, with plain pipes leading diagonally from them, have been attached to each grotesque head, making it seem that the grinning monsters have developed a great and unquenchable thirst. inside, the church is dark and impressive. there are double rows of pillars in the aisles, and a huge crucifix hangs beneath the tower, thrown up darkly against the chancel, which is much painted and gilded. the remains of the great castle consist of nothing more than part of the tall keep, built eight hundred years ago, and fortunately not entirely destroyed when the rest of the castle came down by the order of cardinal richelieu. an exploration of the quaint streets of vire will reveal two or three ancient gateways, many gabled houses, some of which are timber-framed visually, and most of them are the same beneath their skins of plaster. the houses in one of the streets are connected with the road by a series of wooden bridges across the river, which there forms one of the many pictures to be found in vire. mortain is separated from vire by fifteen miles of exceedingly hilly country, and those who imagine that all the roads in normandy are the flat and poplar bordered ones that are so often encountered, should travel along this wonderful switch-back. as far as sourdeval there seems scarcely a yard of level ground--it is either a sudden ascent or a breakneck rush into a trough-like depression. you pass copices of firs and beautiful woods, although in saying beautiful it is in a limited sense, for one seldom finds the really rich woodlands that are so priceless an ornament to many surrey and kentish lanes. the road is shaded by tall trees when it begins to descend into the steep rocky gorge of the cance with its tumbling waterfalls that are a charming feature of this approach to mortain. high upon the rocks on the left appears an enormous gilded statue of the virgin, in the grounds of the abbaye blanche. going downwards among the broken sunlight and shadows on the road, mortain appears, picturesquely perched on a great rocky steep, and in the opening of the valley a blue haze suggests the great expanse of level country towards the south. the big parish church of the town was built originally in by that robert of mortain, who, it will be remembered, was one of the first of the normans to receive from the victorious william a grant of land in england. the great tower which stands almost detached on the south-west side is remarkable for its enormously tall slit windows, for they run nearly from the ground to the saddle-back roof. the interior of this church is somewhat unusual, the nave and chancel being structurally one, and the aisles are separated by twenty-four circular grey pillars with corinthian capitals. the plain surfaces of the walls and vaulting are absolutely clean white, picked out with fine black lines to represent stone-work--a scarcely successful treatment of such an interior! on either side of the high altar stand two great statues representing st guillaume and st evroult. to those who wish to "do" all the sights of mortain there is the chapel of st michael, which stands high up on the margin of a great rocky hill, but the building having been reconstructed about fifty years ago, the chief attraction to the place is the view, which in tolerably clear weather, includes mont st michel towards which we are making our way. a perfectly straight and fairly level stretch of road brings you to st hilaire-du-harcout. on the road one passes two or three large country houses with their solemn and perfectly straight avenues leading directly up to them at right angles from the road. the white jalousies seem always closed, the grass on the lawns seems never cut, and the whole establishments have a pathetically deserted appearance to the passer-by. a feature of this part of the country can scarcely be believed without actually using one's eyes. it is the wooden chimney-stack, covered with oak shingles, that surmounts the roofs of most of the cottages. where the shingles have fallen off, the cement rubble that fills the space between the oak framing appears, but it is scarcely credible that, even with this partial protection, these chimneys should have survived so many centuries. i have asked the inmates of some of the cottages whether they ever feared a fire in their chimneys, but they seemed to consider the question as totally unnecessary, for some providence seems to have watched over their frail structures. st hilaire has a brand new church and nothing picturesque in its long, almost monotonous, street. instead of turning aside at pontaubault towards mont st michel, we will go due north from that hamlet to the beautifully situated avranches. this prosperous looking town used, at one time, to have a large english colony, but it has recently dwindled to such small dimensions that the english chaplain has an exceedingly small parish. the streets seem to possess a wonderful cleanliness; all the old houses appear to have made way for modern buildings which, in a way, give avranches the aspect of a watering-place, but its proximity to the sea is more apparent in a map than when one is actually in the town. on one side of the great place in front of the church of notre dame des champs is the jardin des plantes. to pass from the blazing sunshine and loose gravel, to the dense green shade of the trees in this delightful retreat is a pleasure that can be best appreciated on a hot afternoon in summer. the shade, however, and the beds of flowers are not the only attractions of these gardens. their greatest charm is the wonderful view over the shining sands and the glistening waters of the rivers see and selune that, at low tide, take their serpentine courses over the delicately tinted waste of sand that occupies st michael's bay. out beyond the little wooded promontory that protects the mouth of the see, lies mont st michel, a fretted silhouette of flat pearly grey, and a little to the north is tombelaine, a less pretentious islet in this fairyland sea. framed by the stems and foliage of the trees, this view is one of the most fascinating in normandy. one would be content to stay here all through the sultry hours of a summer day, to listen to the distant hum of conversation among white-capped nursemaids, as they sew busily, giving momentary attention to their charges. but avranches has an historical spot that no student of history, and indeed no one who cares anything for the picturesque events that crowd the pages of the chronicles of england in the days of the norman kings, may miss. it is the famous stone upon which henry ii. knelt when he received absolution for the murder of becket at the hands of the papal legate. to reach this stone is, for a stranger, a matter of some difficulty. from the place by the jardin des plantes, it is necessary to plunge down a steep descent towards the railway station, and then one climbs a series of zigzag paths on a high grassy bank that brings one out upon the place huet. in one corner, surrounded by chains and supported by low iron posts, is the historic stone. it is generally thickly coated with dust, but the brass plate affixed to a pillar of the doorway is quite legible. these, and a few fragments of carved stone that lie half-smothered in long grass and weeds at a short distance from the railed-in stone, are all that remain of the cathedral that existed in the time of henry ii. it must have been an impressive scene on that sunday in may , when the papal legate, in his wonderful robes, stood by the north transept door, of which only this fragment remains, and granted absolution to the sovereign, who, kneeling in all humbleness and submission, was relieved of the curse of excommunication which had been laid on him after the tragic affair in the sanctuary at canterbury. in place of the splendid cathedral, whose nave collapsed, causing the demolition of the whole building in , there is a new church with the two great western towers only carried up to half the height intended for them. from the roadway that runs along the side of the old castle walls in terrace fashion there is another wonderful view of rich green country, through which, at one's feet, winds the river see. away towards the north-west the road to granville can be seen passing over the hills in a perfectly straight line. but this part of the country may be left for another chapter. chapter vii concerning mont st michel so, when their feet were planted on the plain that broaden'd toward the base of camelot, far off they saw the silver-misty morn rolling her smoke about the royal mount, that rose between the forest and the field. at times the summit of the high city flash'd; at times the spires and turrets half-way down pricked through the mist; at times the great gate shone only, that open'd on the field below: anon, the whole fair city disappeared. tennyson's _gareth and lynette_ "the majestic splendour of this gulf, its strategetic importance, have at all times attracted the attention of warriors." in this quaint fashion commences the third chapter of a book upon mont st michel which is to be purchased in the little town. we have already had a glimpse of the splendour of the gulf from avranches, but there are other aspects of the rock which are equally impressive. they are missed by all those who, instead of going by the picturesque and winding coast-road from pontaubault, take the straight and dusty _route nationale_ to pontorson, and then turn to follow the tramway that has in recent years been extended along the causeway to the mount itself. if one can manage to make it a rather late ride along the coast-road just mentioned, many beautiful distant views of mont st michel, backed by sunset lights, will be an ample reward. even on a grey and almost featureless evening, when the sea is leaden-hued, there may, perhaps, appear one of those thin crimson lines that are the last efforts of the setting sun. this often appears just behind the grey and dim rock, and the crimson is reflected in a delicate tinge upon the glistening sands. tiny rustic villages, with churches humble and unobtrusive, and prominent calvaries, are passed one after the other. at times the farmyards seem to have taken the road into their own hands, for a stone well-head will appear almost in the roadway, and chickens, pigs, and a litter of straw have to be allowed for by those who ride or drive along this rural way. when the rock is still some distance off, the road seems to determine to take a short cut across the sands, but thinking better of it, it runs along the outer margin of the reclaimed land, and there is nothing to prevent the sea from flooding over the road at its own discretion. once on the broad and solidly constructed causeway, the rock rapidly gathers in bulk and detail. it has, indeed, as one approaches, an almost fantastic and fairy-like outline. then as more and more grows from the hazy mass, one sees that this remarkable place has a crowded and much embattled loneliness. two round towers, sturdy and boldly machicolated, appear straight ahead, but oddly enough the wall between them has no opening of any sort, and the stranger is perplexed at the inhospitable curtain-wall that seems to refuse him admittance to the mediaeval delights within. it almost heightens the impression that the place belongs altogether to dreamland, for in that shadowy world all that is most desirable is so often beyond the reach of the dreamer. it is a very different impression that one gains if the steam train has been taken, for its arrival is awaited by a small crowd of vulture-like servants and porters from the hotels. the little crowd treats the incoming train-load of tourists as its carrion, and one has no time to notice whether there is a gateway or not before being swept along the sloping wooden staging that leads to the only entrance. the simple archway in the outer wall leads into the cour de l'avancee where those two great iron cannons, mentioned in an earlier chapter, are conspicuous objects. they were captured by the heroic garrison when the english, in , made their last great effort to obtain possession of the rock. beyond these, one passes through the barbican to the cour de la herse, which is largely occupied by the hotel poulard aine. then one passes through the porte du roi, and enters the town proper. the narrow little street is flanked by many an old house that has seen most of the vicissitudes that the little island city has suffered. in fact many of these shops which are now almost entirely given over to the sale of mementoes and books of photographs of the island, are individually of great interest. one of the most ancient in the upper part of the street, is pointed out as that occupied in the fourteenth century by tiphane de raguenel, the wife of the heroic bertrand du guesclin. it is almost impossible for those who are sensitive in such matters, not to feel some annoyance at the pleasant but persistent efforts of the vendors of souvenirs to induce every single visitor to purchase at each separate shop. to get an opportunity for closely examining the carved oaken beams and architectural details of the houses, one must make at least some small purchase at each trinket store in front of which one is inclined to pause. perhaps it would even be wise before attempting to look at anything architectural in this quaintest of old-world streets, to go from one end to the other, buying something of trifling cost, say a picture postcard, from each saleswoman. in this way, one might purchase immunity from the over-solicitous shop-keepers, and have the privilege of being able to realise the mediaeval character of the place without constant interruptions. nearly every visitor to mont st michel considers that this historic gem, in its wonderful setting of opalescent sand, can be "done" in a few hours. they think that if they climb up the steps to the museum--a new building made more conspicuous than it need be by a board bearing the word _musee_ in enormous letters--if they walk along the ramparts, stare for a moment at the gateways, and then go round the abbey buildings with one of the small crowds that the guide pilots through the maze of extraordinary vaulted passages and chambers, that they have done ample justice to this world-famous sight. if the rock had only one-half of its historic and fantastically arranged buildings, it would still deserve considerably more than this fleeting attention paid to it by such a large proportion of the tourists. so many of these poor folk come to mont st michel quite willing to learn the reasons for its past greatness, but they do not bring with them the smallest grains of knowledge. the guides, whose knowledge of english is limited to such words as "sirteenth senchury" (thirteenth century), give them no clues to the reasons for the existence of any buildings on the island, and quite a large proportion of visitors go away without any more knowledge than they could have obtained from the examination of a good book of photographs. to really appreciate in any degree the natural charms of mont st michel, at least one night should be spent on the rock. having debated between the rival houses of poularde aine and poularde jeune, and probably decided on the older branch of the family, perhaps with a view to being able to speak of their famous omelettes with enthusiasm, one is conducted to one of the houses or dependences connected with the hotel. if one has selected the maison rouge, it is necessary to make a long climb to one's bedroom. the long salle a manger, where dinner is served, is in a tall wedge-like building just outside the porte du roi and in the twilight of evening coffee can be taken on the little tables of the cafe that overflows on to the pavement of the narrow street. the cafe faces the head-quarters of the hotel, and is as much a part of it as any of the other buildings which contain the bedrooms. to the stranger it comes as a surprise to be handed a chinese lantern at bedtime, and to be conducted by one of the hotel servants almost to the top of the tall house just mentioned. suddenly the man opens a door and you step out into an oppressive darkness. here the use of the chinese lantern is obvious, for without some artificial light, the long series of worn stone steps, that must be climbed before reaching the maison rouge, would offer many opportunities for awkward falls. the bedrooms in this house, when one has finally reached a floor far above the little street, have a most enviable position. they are all provided with small balconies where the enormous sweep of sand or glistening ocean, according to the condition of the tides, is a sight which will drag the greatest sluggard from his bed at the first hour of dawn. right away down below are the hoary old houses of the town, hemmed in by the fortified wall that surrounds this side of the island. then stretching away towards the greeny-blue coast-line is the long line of digue or causeway on which one may see a distant puff of white smoke, betokening the arrival of the early train of the morning. the attaches of the rival hotels are already awaiting the arrival of the early batch of sight-seers. all over the delicately tinted sands there are constantly moving shadows from the light clouds forming over the sea, and blowing freshly from the west there comes an invigorating breeze. before even the museum can have a real interest for us, we must go back to the early times when mont st michel was a bare rock; when it was not even an island, and when the bay of mont st michel was covered by the forest of scissey. it seems that the romans raised a shrine to jupiter on the rock, which soon gave to it the name of mons jovis, afterwards to be contracted into mont-jou. they had displaced some earlier druidical or other sun-worshippers who had carried on their rites at this lonely spot; but the roman innovation soon became a thing of the past and the franks, after their conversion to christianity, built on the rock two oratories, one to st stephen and the other to st symphorian. it was then that the name mont-jou was abandoned in favour of mons-tumba. the smaller rock, now known as tombelaine, was called tumbella meaning the little tomb, to distinguish it from the larger rock. it is not known why the two rocks should have been associated with the word tomb, and it is quite possible that the tumba may simply mean a small hill. in time, hermits came and built their cells on both the rocks and gradually a small community was formed under the merovingian abbey of mandane. it was about this time, that is in the sixth century, that a great change came over the surroundings of the two rocks. hitherto, they had formed rocky excrescences at the edge of the low forest-land by which the country adjoining the sea was covered. gradually the sea commenced a steady encroachment. it had been probably in progress even since roman times, but its advance became more rapid, and after an earthquake, which occurred in the year , the whole of the forest of scissey was invaded, and the remains of the trees were buried under a great layer of sand. there were several villages in this piece of country, some of whose names have been preserved, and these suffered complete destruction with the forest. a thousand years afterwards, following a great storm and a consequent movement of the sand, a large number of oaks and considerable traces of the little village st etienne de paluel were laid bare. the foundations of houses, a well, and the font of a church were among the discoveries made. just about the time of the innundation, we come to the interesting story of the holy-minded st aubert who had been made bishop of avranches. he could see the rock as it may be seen to-day, although at that time it was crowned with no buildings visible at any distance, and the loneliness of the spot seems to have attracted him to retire thither for prayer and meditation. he eventually raised upon the rock a small chapel which he dedicated to michel the archangel. after this time, all the earlier names disappeared and the island was always known as mont st michel. replacing the hermits of mandane with twelve canons, the establishment grew and became prosperous. that this was so, must be attributed largely to the astonishing miracles which were supposed to have taken place in connection with the building of the chapel. two great rocks near the top of the mount, which were much in the way of the builders, were removed and sent thundering down the rocky precipice by the pressure of a child's foot when all the efforts of the men to induce the rock to move had been unavailing. the huge rock so displaced is now crowned by the tiny chapel of st aubert. the offerings brought by the numerous pilgrims to mont st michel gave the canons sufficient means to commence the building of an abbey, and the unique position of the rock soon made it a refuge for the franks of the western parts of neustria when the fierce norman pirates were harrying the country. in this way the village of mont st michel made its appearance at the foot of the rock. the contact of the canons with this new population brought some trouble in its wake. the holy men became contaminated with the world, and richard, duke of normandy, replaced them by thirty benedictines brought from mont-cassin. these monks were given the power of electing their own abbot who was invested with the most entire control over all the affairs of the people who dwelt upon the rock. this system of popular election seems to have worked admirably, for in the centuries that followed, the rulers of the community were generally men of remarkable character and great ideals. about fifty years before the conquest of england by duke william, the abbot of that time, hildebert ii., commenced work on the prodigious series of buildings that still crown the rock. his bold scheme of building massive walls round the highest point, in order to make a lofty platform whereon to raise a great church, was a work of such magnitude that when he was gathered to his fathers the foundations were by no means complete. those who came after him however, inspired by the great idea, kept up the work of building with wonderful enthusiasm. slowly, year by year, the ponderous walls of the crypts and undercrofts grew in the great space which it was necessary to fill. dark, irregularly built chambers, one side formed of the solid rock and the others composed of the almost equally massive masonry, grouped themselves round the unequal summit of the mount, until at last, towards the end of the eleventh century, the building of the nave of the church was actually in progress. roger ii., the eleventh of the abbots, commenced the buildings that preceded the extraordinary structure known as la merveille. soon after came robert de torigny, a pious man of great learning, who seems to have worked enthusiastically. he raised two great towers joined by a porch, the hostelry and infirmary on the south side and other buildings on the west. much of this work has unfortunately disappeared. torigny's coffin was discovered in under the north-west part of the great platform, and one may see a representation of the architect-abbot in the clever series of life-like models that have been placed in the museum. the bretons having made a destructive attack upon the mount in the early years of the thirteenth century and caused much damage to the buildings, jourdain the abbot of that time planned out "la merveille," which comprises three storeys of the most remarkable gothic halls. at the bottom are the cellar and almonry, then comes the salle des chevaliers and the dormitory, and above all are the beautiful cloisters and the refectory. jourdain, however, only lived to see one storey completed, but his successors carried on the work and raoul de villedieu finished the splendid cloister in . up to this time the island was defenceless, but during the abbatiate of toustain the ramparts and fortifications were commenced. in the buildings known as belle-chaise were constructed. they contained the entrance to the abbey before the chatelet made its appearance. after toustain came pierre le roy who built a tower behind belle-chaise and also the imposing-looking chatelet which contains the main entrance to the whole buildings. the fortifications that stood outside this gateway have to some extent disappeared, but what remain are shown in the accompanying illustration. in the early part of the fifteenth century, the choir of the church collapsed, but peace having been declared with england, soon afterwards d'estouteville was able to construct the wonderful foundations composed of ponderous round columns called the crypt of les gros-piliers, and above it there afterwards appeared the splendid gothic choir. the flamboyant tracery of the windows is filled with plain green leaded glass, and the fact that the recent restoration has left the church absolutely bare of any ecclesiastical paraphernalia gives one a splendid opportunity of studying this splendid work of the fifteenth century. the nave of the church has still to undergo the process of restoration, for at the present time the fraudulent character of its stone-vaulted roof is laid bare by the most casual glance, for at the unfinished edge adjoining the choir one may see the rough lath and plaster which for a long time must have deceived the visitors who have gazed at the lofty roof. the western end of the building is an eighteenth century work, although to glance at the great patches of orange-coloured lichen that spread themselves over so much of the stone-work, it would be easy to imagine that the work was of very great antiquity. in earlier times there were some further bays belonging to the nave beyond the present west front in the space now occupied by an open platform. there is a fine view from this position, but it is better still if one climbs the narrow staircase from the choir leading up to the asphalted walk beneath the flying buttresses. about the middle of the fourteenth century, tiphaine de raguenel, the wife of bertrand du guesclin, that splendid breton soldier, came from pontorson and made her home at mont st michel, in order not to be kept as a prisoner by the english. there are several facts recorded that throw light on the character of this noble lady, sometimes spoken of as "the fair maid of dinan." she had come to admire du guesclin for his prowess in military matters, and her feeling towards him having deepened, she had no hesitation in accepting his offer of marriage. it appears that du guesclin after this most happy event--for from all we are able to discover tiphaine seems to have shared his patriotic ideals--was inclined to remain at home rather than to continue his gallant, though at times almost hopeless struggle against the english. although it must have been a matter of great self-renunciation on her part, tiphaine felt that it would be much against her character for her to have any share in keeping her husband away from the scene of action, and by every means in her power she endeavoured to re-animate his former enthusiasm. in this her success was complete, and resuming his great responsibilities in the french army, much greater success attended him than at any time in the past. du guesclin was not a martyr, but he is as much the most striking figure of the fourteenth century as joan of arc is of the fifteenth. all through the period of anxiety through which the defenders of the mount had to pass when the hundred years' war was in progress, mont st michel was very largely helped against sudden attacks by the remarkable vigilance of their great watch-dogs. so valuable for the safety of the abbey and the little town were these dogs considered that louis xi. in allowed the annual sum of twenty-four pounds by tours-weight towards their keep. the document states that "from the earliest times it has been customary to have and nourish, at the said place, a certain number of great dogs, which are tied up by day, and at night brought outside the enclosure to keep watch till morning." it was during the reign of this same louis that the military order of chivalry of st michael was instituted. the king made three pilgrimages to the mount and the first chapter of this great order, which was for a long time looked upon as the most distinguished in france, was held in the salle des chevaliers. for a long while tombelaine, which lies so close to mont st michel, was in the occupation of the english, but in the account of the recovery of normandy from the english, written by jacques le bouvier, king of arms to charles vii., we find that the place surrendered very easily to the french. we are told that the fortress of tombelaine was "an exceedingly strong place and impregnable so long as the persons within it have provisions." the garrison numbered about a hundred men. they were allowed to go to cherbourg where they took ship to england about the same time as the garrisons from vire, avranches, coutances, and many other strongholds which were at this time falling like dead leaves. le bouvier at the end of his account of this wonderful break-up of the english fighting force in normandy, tells us that the whole of the duchy of normandy with all the cities, towns, and castles was brought into subjection to the king of france within one year and six days. "a very wonderful thing," he remarks, "and it plainly appears that our lord god therein manifested his grace, for never was so large a country conquered in so short a time, nor with the loss of so few people, nor with less injury, which is a great merit, honour and praise to the king of france." in the early part of the sixteenth century, mont st michel seems to have reached the high-water mark of its glories. after this time a decline commenced and cardinal le veneur reduced the number of monks to enlarge his own income. this new cardinal was the first of a series not chosen from the residents on the mount, for after the system of election among themselves which had answered so well, was abandoned, and this wealthy establishment became merely one of the coveted preferments of the church. there was no longer that enthusiasm for maintaining and continuing the architectural achievements of the past, for this new series of ecclesiastics seemed to look upon their appointment largely as a sponge which they might squeeze. in elizabethan times mont st michel once more assumed the character of a fortress and had to defend itself against the huguenots when its resources had been drained by these worldly-minded shepherds, and it is not surprising to find that the abbey which had withstood all the attacks of the english during the hundred years' war should often fall into the hands of the protestant armies, although in every case it was re-taken. a revival of the religious tone of the abbey took place early in the first quarter of the seventeenth century, when twelve benedictine monks from st maur were installed in the buildings. pilgrimages once more became the order of the day, but since the days of louis xi. part of the sub-structure of the abbey buildings had been converted into fearful dungeons, and the day came when the abbey became simply a most remarkable prison. in the time of louis xv., a frenchman named dubourg--a person who has often been spoken of as though he had been a victim of his religious convictions, but who seems to have been really a most reprehensible character--was placed in a wooden cage in one of the damp and gruesome vaults beneath the abbey. dubourg had been arrested for his libellous writings concerning the king and many important persons in the french court. he existed for a little over a year in the fearful wooden cage, and just before he died he went quite mad, being discovered during the next morning half-eaten by rats. a realistic representation of his ghastly end is given in the museum, but one must not imagine that the grating filling the semi-circular arch is at all like the actual spot where the wretched man lay. the cage itself was composed of bars of wood placed so closely together that dubourg was not able to put more than his fingers between them. the space inside was only about eight feet high and the width was scarcely greater. the cage itself was placed in a position where moisture dripped on to the miserable prisoner's body, and we can only marvel that he survived this fearful torture for so many months. during the french revolution the abbey was nothing more than a jail, and it continued to be devoted to this base use until about forty years ago. since that time, restoration has continued almost unceasingly, for in the prison period nothing was done to maintain the buildings, and there is still much work in hand which the french government who are now in control are most successfully carrying out. these are a few of the thrilling phases of the history of the rock. but what has been written scarcely does the smallest justice to its crowded pages. the only way of being fair to a spot so richly endowed with enthralling events seems to be in stirring the imagination by a preliminary visit, in order that one may come again armed with a close knowledge of all that has taken place since aubert raised his humble chapel upon the lonely rock. who does not know that sense of annoyance at being conducted over some historic building by a professional guide who mentions names and events that just whet the appetite and then leave a hungry feeling for want of any surrounding details or contemporary events which one knows would convert the mere "sight" into holy ground. i submit that a french guide, a french hand-book or a poor translation, can do little to relieve this hunger, that mont st michel is fully worthy of some preliminary consideration, and that it should not be treated to the contemptuous scurry of a day's trip. the tides that bring the sea across the great sweep of sand surrounding mont st michel, are intermittent, and it is possible to remain for a day or two on the island and be able to walk around it dry-shod at any hour. it is only at the really high tides that the waters of the bay of cancale give visitors the opportunity of seeing the fantastic buildings reflected in the sea. but although it is safer and much more pleasant to be able to examine every aspect of the rock from a boat, it is possible to walk over the sands and get the same views provided one is aware of the dangers of the quicksands which have claimed too many victims. it is somewhat terrifying that on what appears to be absolutely firm sand, a few taps of the foot will convert two or three yards beneath one's feet into a quaking mass. there is, however, no great danger at the foot of the rocks or fortifications, but to wander any distance away entails the gravest risks unless in company with a native who is fully aware of any dangerous localities. the sands are sufficiently firm to allow those who know the route to drive horses and carts to tombelaine, but this should not encourage strangers to take any chances, for the fate of the english lady who was swallowed up by the sands in sight of the ramparts and whose body now lies in the little churchyard of the town, is so distressing that any repetition of such tragedies would tend to cast a shade over the glories of the mount. you may buy among the numerous photographs and pictures for sale in the trinket shops, coloured post-cards which show flaming sunsets behind the abbey, but nothing that i have yet seen does the smallest justice to the reality. standing on the causeway and looking up to the great height of the tower that crowns the highest point, the gilded st michael with his outspread wings seems almost ready to soar away into the immensity of the canopy of heaven. through the traceried windows of the chancel of the church, the evening light on the opposite side of the rock glows through the green glass, for from this position the upper windows are opposite to one another and the light passes right through the building. the great mass of curiously simple yet most striking structures that girdle the summit of the rock and form the platform beneath the church, though built at different times, have joined in one consenescence and now present the appearance of one of those cities that dwell in the imagination when reading of "many tower'd camelot" or the turreted walls of fairyland. down below these great and inaccessible buildings comes an almost perpendicular drop of rocks, bare except for stray patches of grass or isolated bushes that have taken root in crevices. then between this and the fortified wall, with its circular bastions, encircling the base of the rock, the roofs of the little town are huddled in picturesque confusion. the necessity of accommodating the modern pilgrims has unfortunately led to the erection of one or two houses that in some measure jar with their mediaeval surroundings. another unwelcome note is struck by the needlessly aggressive board on the museum which has already been mentioned. however, when a sunset is glowing behind the mount, these modern intrusions are subdued into insignificance, and there is nothing left to disturb the harmony of the scene. a walk round the ramparts reveals an endless series of picturesque groupings of the old houses with their time-worn stone walls, over which tower the chatelet and la merveille. long flights of stone steps from the highest part of the narrow street lead up to the main entrance of the abbey buildings. here, beneath the great archway of the chatelet, sits an old blind woman who is almost as permanent a feature as the masonry on which she sits. ascending the wide flight of steps, the salle des gardes is reached. it is in the lower portion of the building known as belle-chaise, mentioned earlier in this chapter. from this point a large portion of the seemingly endless series of buildings are traversed by the visitor, who is conducted by a regular guide. you ascend a great staircase, between massive stone walls spanned by two bridges, the first a strongly built structure of stone, the next a slighter one of wood, and then reach a breezy rampart where great views over the distant coasts spread themselves out. from here you enter the church, its floor now littered with the debris of restoration. then follow the cloister and the refectory, and down below them on the second floor of the merveille is the salle des chevaliers. besides the wonderful gothic halls with their vaulted roofs and perfect simplicity of design, there are the endless series of crypts and dungeons, which leave a very strong impression on the minds of all those whose knowledge of architecture is lean. there is the shadowy crypt of les gros pilliers down below the chancel of the church; there is the charnier where the holy men were buried in the early days of the abbey; and there is the great dark space filled by the enormous wheel which was worked by the prisoners when mont st michel was nothing more than a great jail. it was by this means that the food for the occupants of the buildings was raised from down below. without knowing it, in passing from one dark chamber to another, the guide takes his little flock of peering and wondering visitors all round the summit of the rock, for it is hard, even for those who endeavour to do so, to keep the cardinal points in mind, when, except for a chance view from a narrow window, there is nothing to correct the impression that you are still on the same side of the mount as the merveille. at last the perambulation is finished--the dazzling sunshine is once more all around you as you come out to the steep steps that lead towards the ramparts. chapter viii concerning coutances and some parts of the cotentin when at last it is necessary to bid farewell to mont st michel, one is not compelled to lose sight of the distant grey silhouette for a long while. it remains in sight across the buttercup fields and sunny pastures on the road to pontaubault. then again, when climbing the zig-zag hill towards avranches the bay of mont st michel is spread out. you may see the mount again from avranches itself, and then if you follow the coast-road towards granville instead of the rather monotonous road that goes to its destination with the directness of a gun-shot, there are further views of the wonderful rock and its humble companion tombelaine. keeping along this pretty road through the little village of genets, where you actually touch the ocean, there is much pretty scenery to be enjoyed all the way to the busy town of granville. it is a watering-place and a port, the two aspects of the town being divided from each other by the great rocky promontory of lihou. if one climbs up right above the place this conformation is plainly visible, for down below is the stretch of sandy beach, with its frailly constructed concert rooms and cafes sheltering under the gaunt red cliffs, while over the shoulder of the peninsula appears a glimpse of the piers and the masts of sailing ships. there is much that is picturesque in the seaport side of the town, particularly towards evening, when the red and green harbour-lights are reflected in the sea. there are usually five or six sailing ships loading or discharging their cargoes by the quays, and you will generally find a british tramp steamer lying against one of the wharves. the sturdy crocketed spire of the sombre old church of notre dame stands out above the long line of shuttered houses down by the harbour. it is a wonderful contrast, this old portion of granville that surmounts the promontory, to the ephemeral and gay aspect of the watering-place on the northern side. but these sort of contrasts are to be found elsewhere than at granville, for at dieppe it is much the same, although the view of that popular resort that is most familiar in england, is the hideous casino and the wide sweep of gardens that occupy the sea-front. those who have not been there would scarcely believe that the town possesses a castle perched upon towering cliffs, or that its splendid old church of saint-jacques is the real glory of the place. granville cannot boast of quite so much in the way of antiquities, but there is something peculiarly fascinating about its dark church, in which the light seems unable to penetrate, and whose walls assume almost the same tones as the rocks from which the masonry was hewn. i should like to describe the scenery of the twenty miles of country that lie between granville and coutances, but i have only passed over it on one occasion. it was nine o'clock in the evening, and the long drawn-out twilight had nearly faded away as i climbed up the long ascent which commences the road to coutances, and before i had reached the village of brehal it was quite dark. the road became absolutely deserted, and although one or two people on bicycles passed me about this time, they were carrying no lamps as is the usual custom in france, where the rules governing the use of a _bicyclette_ are so numerous and intricate, but so absolutely ignored. my own lamp seemed to be a grave distraction among the invisible occupants of the roadside meadows, and often much lowing rose up on either side. the hedges would suddenly whirr with countless grasshoppers, although, no doubt, they had been amusing themselves with their monotonous noises for hours. the strange sound seemed to follow me in a most persistent fashion, and then would be merged into the croaking of a vast assemblage of frogs. these sounds, however, carry with them no real menace, however late the hour, but there is something which may almost strike terror into the heart, though it might almost be considered foolish by those who have not experienced a midnight ride in this country. the clipped and shaven trees that in daylight merely appear ridiculous, in the darkness assume an altogether different character. to the vivid imagination, it is easy to see a witch's broom swaying in the wind; a group of curious and distorted stems will suggest a row of large but painfully thin brownies, holding hands as they dance. every moment, two or three figures of gaunt and lanky witches in spreading skirts will alarm you as they suddenly appear round a corner. when they are not so uncanny in their outlines, the trees will appear like clipped poodles standing upon their hind legs, or they will suddenly assume the character of a grove of palm trees. after a long stretch of this sort of country, it is pleasant to pass through some sleeping village where there are just two or three lighted windows to show that there are still a few people awake besides oneself in this lonely country. i can imagine that the village of hyenville has some claims to beauty. i know at least that it lies in a valley, watered by the river sienne, and that the darkness allowed me to see an old stone bridge, with a cross raised above the centre of the parapet. soon after this i began to descend the hill that leads into coutances. a bend in the road, as i was rapidly descending, brought into view a whole blaze of lights, and i felt that here at last there were people and hotels, and an end to the ghostly sights of the open country. then i came to houses, but they were all quite dark, and there was not a single human being in sight. following this came a choice of streets without a possibility of knowing which one would lead in the direction of the hotel i was hoping to reach; but my perplexity was at length relieved by the advent of a tall youth whose cadaverous features were shown up by the street lamp overhead. he gave his directions clearly enough, but although i followed them carefully right up the hill past the cathedral, i began to think that i had overshot the mark, when another passer-by appeared in the silent street. i found that i was within a few yards of the hotel; but on hurrying forward, i found to my astonishment, that the whole building was completely shut up and no light appeared even within the courtyard. as i had passed the cathedral eleven reverbrating notes had echoed over the town, and it seemed as though coutances had retired earlier on this night of all nights in order that i might learn to travel at more rational hours. going inside the courtyard, my anxiety was suddenly relieved by seeing the light of a candle in a stable on the further side; a man was putting up a horse, and he at once volunteered to arouse some one who would find a bedroom. after some shouting to the gallery above, a maid appeared, and a few minutes afterwards mine host himself, clad in a long flannel night robe and protecting a flickering candle-flame with his hand, appeared at a doorway. his long grey beard gave him a most venerable aspect. the note of welcome in his cheery voice was unmistakable and soon the maid who had spoken from the balcony had shown the way up a winding circular staircase to a welcome exchange to the shelter of a haystack which i had begun to fear would be my only resting-place for the night. in the morning, the hotel d'angleterre proved to be a most picturesque old hostelry. galleries ran round three sides of the courtyard, and the circular staircase was enclosed in one of those round towers that are such a distinctive feature of the older type of french inn. the long main street does not always look deserted and in daylight it appeared as sunny and cheerful as one expects to find the chief thoroughfare of a thriving french town. coutances stands on such a bold hill that the street, almost of necessity, drops precipitously, and the cathedral which ranks with the best in france, stands out boldly from all points of view. it was principally built in the thirteenth century, but a church which had stood in its place two centuries before, had been consecrated by bishop geoffrey de montbray in , in the presence of duke william, afterwards william i. of england. the two western towers of the present cathedral are not exactly similar, and owing to their curious formation of clustered spires they are not symmetrical. it is for this reason that they are often described as being unpleasing. i am unable to echo such criticism, for in looking at the original ideas that are most plainly manifest in this most astonishing cathedral one seems to be in close touch with the long forgotten builders and architects whose notions of proportion and beauty they contrived to stamp so indelibly upon their masterpiece. from the central tower there is a view over an enormous sweep of country which includes a stretch of the coast, for coutances is only half a dozen miles from the sea. this central tower rises from a square base at the intersection of the transepts with the nave. it runs up almost without a break in an octagonal form to a parapet ornamented with open quatrefoils. the interior has a clean and fresh appearance owing to the recent restorations and is chiefly remarkable for the balustraded triforium which is continued round the whole church. in many of the windows there is glass belonging to the sixteenth century and some dates as early as the fourteenth century. besides the cathedral, the long main street of coutances possesses the churches of st nicholas and st pierre. in st nicholas one may see a somewhat unusual feature in the carved inscriptions dating from early in the seventeenth century which appear on the plain round columns. here, as in the cathedral, the idea of the balustrade under the clerestory is carried out. the fourteen stations of the cross that as usual meet one in the aisles of the nave, are in this church painted with a most unusual vividness and reality, in powerful contrast to so many of these crucifixion scenes to be seen in roman catholic churches. the church of st pierre is illustrated here, with the cathedral beyond, but the drawing does not include the great central tower which is crowned by a pyramidal spire. this church belongs to a later period than the cathedral as one may see by a glance at the classic work in the western tower, for most of the building is subsequent to the fifteenth century. st pierre and the cathedral form a most interesting study in the development from early french architecture to the renaissance; but for picturesqueness in domestic architecture coutances cannot hold up its head with lisieux, vire, or rouen. there is still a remnant of one of the town gateways and to those who spend any considerable time in the city some other quaint corners may be found. from the western side there is a beautiful view of the town with the great western towers of the cathedral rising gracefully above the quarries in the bois des vignettes. another feature of coutances is the aqueduct. it unfortunately does not date from roman times when the place was known as constantia, for there is nothing roman about the ivy-clad arches that cross the valley on the western side. from coutances northwards to cherbourg stretches that large tract of normandy which used to be known as the cotentin. at first the country is full of deep valleys and smiling hills covered with rich pastures and woodland, but as you approach lessay at the head of an inlet of the sea the road passes over a flat heathy desert. the church at lessay is a most perfect example of norman work. the situation is quite pretty, for near by flows the little river ay, and the roofs are brilliant with orange lichen. the great square tower with its round-headed norman windows, is crowned with a cupola. with the exception of the windows in the north aisle the whole of the interior is of pure norman work. there is a double triforium and the round, circular arches rest on ponderous pillars and there is also a typical norman semi-circular apse. the village, which is a very ancient one, grew round the benedictine convent established here by one turstan halduc in , and there may still be seen the wonderfully picturesque castle with its round towers. following the estuary of the river from lessay on a minor road you come to the hamlet of st germain-sur-ay. the country all around is flat, but the wide stretches of sand in the inlet have some attractiveness to those who are fond of breezy and open scenery, and the little church in the village is as old as that of lessay. one could follow this pretty coast-line northwards until the seaboard becomes bold, but we will turn aside to the little town of la haye-du-puits. there is a junction here on the railway for carentan and st lo, but the place seems to have gone on quite unaltered by this communication with the large centres of population. the remains of the castle, where lived during the eleventh century the turstan halduc just mentioned, are to be seen on the railway side of the town. the dungeon tower, picturesquely smothered in ivy, is all that remains of this norman fortress. the other portion is on the opposite side of the road, but it only dates from the sixteenth century, when it was rebuilt. turstan had a son named odo, who was seneschal to william the norman, and he is known to have received certain important lands in sussex as a reward for his services. during the next century the owner of the castle was that richard de la haye whose story is a most interesting one. he was escaping from geoffrey plantagenet, count of anjou, when he had the ill luck to fall in with some moorish pirates by whom he was captured and kept as a slave for some years. he however succeeded in regaining his liberty, and after his return to france, he and his wife, mathilde de vernon, founded the abbey of blanchelande. the ruins of this establishment are scarcely more than two miles from la haye du puits, but they unfortunately consist of little more than some arches of the abbey church and some of the walls of the lesser buildings. immediately north of la haye there is some more heathy ground, but it is higher than the country surrounding lessay. a round windmill, much resembling the ruined structure that stands out conspicuously on the bare tableland of alderney, is the first of these picturesque features that we have seen in this part of the country. it is worth mention also on account of the fact that it was at st sauveur-le-vicomte, only about seven miles distant, that the first recorded windmill was put up in france about the year , almost the same time as the first reference to such structures occurs in england. st sauveur has its castle now occupied by the hospital. it was given to sir john chandos by edward iii. after the treaty of bretigny in , and that courageous soldier, who saw so much fighting in france during the hundred years war, added much to the fortress which had already been in existence since very early times in the history of the duchy. a road runs from st sauveur straight towards the sea. it passes the corner of a forest and then goes right down to the low sandy harbour of port bail. it is a wonderful country for atmospheric effects across the embanked swamps and sandhills that lie between the hamlet and the sea. one of the two churches has a bold, square tower, dating from the fifteenth century--it now serves as a lighthouse. the harbour has two other lights and, although it can only be entered at certain tides, the little port contrives to carry on a considerable export trade of farm produce, most of it being consumed in the channel islands. the railway goes on to its terminus at cartaret, a nicely situated little seaside village close to the cape of the same name. here, if you tire of shrimping on the wide stretch of sands, it is possible to desert normandy by the little steamer that during the summer plies between this point and gorey in jersey. modern influences have given cartaret a more civilised flavour than it had a few years ago, and it now has something of the aspect of a watering-place. northwards from cartaret, a road follows the coast-line two or three miles from the cliffs to les pieux. then one can go on to flamanville by the cape which takes its name from the village, and there see the seventeenth century moated manor house. cherbourg, the greatest naval port of france, is not often visited by those who travel in normandy, for with the exception of the enormous breakwater, there is nothing beyond the sights of a huge dockyard town that is of any note. the breakwater, however, is a most remarkable work. it stands about two miles from the shore, is more than yards long by yards wide, and has a most formidable appearance with its circular forts and batteries of guns. the church of la trinite was built during the english occupation and must have been barely finished before the evacuation of the place in . since that time the post has only been once attacked by the english, and that was as recently as , when lord howe destroyed and burnt the forts, shipping and naval stores. leaving cherbourg we will take our way southwards again to valognes, a town which suffered terribly during the ceaseless wars between england and france. in , edward iii. completely destroyed the place. it was captured by the english seventy-one years afterwards and did not again become french until that remarkable year , when the whole of normandy and part of guienne was cleared of englishmen by the victorious french armies under the count of clermont and the duke of alencon. the montgommery, whose defeat at domfront castle has already been mentioned, held valognes against the catholic army, but it afterwards was captured by the victorious henry of navarre after the battle of ivry near evreux. valognes possesses a good museum containing many roman relics from the neighbourhood. a short distance from the town, on the east side, lies the village of alleaume where there remain the ivy-grown ruins of the castle in which duke william was residing when the news was brought to him of the insurrection of his barons under the viscount of the cotentin. it was at this place that william's fool revealed to him the danger in which he stood, and it was from here that he rode in hot haste to the castle of falaise, a stronghold the duke seemed to regard as safer than any other in his possession. still farther southwards lies the town of carentan, in the centre of a great butter-making district. it is, however, a dull place--it can scarcely be called a city even though it possesses a cathedral. the earliest part of this building is the west front which is of twelfth century work. the spire of the central tower has much the same appearance as those crowning the two western towers at st lo, but there is nothing about the building that inspires any particular enthusiasm although the tracery of some of the windows, especially of the reticulated one in the south transept, is exceptionally fine. chapter ix concerning st lo and bayeux the richest pasture lands occupy the great butter-making district that lies north of st lo. the grass in every meadow seems to grow with particular luxuriance, and the sleepy cows that are privileged to dwell in this choice country, show by their complaisant expressions the satisfaction they feel with their surroundings. it is wonderful to lie in one of these sunny pastures, when the buttercups have gilded the grass, and to watch the motionless red and white cattle as they solemnly let the hours drift past them. during a whole sunny afternoon, which i once spent in those pastoral surroundings, i can scarcely remember the slightest movement taking place among the somnolent herd. there was a gentle breeze that made waves in the silky sea of grass and sometimes stirred the fresh green leaves of the trees overhead. the birds were singing sweetly, and the distant tolling of the cathedral bells at carentan added a richness to the sounds of nature. imagine this scene repeated a thousand times in every direction and you have a good idea of this strip of pastoral normandy. about four miles north of st lo, the main road drops down into the pleasant little village of pont hebert and then passes over the vire where it flows through a lovely vale. in either direction the brimming waters of the river glide between brilliant green meadows, and as it winds away into the distance, the trees become more and more blue and form a charming contrast to the brighter colours near at hand. to come across the peasants of this pretty country in the garb one so frequently sees depicted as the usual dress of normandy, it is necessary to be there on a sunday or some fete day. on such days the wonderful frilled caps, that stand out for quite a foot above the head, are seen on every peasant woman. they are always of the most elaborate designs, and it is scarcely necessary to say that they are of a dazzling whiteness. the men have their characteristic dark blue close-fitting coats and the high-crowned cap that being worn on week days is much more frequently in evidence than the remarkable creations worn by the womenfolk. there is a long climb from pont hebert to st lo but there are plenty of pretty cottages scattered along the road, and these with crimson stonecrop on the roofs and may and lilac blossoming in the gardens, are pictures that prevent you from finding the way tedious. at last, from the considerable height you have reached, st lo, dominated by its great church, appears on a hill scarcely a mile away. the old town, perched upon the flat surface of a mass of rock with precipitous sides, has much the same position as domfront. but here we are shut in by other hills and there is no unlimited view of green forest-lands. the place, too, has a busy city-like aspect so that the comparison cannot be carried very far. when you have climbed the steep street that leads up through a quaint gateway to the extensive plateau above, you pass through the rue thiers and reach one of the finest views of the church. on one side of the street, there are picturesque houses with tiled roofs and curiously clustered chimneys, and beyond them, across a wide gravelly space, rises the majestic bulk of the west front of notre dame. from the wide flight of steps that leads to the main entrance, the eye travels upwards to the three deeply-recessed windows that occupy most of the surface of this end of the nave. then the two great towers, seemingly similar, but really full of individual ornament, rise majestically to a height equal to that of the highest portion of the nave. then higher still, soaring away into the blue sky above, come the enormous stone spires perforated with great multi-foiled openings all the way to the apex. both towers belong to the fifteenth century, but they were not built at quite the same time. in the chancel there is a double arcade of graceful pillars without capitals. there is much fine old glass full of beautiful colours that make a curious effect when the sunlight falls through them upon the black and white marble slabs of the floor. wedged up against the north-west corner of the exterior stands a comparatively modern house, but this incongruous companionship is no strange thing in normandy, although, as we have seen at falaise, there are instances in which efforts are being made to scrape off the humble domestic architecture that clings, barnacle-like, upon the walls of so many of the finest churches. on the north side of notre dame, there is an admirably designed outside pulpit with a great stone canopy overhead full of elaborate tracery. it overhangs the pavement, and is a noticeable object as you go towards the place de la prefecture. on this wide and open terrace, a band plays on sunday evenings. there are seats under the trees by the stone balustrade from which one may look across the roofs of the lower town filling the space beneath. the great gravelly place des beaux-regards that runs from the western side of the church, is terminated at the very edge of the rocky platform, and looking over the stone parapet you see the vire flowing a hundred feet below. this view must have been very much finer before warehouses and factory-like buildings came to spoil the river-side scenery, but even now it has qualities which are unique. facing the west end of the church, the most striking gabled front of the maison dieu forms part of one side of the open space. this building may at first appear almost too richly carved and ornate to be anything but a modern reproduction of a mediaeval house, but it has been so carefully preserved that the whole of the details of the front belong to the original time of the construction of the house. the lower portion is of heavy stone-work, above, the floors project one over the other, and the beauty of the timber-framing and the leaded windows is most striking. st lo teems with soldiers, and it has a town-crier who wears a dark blue uniform and carries a drum to call attention to his announcements. in the lower part of the town, in the rue des halles, you may find the corn-market now held in the church that was dedicated to thomas a becket. the building was in course of construction when the primate happened to be at st lo and he was asked to name the saint to whom the church should be dedicated. his advice was that they should wait until some saintly son of the church should die for its sake. strangely enough he himself died for the privileges of the church, and thus his name was given to this now desecrated house of god. the remains of the fortifications that crown the rock are scarcely noticeable at the present time, and it is very much a matter of regret that the town has, with the exception of the tour beaux-regards, lost the walls and towers that witnessed so many sieges and assaults from early norman times right up to the days of henry of navarre. it was one of the towns that was held by geoffrey plantagenet in stephen's reign, and it was burnt by edward iii. about the same time as valognes. then again in the religious wars of the sixteenth century, a most terrific attack was made on st lo by matignon who overcame the resistance of the garrison after colombieres, the leader, had been shot dead upon the ramparts. it is fortunate for travellers in hot weather that exactly half-way between st lo and bayeux there lies the shade of the extensive forest of cerisy through which the main road cuts in a perfectly straight line. at semilly there is a picturesque calvary. the great wooden cross towers up to a remarkable height so that the figure of our lord is almost lost among the overhanging trees, and down below a double flight of mossy stone steps leads up to the little walled-in space where the wayfarer may kneel in prayer at the foot of the cross. onward from this point, the dust and heat of the roadway can become excessive, so that when at last the shade of the forest is reached, its cool glades of slender beech-trees entice you from the glaring sunshine--for towards the middle of the day the roadway receives no suggestion of shadows from the trees on either side. in this part of the country, it is a common sight to meet the peasant women riding their black donkeys with the milk cans resting in panniers on either side. the cans are of brass with spherical bodies and small necks, and are kept brilliantly burnished. the forest left behind, an extensive pottery district is passed through. the tuilleries may be seen by the roadside in nearly all the villages, naron being entirely given up to this manufacture. great embankments of dark brown jars show above the hedges, and the furnaces in which the earthenware is baked, are almost as frequent as the cottages. there are some particularly quaint, but absolutely simple patterns of narrow necked jugs that appear for sale in some of the shops at bayeux and caen. soon the famous norman cathedral with its three lofty spires appears straight ahead. in a few minutes the narrow streets of this historic city are entered. the place has altogether a different aspect to the busy and cheerful st lo. the ground is almost level, it is difficult to find any really striking views, and we miss the atmosphere of the more favourably situated town. perhaps it is because of the evil influence of caen, but certainly bayeux lacks the cleanliness and absence of smells that distinguishes coutances and avranches from some of the other norman towns. it is, however, rich in carved fronts and timber-framed houses, and probably is the nearest rival to lisieux in these features. the visitor is inclined to imagine that he will find the tapestry for which he makes a point of including bayeux in his tour, at the cathedral or some building adjoining it, but this is not the case. it is necessary to traverse two or three small streets to a tree-grown public square where behind a great wooden gateway is situated the museum. as a home for such a priceless relic as this great piece of needlework, the museum seems scarcely adequate. it has a somewhat dusty and forlorn appearance, and although the tapestry is well set out in a long series of glazed wooden cases, one feels that the risks of fire and other mischances are greater here than they would be were the tapestry kept in a more modern and more fire-proof home. queen mathilda or whoever may have been either the actual producer or the inspirer of the tapestry must have used brilliant colours upon this great length of linen. during the nine centuries that have passed since the work was completed the linen has assumed the colour of light brown canvas, but despite this, the greens, blues, reds, and buffs of the stitches show out plainly against the unworked background. there is scarcely an english history without a reproduction of one of the scenes portrayed in the long series of pictures, and london has in the south kensington museum a most carefully produced copy of the original. even the chapter-house of westminster abbey has its coloured reproductions of the tapestry, so that it is seldom that any one goes to bayeux without some knowledge of the historic events portrayed in the needlework. there are fifty-eight separate scenes on the feet of linen. they commence with harold's instructions from edward the confessor to convey to william the norman the fact that he (harold) is to become king of england. then follows the whole story leading up to the flight of the english at senlac hill. even if this wonderful piece of work finds a more secure resting-place in paris, bayeux will still attract many pilgrims for its cathedral and its domestic architecture compare favourably with many other norman towns. the misfortunes that attended the early years of the life of the cathedral were so numerous and consistent that the existence of the great structure to-day is almost a matter for surprise. it seems that the first church made its appearance during the eleventh century, and it was in it that harold unwittingly took that sacred oath on the holy relics, but by some accident the church was destroyed by fire and there is probably nothing left of this earliest building except the crypt. eleven years after the conquest of england, william was present at bayeux when a new building built by his half-brother odo, bishop of bayeux, was consecrated. ten years after his death, however, this second church was burnt down. they rebuilt it once more a few years later, but a third time a fire wrought much destruction. the portions of the cathedral that survived this century of conflagrations can be seen in the two great western towers, in the arches of the norman nave, and a few other portions. the rest of the buildings are in the early french period of pointed architecture, with the exception of the central tower which is partly of the flamboyant period, but the upper portion is as modern as the middle of last century. the spandrels of the nave arcades are covered over with a diaper work of half a dozen or more different patterns, some of them scaly, some representing interwoven basket-work, while others are composed simply of a series of circles, joined together with lines. there are curious little panels in each of these spandrels that are carved with the most quaint and curious devices. some are strange, chinese-looking dragons, and some show odd-looking figures or mitred saints. the panel showing harold taking the oath is modern. there is a most imposing pulpit surmounted by a canopy where a female figure seated on a globe is surrounded by cherubs, clouds (or are they rocks?) and fearful lightning. at a shrine dedicated to john the baptist, the altar bears a painting in the centre showing the saint's dripping head resting in the charger. quite close to the west front of the cathedral there stands a house that still bears its very tall chimney dating from mediaeval times. not far from this there is one of the timber-framed fifteenth century houses ornamented with curious carvings of small figures, and down in the rue st malo there is an even richer example of the same type of building. on the other side of the road, nearer the cathedral, a corner house stands out conspicuously. [illustration: an ancient house in the rue st malo, bayeux] it is shown in the illustration given here and its curious detail makes it one of the most quaint of all the ancient houses in the city. some of these old buildings date from the year , when normandy was swept clear of the english, and it is probably owing to the consideration of the leader of the french army that there are any survivals of this time. the lord of montenay was leading the duke of alencon's troops and with him were pierre de louvain, robert conigrain and a number of free archers. after they had battered the walls of bayeux with their cannon for fifteen days, and after they had done much work with mines and trenches, the french were ready for an assault. the king of france, however, and the notables who have been mentioned "had pity for the destruction of the city and would not consent to the assault." without their orders, however, the troops, whose ardour could not be restrained, attacked in one place, but not having had the advice of their leaders the onslaught was quite indecisive, both sides suffering equally from arrows and culverins. it was soon after this that matthew gough, the english leader, was obliged to surrender the city, and we are told that nine hundred of the bravest and the best soldiers of the duchy of normandy came out and were allowed to march to cherbourg. the french lords "for the honour of courtesy" lent some of their horses to carry the ladies and the other gentlewomen, and they also supplied carts to convey the ordinary womenfolk who went with their husbands. "it was," says jacques le bouvier, who describes the scene, "a thing pitiful to behold. some carried the smallest of the children in their arms, and some were led by hand, and in this way the english lost possession of bayeux." [illustration: the gateway of the chateau] chapter x concerning caen and the coast towards trouville caen, like mediaeval london, is famed for its bells and its smells. if you climb up to any height in the town you will see at once that the place is crowded with the spires and towers of churches; and, if you explore any of the streets, you are sure to discover how rudimentary are the notions of sanitation in the historic old city. if you come to caen determined to thoroughly examine all the churches, you must allow at least two or three days for this purpose, for although you might endeavour to "do" the place in one single day, you would remember nothing but the fatigue, and the features of all the churches would become completely confused. my first visit to caen, several years ago, is associated with a day of sight-seeing commenced at a very early hour. i had been deposited at one of the quays by the steamer that had started at sunrise and had slowly glided along the ten miles of canal from ouistreham, reaching its destination at about five o'clock. the town seemed thoroughly awake at this time, the weather being brilliantly fine. white-capped women were everywhere to be seen sweeping the cobbled streets with their peculiarly fragile-looking brooms. it was so early by the actual time, however, that it seemed wise to go straight to the hotel and to postpone the commencement of sight-seeing until a more rational hour. my rooms at the hotel, however, were not yet vacated, so that it was impossible to go to my bedroom till eight o'clock. the hotel courtyard, though picturesque, with its three superimposed galleries and its cylindrical tower containing the staircase, was not, at this hour in the morning at least, a place to linger in. it seemed therefore the wisest plan to begin an exploration of some of the adjoining streets to fill the time. after having seen the exterior of three or four churches, the interiors of some others; after having explored a dozen curious courtyards and the upper part of the town, where the chateau stands, the clocks began to strike seven, although to me it seemed like noon. by half-past eight the afternoon seemed well advanced, and when dejeuner made its appearance at the hotel it seemed as though the day would never cease. i had by this time seen several more churches and interesting old buildings, and my whole senses had become so jaded that i would scarcely have moved a yard to have seen the finest piece of architecture in the whole of normandy. the circumstances of this day, were, no doubt, exceptional, but i mention them as a warning to those who with a pathetic conscientiousness endeavour to see far more than they can possibly comprehend in the space of a very few hours. it would be far better to spend one's whole time in the great church of the abbaye aux hommes, and photograph in one's mind the simplicity of the early norman structure, than to have a confused recollection of this, st pierre, the church of the abbaye aux darnes and half a dozen others. the galleried hotel i have mentioned was known as the hotel st barbe. it is now converted into a warehouse, but no one need regret this for it was more pleasant to look at than to actually stay in. i am glad, personally, to have had this experience; to have seen the country carts, with the blue sheep-skins over the horse collars, drive into the courtyard, and to have watched the servants of the hotel eating their meals at a long table in the open air. there was a spanish flavour about the place that is not found in the modern hotels. there is no town i have ever known more confusing in its plan than caen, and, although i have stayed there for nearly a week on one occasion, i am still a little uncertain in which direction to turn for the castle when i am at the church of st jean. the streets, as a rule, are narrow and have a busy appearance that is noticeable after the quiet of bayeux. the clatter and noise of the omnibuses has been subdued in recent years by the introduction of electric trams which sweep round the corners with a terrifying speed, for after a long sojourn in the country and quiet little towns one loses the agility and wariness of the town-bred folk. caen, of course, does not compete with lisieux for its leading position as the possessor of the largest number of old houses, but it nevertheless can show some quaint carved fronts in the rue st pierre and the narrow streets adjoining. at the present time the marks of antiquity are being removed from the beautiful renaissance courtyard of the bourse near st pierre. the restoration has been going on for some years, and the steps that lead up to the entrance in one corner of the quadrangle are no longer stained with the blackish-green of a prolonged period of damp. but it is better, however, that this sixteenth century house should assume a fictitious newness rather than fall entirely into disrepair. it was originally the house of one of the wealthy families of caen named le valois, and was known as the hotel d'escoville. another splendid house is the hotel de la monnaie built by the famous and princely merchant etienne duval, sieur de mondrainville, whose great wealth enabled him to get sufficient supplies into metz to make it possible for the place to hold out during its siege in . in his most admirably written book "highways and byways in normandy," mr dearmer gives an interesting sketch of this remarkable man whose success brought him jealous enemies. they succeeded in bringing charges against him for which he was exiled, and at another time he was imprisoned in the castle at caen until, with great difficulty, he had proved the baseness of the attacks upon his character. duval was over seventy when he died, being, like job, wealthy and respected, for he had survived the disasters that had fallen upon him. the gateway of the chateau is the best and most imposing portion of the fortifications of caen. the castle being now used as barracks, visitors as a rule are unable to enter, but as the gateway may be seen from outside the deep moat, the rest of the place need not tantalise one. in william the conqueror's time the castle was being built, and the town walls included the two great abbeys for which caen is chiefly famous. these two magnificent examples of norman architecture have been restored with great thoroughness so that the marks of antiquity that one might expect are entirely wanting in both buildings. the exterior of the great church of st etienne disappoints so many, largely from the fact that the gaunt west front is the only view one really has of the building except from a distance. inside, services seem to go on at most times of the day, and when you are quietly looking at the mighty nave with its plain, semicircular arches and massive piers, you are suddenly startled by the entry from somewhere of a procession of priests loudly singing some awe-inspiring chant, the guttural tones of the singers echoing through the aisles. following the clerical party will come a rabble of nuns, children and ordinary laity, and before you have scarcely had time to think a service has commenced, people are kneeling, and if you do not make haste towards the doors a priest will probably succeed in reaching you with a collecting dish in which one is not inclined to place even a sou if the service has hindered the exploration of the church. owing to the perpetuation of an error in some of the english guides to normandy, it is often thought that a thigh-bone of the founder of the abbey is still lying beneath the marble slab in the sanctuary, but this is a great mistake, for that last poor relic of william the conqueror was lost during the revolution. the whole story of the death, the burial, and the destruction of the tomb and remains of the founder of the abbey are most miserable and even gruesome. william was at rouen when he died, and we need scarcely remind ourselves of that tragic scene discovered by the clergy when they came to the house not long after the great man had expired. every one of william's suite had immediately recognised the changed state of affairs now that the inflexible will that had controlled the two kingdoms had been removed, and each, concerned for himself, had betaken himself with indecent haste to england or wherever his presence might be most opportune. in this way, there being no one left to watch the corpse, the archbishop of rouen discovered that the house and even the bed had been pillaged, so that the royal body was lying in great disorder until reverently tended by a norman gentleman named herluin. having fulfilled william's wishes and brought the remains to caen, a stately funeral was arranged. as the procession slowly passed through the narrow streets, however, it was interrupted by an alarm of fire-some of the wooden houses blazing fiercely just when the bier was passing. the flames grew so quickly that in some danger the mournful procession was dispersed and the coffin was only attended by a few monks when the gates of the abbaye aux hommes were reached. eventually the burial ceremonies were in progress beside the open grave within the church, but another interruption ensued. scarcely had the bishop of evreux concluded his address when everybody was startled at hearing the loud voice of ascelin resounding through the church. he was a well-known man, a burgher, and a possessor of considerable wealth, and it was therefore with considerable anxiety that the clergy heard his claim upon the ground in which they were about to bury william. it was the actual site of a house that had belonged to ascelin's father, for the dead king had shown no consideration to private claims when he was building the great abbey to appease the wrath of the church. the disturbance having been settled by the payment for the grave of a sum which ascelin was induced to accept, the proceedings were resumed. but then came the worst scene of all, for it has been recorded that the coffin containing the ponderous body of the king had not been made with sufficient strength, and as it was being lowered into the grave, the boards gave way, and so gruesome was the result that the church was soon emptied. it thus came about that once more in the last phase of all william was deserted except by a few monks. the monument which was raised over the conqueror's grave, was, however, of a most gorgeous character. it was literally encrusted with precious gems, and it is known that enormous quantities of gold from the accumulated stores of wealth which william had made were used by otto the goldsmith (sometimes known as aurifaber) who was entrusted with the production of this most princely tomb. such a striking object as this could scarcely pass through many centuries in safety, and we find that in the huguenot wars of the seventeenth century it was largely destroyed and the stone coffin was broken open, the bones being scattered. we only know what became of a thigh-bone which was somehow rescued by a monk belonging to the abbey. he kept it for some time, and in it was replaced in a new, but much less gorgeous tomb. about one hundred years later, it was moved to another part of the church, but in the revolution this third tomb was broken into, and the last relic of the conqueror was lost. then after some years, the prefet of calvados placed upon the site of the desecrated tomb the slab of black marble that still marks the spot. the inscription reads "hic sepultus est, invictissimus guielmus conquestor, normanniae dux et angliae rex, hujusce domus conditor qui obit anno mlxxxvii." when lanfranc had been sent to the pope by william with a view to making some arrangement by which the king could retain his wife matilda and at the same time the good offices of the church, his side of the bargain consisted in undertaking to build two great abbeys at caen, one for men and one for women. the first we have already been examining, the other is at the eastern side of the town on the hill beyond the castle. it is a more completely norman building than st etienne, but its simple, semi-circular arches and round-headed windows contrast strangely with the huge pontifical canopy of draped velvet that is suspended above the altar, and very effectually blocks the view of the norman apse beyond. the smallness of the windows throughout the building subdues the light within, and thus gives st trinite a somewhat different character to st etienne. the capitals of the piers of the arcade are carved with strange-looking monkeys and other designs, and there are chevron mouldings conspicuous in the nave. the tomb of queen mathilda is in the choir. like that of her husband it has been disturbed more than once, so that the marble slab on top is all that remains of the original. opposite the place reine mathilde stands the desecrated church of st gilles, one of the numerous beautiful buildings in caen now in partial ruin and occupied as warehouses, wine-vaults or workshops. they are all worth looking for, and if possible examining inside as well as out, for they include some beautiful flamboyant structures and others of earlier date, such as st nicholas, illustrated here, which in part dates from norman times. st etienne le vieux, quite close to the abbaye aux hommes, is a beautiful building rich in elaborate carving and rows of gargoyles. it was built in the early years of the fifteenth century in place of one which had fallen into ruin when henry v. besieged caen. it is still unrestored, and if you peep inside the open doors you will see the interior filled with ladders, boxes, brooms, and a thousand odds and ends, this most beautiful structure being used as a municipal workshop. we have more than once referred to the church of st pierre, but as yet we have made no reference to its architecture. the tower and graceful spire needs no detailed description, for it appears in the coloured illustration adjoining, and from it one may see what a strikingly perfect structure this is for such an early date as . it is a marvel of construction, for the spire within is hollow, and without any interior framework or supports at all. although it is so seemingly frail, it was used during the sixteenth century for military purposes, having been selected as a good position for firing upon the castle, and it naturally became a target for the guns inside the fortress. you cannot now see the holes made by the cannon balls, but although they were not repaired for many years the tower remained perfectly stable, as a proof of the excellent work of nicholas, the englishman who built it. unlike the church of the abbaye aux dames, st pierre is brilliantly lit inside by large, traceried windows that let in the light through their painted glass. in the nave the roof is covered with the most elaborate vaulting with great pendants dropping from the centre of each section; but for the most crowded ornament one must examine the chancel and the chapels. the church of st jean is not conspicuous, but it is notable for two or three features. the western tower is six and a half feet out of perpendicular, the triforium has a noticeable balustrade running all round, and the chancel is longer than the nave. st sauveur, in the rue st pierre is of the same period as st jean, but its tower if it had been crocketed would have very closely resembled that of st pierre, and it is chiefly notable for the fact that it is two churches thrown into one--that of st eustace being joined on to it. another feature of caen that is often overlooked is the charm of its old courtyards. behind some of the rather plain stone fronts, the archways lead into little paved quadrangles that have curious well-heads, rustic outside staircases, and odd-shaped dormer windows on the steep roofs. one of these courtyards behind a house in the rue de bayeux is illustrated here, but to do justice to the quaintnesses that are to be revealed, it would have been necessary to give several examples. in the boulevard st pierre, where the pavements are shaded by pink horse chestnuts there stands the tour le roy. it is the most noticeable remnant of the days when caen was a walled and strongly fortified city, but as you look at it to-day it seems too much like a good piece of the sham antique to be found at large exhibitions. it is the restoration that is at fault, and not the tower itself, which is really old, and no doubt is in quiet rebellion at the false complexion it is obliged to wear. the view of caen from across the race-course is a beautiful one, but under some aspects this is quite eclipsed by the wonderful groupings of the church towers seen from the canal as it goes out of the town towards the east. i can remember one particular afternoon when there was a curious mistiness through which the western sunlight passed, turning everything into a strange, dull gold. it was a light that suppressed all that was crude and commercial near at hand and emphasised the medievalism of the place by throwing out spires and towers in softly tinted silhouettes. i love to think of caen robed in this cloth of gold, and the best i can wish for every one who goes there with the proper motives, is that they may see the place in that same light. on the left, a few miles out of caen on the road to creully, stands the abbaye d'ardennes where charles vii. lodged when his army was besieging the city in . the buildings are now used as a farm, and the church is generally stacked with hay and straw up to the triforium. although they start towards the east, the canal and the river orne taking parallel courses run generally towards the north, both entering the sea by the village of ouistreham, the ancient port of caen. along the margin of the canal there is a good road, and almost hidden by the long grass outside the tall trees that line the canal on each bank, runs the steam tramway to cabourg and the coast to the west of the orne. except when the fussy little piece of machinery drawing three or four curious, open-sided trams, is actually passing, the tramway escapes notice, for the ground is level and the miniature rails are laid on the ground without any excavating or embanking. the scenery as you go along the tramway, the road, or the canal, is charming, the pastures on either side being exceedingly rich, and the red and white cattle seem to revel in the long grass and buttercups. heronville, blainville and other sleepy villages are pleasantly perched on the slight rise on the western side of the canal. their churches, with red roofs all subdued with lichen into the softest browns, rise above the cottages or farm buildings that surround them in the ideal fashion that is finally repeated at ouistreham where locks impound the waters of the canal, and a great lighthouse stands out more conspicuously than the church tower. seen through the framework of closely trimmed trees ouistreham makes a notable picture. the great norman church is so exceedingly imposing for such a mere village, that it is easy to understand how, as a port in the middle ages, ouistreham flourished exceedingly. the tramway crosses the canal at benouville on its way to cabourg, and leaving the shade of birches and poplars takes its way over the open fields towards the sea. benouville is best remembered on account of its big chateau with a great classic portico much resembling a section of waterloo place perched upon a fine terraced slope. ranville has an old church tower standing in lonely fashion by itself, and you pass a conspicuous calvary as you go on to the curious little seaside resort known as le home-sur-mer. the houses are bare and (if one may coin a word) seasidey. perched here and there on the sandy ridge between the road and the shore, they have scarcely anything more to suggest a garden than the thin wiry grass that contrives to exist in such soil. down on the wide sandy beach there is an extensive sweep of the coast to be seen stretching from beyond ouistreham to the bold cliffs of le havre. keeping along the road by the tramway you have been out of sight of the sea, but in a few minutes the pleasant leafiness of cabourg has been reached. here everything has the full flavour of a seaside resort, for we find a casino, a long esplanade, hotels, shops and bathing apparatus. it is a somewhat strong dose of modern life after the slumbering old world towns and villages we have been exploring, and it is therefore with great satisfaction that we turn toward the village of dives lying close at hand. the place possesses a splendid old market hall, more striking perhaps than that of ecouche and a picturesque inn--the hotel guillaume le conquerant. the building is of stone with tiled roofs, and in the two courtyards there are galleries and much ancient timber-framing, but unfortunately the proprietor has not been content to preserve the place in its natural picturesqueness. he has crowded the exterior, as well as the rooms, with a thousand additions of a meretricious character which detract very much from the charm of the fine old inn and defeat the owner's object, that of making it attractive on account of its age and associations. madame de sevigne wrote many of her letters in one of the rooms, but we know that she saw none of the sham antique lamps, the well-head, or the excess of flowers that blaze in the courtyards. on account of its name, the unwary are trapped into thinking that william the norman--for he had still to defeat harold--could have frequently been seen strolling about this hostelry, when his forces for invading england were gathering and his fleet of ships were building. this is, of course, a total misapprehension, for the only structure that contains anything that dates back to is the church. even this building dates chiefly from the fourteenth century, but there is to be seen, besides the norman walls, a carved wooden cross that is believed to have been found in the sea, and therefore to have some connection with william's great fleet and its momentous voyage to england. the names of the leading men who accompanied william are engraved upon two marble slabs inside the church, and on the hill above the village a short column put up by m. de caumont, commemorates the site upon which william is believed to have inspected his forces previous to their embarkation. it is a difficult matter to form any clear idea of the size of this army for the estimates vary from , to , , and there is also much uncertainty as to the number of ships employed in transporting the host across the channel. the lowest estimates suggest vessels, and there is every reason to believe that they were quite small. the building of so large a fleet of even small boats between the winter and summer of must have employed an enormous crowd of men, and we may be justified in picturing a very busy scene on the shores of this portion of the coast of normandy. duke william's ship, which was named the _mora_, had been presented to him by his wife mathilda, and most of the vessels had been built and manned by the norman barons and prelates, the bishop of bayeux preparing no less than a hundred ships. the conquest of england must have almost been regarded as a holy crusade! when the fleet left the mouth of the river dives it did not make at once for pevensey bay. the ships instead worked along the coast eastwards to the somme, where they waited until a south wind blew, then the vessels all left the estuary each carrying a light, for it was almost dark. by the next morning the white chalk of beachy head was in sight, and at nine o'clock william had landed on english soil. close to dives and in sight of the hill on which the normans were mustered, there is a small watering-place known as houlgate-sur-mer. the houses are charmingly situated among trees, and the place has in recent years become known as one of those quiet resorts where princes and princesses with their families may be seen enjoying the simple pleasures of the seaside, _incognito_. this fact, of course, gets known to enterprising journalists who come down and photograph these members of the european royal families wherever they can get them in particularly unconventional surroundings. from houlgate all the way to trouville the country is wooded and hilly, and in the hollows, where the timber-framed farms with their thatched roofs are picturesquely arranged, there is much to attract the visitor who, wearying of the gaiety of trouville and its imitators along the coast, wishes to find solitudes and natural surroundings. chapter xi some notes on the history of normandy the early inhabitants of normandy submitted to the roman legions under titurus sabinus in b.c. , only a few years before caesar's first attempt upon britain. by their repeated attacks upon roman territory the gaulish tribes had brought upon themselves the invasion which, after some stubborn fighting, made their country a province of the roman empire. inter-tribal strife having now ceased, the civilisation of rome made its way all over the country including that northern portion known as neustria, much of which from the days of rollo came to be called normandy. traces of the roman occupation are scattered all over the province, the most remarkable being the finely preserved theatre at lillebonne, a corruption of juliabona, mentioned in another chapter. in the second century rouen, under its roman name rotomagos, is mentioned by ptolemy. it was then merely the capital of the tribe of velocasses, but in diocletian's reign it had become not only the port of roman paris, but also the most important town in the province. in time the position occupied by rotomagos became recognised as one having greater strategical advantages than juliabona, a little further down the river, and this gallo-roman precursor of the modern rouen became the headquarters of the provincial governor. the site of rotomagos would appear to include the palais de justice and the cathedral of the present day. after the four centuries of roman rule came the incursions of the savage hordes of northern europe, and of the great army of huns, under attila, who marched through gaul in a.d. . the romans with their auxiliaries engaged attila at chalons--the battle in which fabulous numbers of men are said to have fallen on both sides. the roman power was soon completely withdrawn from gaul, and the franks under clovis, after the battle of soissons, made themselves complete masters of the country. in clovis died. he had embraced christianity fifteen years before, having been baptised at rheims, probably through the influence of his wife clothilda. then for two hundred and fifty years france was under the merovingian kings, and throughout much of this period there was very little settled government, neustria, together with the rest of france, suffering from the lawlessness that prevailed under these "sluggard" kings. rouen was still the centre of many of the events connected with the history of neustria. we know something of the story of hilparik, a king of neustria, whose brutal behaviour to his various queens and the numerous murders and revenges that darkened his reign, form a most unsavoury chapter in the story of this portion of france. following this period came the time when france was ruled by the mayors of the palace who, owing to the weakness of the sovereigns, gradually assumed the whole of the royal power. after charles martel, the most famous of these mayors, had defeated the saracens at tours, came his son pepin-le-bref, the father of charlemagne. childeric, the last of the merovingian kings, had been put out of the way in a monastery and pepin had become the king of france. charlemagne, however, soon made himself greater still as emperor of an enormous portion of europe--france, italy, and germany all coming under his rule. at his death charlemagne divided his empire. his successor louis le debonnaire, owing to his easy-going weakness, fell a prey to charlemagne's other sons, and at his death, charles the bald became king of france and the country west of the rhine. the other portions of the empire falling to lothaire and the younger louis. during all this period, france had suffered from endless fighting and the famines that came as an unevitable consequence, and just about this time neustria suffered still further owing to the incursions of the danes. even in charlemagne's time the black-sailed ships of the northmen had been seen hovering along the coast near the mouth of the seine, and it has been said that the great emperor wept at the sight of some of these awe-inspiring pirates. in the year the northmen had sailed up the seine as far as rouen, but they found little to plunder, for during the reign of the merovingian kings, the town had been reduced to a mere shadow of its former prosperity. there had been a great fire and a great plague, and its ruin had been rendered complete during the civil strife that succeeded the death of charlemagne. wave after wave came the northern invasions led by such men as bjorn ironside, and ragnar lodbrog. charles the bald, fearing to meet these dreaded warriors, bribed them away from the walls of paris in the year . but they came again twelve years afterwards in search of more of the frenchmen's gold. when charles the fat, the german emperor, became also king of france, he had to suffer for his treacherous murder of a danish chief, for soon afterwards came the great rollo with a large fleet of galleys, and paris was besieged once more. odo, count of paris, held out successfully, but when the king came from germany with his army, instead of attacking the danes, he induced them to retire by offering them a bribe of lbs. of silver. before long odo became king of france, but after ten years of constant fighting, he died and was succeeded by charles the simple. this title does an injustice to his character, for he certainly did more for france than most of his predecessors. finding the northmen too firmly established in neustria to have any hope of successfully driving them out of the country, he made a statesmanlike arrangement with rollo. the dane was to do homage to the french king, to abandon his gods thor, odin and the rest for christianity, and in return was to be made ruler of the country between the river epte and the sea, and westwards as far as the borders of brittany rollo was also to be given the hand of the princess gisela in marriage. rouen became the capital of the new duchy of normandy, and the old name of neustria disappeared. the northmen were not at this time numerous, but they continued to come over in considerable numbers establishing centres such as that of bayeux, where only danish was spoken. as in england, this warrior people showed the most astonishing adaptability to the higher civilisation with which they had come into contact, and the new generations that sprang up on french soil added to the vigour and daring of their ancestors the manners and advanced customs of france, although the northmen continued to be called "the pirates" for a considerable time. when rollo died he was succeeded by his son william longsword, and from an incident mentioned by mr t.a. cook in his "story of rouen," we can see the attitude of the normans towards charles the simple. he had sent down to rouen two court gallants to sympathise with the princess gisela, his daughter, for the rough treatment she had received at the hands of rollo, but they were both promptly siezed and hanged in what is now the place du marche vieux. great stone castles were beginning to appear at all the chief places in normandy, and when duke richard had succeeded harold blacktooth we find that the duchy was assuming an ordered existence internally. the feudal system had then reached its fullest development, and the laws established by rollo were properly administered. with the accession of hugh capet to the throne of france, normandy had become a most loyal as well as powerful fief of the crown. the tenth century witnessed also an attempt on the part of the serfs of the duchy to throw off something of the awful grip of the feudal power. these peasants were the descendants of celts, of romans, and of franks, and their efforts to form a representative assembly bear a pathetic resemblance to the movement towards a similar end in russia of to-day. the representatives of the serfs were treated with the most fearful cruelty and sent back to their villages; but the movement did not fail to have its effects, for the condition of the villains in normandy was always better than in other parts of france. broadly speaking, all the successors of rollo, the first duke of normandy, governed the country with wisdom and ability, and although there was more or less constant war, either with the french, who were always hoping to regain the lost province, or with rebellious barons who disputed the authority of the dukes, yet the country progressed steadily and became prosperous. abbeys and churches that the invaders had laid waste were rebuilt on a larger scale. at jumieges there are still to be seen some remains of the church that william longsword began to build for the unfortunate monks who had been left homeless after their abbey had been destroyed by the "pirates." richard i., who died in , had added to the cathedral at rouen, and the abbey of st ouen prospered greatly in the religious revival that became so widespread during the eleventh century. duke richard ii. had been assisted on one occasion by olaf, king of norway, and before his return to the north that monarch, impressed no doubt by the pomp of the ceremonial, was in baptised in the cathedral at rouen. after richard ii. came robert the magnificent, who was called also robert the devil by the people. it was he, who from the walls of his castle at falaise, if the legend be true, first saw arlette the tanner's daughter who afterwards became the mother of william the bastard. as a boy william had a perilous life, and it is almost marvellous that he survived to change his appellation to that of "conqueror." robert the magnificent had joined one of the crusades to the holy land when william was only seven years old, but before he left normandy, he had made it known that he wished the boy to succeed him. for twenty years there was civil war between the greater barons and the supporters of the heir, but in the end william showed himself sufficiently strong to establish his power. he won a great battle at val-es-dunes where he had been met by the barons led by guy of burgundy, and, having taken some of the most formidable fortresses in the duchy, he turned his attention to his foes outside with equal success. soon after this william married mathilda a daughter of count baldwin of flanders, but although by this act he made peace with her country, william soon found himself in trouble with the church. bishop mauger, whom he had appointed to the see of rouen, found fault with the marriage owing to its being within the forbidden degrees of relationship, and the papal sanction having been refused, william only obtained his wishes through the agency of lanfranc. all his life william appears to have set a stern example of purity in family life, and his relations with the church, from this time to his death, seem to have been most friendly. it was largely due to his religious life as well as the support he gave to the monasteries that william was able to give the colour of a religious crusade to his project for invading england. harold had slighted the sacredness of the holy relics of the saints of normandy, and william was to show england that their king's action was not to pass unpunished. in this way the norman host that assembled at dives, while the great fleet was being prepared, included many who came from outside william's dominions. after the whole of england had been completely subjugated william had his time and attention largely taken up with affairs in normandy. his son robert was soon in open rebellion, and assisted by the french king, philip i., robert brought about the death of his father, for it was while devastating a portion of french territory that william received the injury which resulted in his death. robert then became duke of normandy, and there followed those sanguinary quarrels between the three brothers william rufus, king of england, henry beauclerc and robert. finally, after his return from palestine, robert came to england to endeavour to make peace with his younger brother henry, who was now king, but the quarrel was not to be settled in this way. henry, determined to add normandy to the english crown, crossed the channel with a large army and defeated his brother at tinchebrai in . with the accession of stephen to the english throne in , came the long struggle between that king and maud. when henry ii. married eleanor of aquitaine, not only that great province but also maine and anjou came under his sway, so that for a time normandy was only a portion of the huge section of france belonging to the english crown. during his long reign henry spent much time in normandy, and argentan and avranches are memorable in connection with the tragedy of thomas a becket. during the absence of richard coeur-de-lion in palestine john became exceedingly friendly with philip augustus, the french king, but when richard was dead he found cause to quarrel with the new english king and, after the fall of the chateau gaillard, john soon discovered that he had lost the duchy of normandy and had earned for himself the name of "lackland." from this time, namely, the commencement of the thirteenth century, normandy belonged to the crown of france although english armies were, until , in frequent occupation of the larger towns and fortresses. in and out of three normandy inns by anna bowman dodd [illustration: guillaume-le-conquerant-dives] to edmund clarence stedman. _my dear mr. stedman: to this little company of norman men and women, you will, i know, extend a kindly greeting, if only because of their nationality. to your courtesy, possibly, you will add the leaven of interest, when you perceive--as you must--that their qualities are all their own, their defects being due solely to my own imperfect presentment. with sincere esteem_, anna bowman dodd. _new york_. contents. villerville. i. a landing on the coast of france ii. a spring drive iii. from an inn window iv. out on a mussel-bed v. the village vi. a pagan cobbler vii. some norman landladies viii. the quartier latin on the beach ix. a norman household x. ernestine along an old post-road. xi. to an old manoir xii. a norman cure xiii. honfleur--new and old dives. xiv. a coast drive xv. guillaume-le-conquerant xvi. the green bench xvii. the world that came to dives xviii. the conversation of patriots xix. in la chambre des marmousets two banquets at dives. xx. a seventeenth century revival xxi. the after-dinner talk of three great ladies xxii. a nineteenth century breakfast a little journey along the coast. xxiii. a night in a caen attic xxiv. a day at bayeux and st. lo xxv. a dinner at coutances xxvi. a scene in a norman court xxvii. the fete-dieu--a june christmas xxviii. by land to mont st. michel mont st. michel. xxix. by sea to the poulard inn xxx. the pilgrims and the shrine--an historical omelette list of illustrations. guillaume-le-conquerant--dives a village street--villerville on the beach--villerville a sale of mussels--villerville a villerville fish-wife a departure--villerville the inn at dives--guillaume-le-conquerant chambre de la pucelle--dives chambre des marmousets--dives madame de sÉvignÉ chambre de la pucelle--dives chateau fontaine le henri, near caen an exciting moment--a coutances interior a street in coutances--eglise saint-pierre mont saint michel mont saint michel snail-gatherers villerville. an inn by the sea. chapter i. a landing on the coast of france. narrow streets with sinuous curves; dwarfed houses with minute shops protruding on inch-wide sidewalks; a tiny casino perched like a bird-cage on a tiny scaffolding; bath-houses dumped on the beach; fishing-smacks drawn up along the shore like so many greek galleys; and, fringing the cliffs--the encroachment of the nineteenth century--a row of fantastic sea-side villas. this was villerville. over an arch of roses; across a broad line of olives, hawthorns, laburnums, and syringas, straight out to sea-- this was the view from our windows. our inn was bounded by the sea on one side, and on the other by a narrow village street. the distance between good and evil has been known to be quite as short as that which lay between these two thoroughfares. it was only a matter of a strip of land, an edge of cliff, and a shed of a house bearing the proud title of hôtel-sur-mer. two nights before, our arrival had made quite a stir in the village streets. the inn had given us a characteristic french welcome; its eye had measured us before it had extended its hand. before reaching the inn and the village, however, we had already tasted of the flavor of a genuine norman welcome. our experience in adventure had begun on the havre quays. our expedition could hardly be looked upon as perilous; yet it was one that, from the first, evidently appealed to the french imagination; half havre was hanging over the stone wharves to see us start. "_dame_, only english women are up to that!"--for all the world is english, in french eyes, when an adventurous folly is to be committed. this was one view of our temerity; it was the comment of age and experience of the world, of the cap with the short pipe in her mouth, over which curved, downward, a bulbous, fiery-hued nose that met the pipe. "_c'est beau, tout de même_, when one is young--and rich." this was a generous partisan, a girl with a miniature copy of her own round face--a copy that was tied up in a shawl, very snug; it was a bundle that could not possibly be in any one's way, even on a somewhat prolonged tour of observation of havre's shipping interests. "and the blonde one--what do you think of her, _hein_?" this was the blouse's query. the tassel of the cotton night-cap nodded, interrogatively, toward the object on which the twinkling ex-mariner's eye had fixed itself--on charm's slender figure, and on the yellow half-moon of hair framing her face. there was but one verdict concerning the blonde beauty; she was a creature made to be stared at. the staring was suspended only when the bargaining went on; for havre, clearly, was a sailor and merchant first; its knowledge of a woman's good points was rated merely as its second-best talent. meanwhile, our bargaining for the sailboat was being conducted on the principles peculiar to french traffic; it had all at once assumed the aspect of dramatic complication. it had only been necessary for us to stop on our lounging stroll along the stone wharves, diverting our gaze for a moment from the grotesque assortment of old houses that, before now, had looked down on so many naval engagements, and innocently to ask a brief question of a nautical gentleman, picturesquely attired in a blue shirt and a scarlet beret, for the quays immediately to swarm with jerseys and red caps. each beret was the owner of a boat; and each jersey had a voice louder than his brother's. presently the battle of tongues was drowning all other sounds. in point of fact, there were no other sounds to drown. all other business along the quays was being temporarily suspended; the most thrilling event of the day was centring in us and our treaty. until this bargain was closed, other matters could wait. for a frenchman has the true instinct of the dramatist; business he rightly considers as only an _entr'acte_ in life; the serious thing is the _scene de theatre_, wherever it takes place. therefore it was that the black, shaky-looking houses, leaning over the quays, were now populous with frowsy heads and cotton nightcaps. the captains from the adjacent sloops and tug-boats formed an outer circle about the closer ring made by the competitors for our favors, while the loungers along the parapets, and the owners of top seats on the shining quay steps, may be said to have been in possession of orchestra stalls from the first rising of the curtain. a baker's boy and two fish-wives, trundling their carts, stopped to witness the last act of the play. even the dogs beneath the carts, as they sank, panting, to the ground, followed, with red-rimmed eyes, the closing scenes of the little drama. "_allons_, let us end this," cried a piratical-looking captain, in a loud, masterful voice. and he named a price lower than the others had bid. he would take us across--yes, us and our luggage, and land us--yes, at villerville, for that. the baker's boy gave a long, slow whistle, with relish. "_dame!_" he ejaculated, between his teeth, as he turned away. the rival captains at first had drawn back; they had looked at their comrade darkly, beneath their berets, as they might at a deserter with whom they meant to deal--later on. but at his last words they smiled a smile of grim humor. beneath the beards a whisper grew; whatever its import, it had the power to move all the hard mouths to laughter. as they also turned away, their shrugging shoulders and the scorn in their light laughter seemed to hand us over to our fate. in the teeth of this smile, our captain had swung his boat round and we were stepping into her. "_au revoir--au revoir et à bientôt!_" the group that was left to hang over the parapets and to wave us its farewell, was a thin one. only the professional loungers took part in this last act of courtesy. there was a cluster of caps, dazzlingly white against the blue of the sky; a collection of highly decorated noses and of old hands ribboned with wrinkles, to nod and bob and wave down the cracked-voiced "_bonjours_." but the audience that had gathered to witness the closing of the bargain had melted away with the moment of its conclusion. long ere this moment of our embarkation the wide stone street facing the water had become suddenly deserted. the curious-eyed heads and the cotton nightcaps had been swallowed up in the hollows of the dark, little windows. the baker's boy had long since mounted his broad basket, as if it were an ornamental head-dress, and whistling, had turned a sharp corner, swallowed up, he also, by the sudden gloom that lay between the narrow streets. the sloop-owners had linked arms with the defeated captains, and were walking off toward their respective boats, whistling a gay little air. "_colinette au bois s'en alla en sautillant par-ci, par-là; trala deridera, trala, derid-er-a-a._" one jersey-clad figure was singing lustily as he dropped with a spring into his boat. he began to coil the loose ropes at once, as if the disappointments in life were only a necessary interruption, to be accepted philosophically, to this, the serious business of his days. we were soon afloat, far out from the land of either shores. between the two, sea and river meet; is the river really trying to lose itself in the sea, or is it hopelessly attempting to swallow the sea? the green line that divides them will never give you the answer: it changes hour by hour, day by day; now it is like a knife-cut, deep and straight; and now like a ribbon that wavers and flutters, tying together the blue of the great ocean and the silver of the seine. close to the lips of the mighty mouth lie the two shores. in that fresh may sunshine havre glittered and bristled, was aglow with a thousand tints and tones; but we sailed and sailed away from her, and behold, already she had melted into her cliffs. opposite, nearing with every dip of the dun-colored sail into the blue seas, was the calvados coast; in its turn it glistened, and in its young spring verdure it had the lustre of a rough-hewn emerald. "_que voulez-vous, mesdames?_ who could have told that the wind would play us such a trick?" the voice was the voice of our captain. with much affluence of gesture he was explaining--his treachery! our nearness to the coast had made the confession necessary. to the blandness of his smile, as he proceeded in his unabashed recital, succeeded a pained expression. we were not accepting the situation with the true phlegm of philosophers; he felt that he had just cause for protest. what possible difference could it make to us whether we were landed at trouville or at villerville? but to him--to be accused of betraying two ladies--to allow the whole of the havre quays to behold in him a man disgraced, dishonored! his was a tragic figure as he stood up, erect on the poop, to clap hands to a blue-clad breast, and to toss a black mane of hair in the golden air. "_dame! toujours été galant homme, moi!_ i am known on both shores as the most gallant of men. but the most gallant of men cannot control the caprice of the wind!" to which was added much abuse of the muddy bottoms, the strength of the undertow, and other marine disadvantages peculiar to villerville. it was a tragic figure, with gestures and voice to match. but it was evident that the captain had taken his own measure mistakenly. in him the french stage had lost a comedian of the first magnitude. much, therefore, we felt, was to be condoned in one who doubtless felt so great a talent itching for expression. when next he smiled, we had revived to a keener appreciation of baffled genius ever on the scent for the capture of that fickle goddess, opportunity. the captain's smile was oiling a further word of explanation. "see, mesdames, they come! they will soon land you on the beach!" he was pointing to a boat smaller than our own, that now ran alongside. there had been frequent signallings between the two boats, a running up and down of a small yellow flag which we had thought amazingly becoming to the marine landscape, until we learned the true relation of the flag to the treachery aboard our own craft. "you see, mesdames," smoothly continued our talented traitor, "you see how the waves run up on the beach. we could never, with this great sail, run in there. we should capsize. but behold, these are bathers, accustomed to the water--they will carry you--but as if you were feathers!" and he pointed to the four outstretched, firmly-muscled arms, as if to warrant their powers of endurance. the two men had left their boat; it was dancing on the water, at anchor. they were standing immovable as pillars of stone, close to the gunwales of our craft. they were holding out their arms to us. charm suddenly stood upright. she held out her hands like a child, to the least impressionable boatman. in an instant she was clasping his bronze throat. "all my life i've prayed for adventure. and at last it has come!" this she cried, as she was carried high above the waves. "that's right, have no fear," answered her carrier as he plunged onward, ploughing his way through the waters to the beach. beneath my own feet there was a sudden swish and a swirl of restless, tumbling waters. the motion, as my carrier buried his bared legs in the waves, was such as accompanies impossible flights described in dreams, through some unknown medium. the surging waters seemed struggling to submerge us both; the two thin, tanned legs of the fisherman about whose neck i was clinging, appeared ridiculously inadequate to cleave a successful path through a sea of such strength as was running shoreward. "madame does not appear to be used to this kind of travelling," puffed out my carrier, his conversational instinct, apparently, not in the least dampened by his strenuous plunging through the spirited sea. "it happens every day--all the aristocrats land this way, when they come over by the little boats. it distracts and amuses them, they say. it helps to kill the ennui." "i should think it might, my feet are soaking; sometimes wet feet--" "ah, that's a pity, you must get a better hold," sympathetically interrupted my fisherman, as he proceeded to hoist me higher up on his shoulder. i, or a sack of corn, or a basket of fish, they were all one to this strong back and to these toughened sinews. when he had adjusted his present load at a secure height, above the dashing of the spray, he went on talking. "yes, when the rich suffer a little it is not such a bad thing, it makes a pleasant change--_cela leur distrait_. for instance, there is the princess de l----, there's her villa, close by, with green blinds. she makes little excuses to go over to havre, just for this--to be carried in the arms like an infant. you should hear her, she shouts and claps her hands! all the beach assembles to see her land. when she is wet she cries for joy. it is so difficult to amuse one's self, it appears, in the great world." "but, _tiens_, here we are, i feel the dry sands." i was dropped as lightly on them as if it had been indeed a bunch of feathers my fisherman had been carrying. and meanwhile, out yonder, across the billows, with airy gesture dramatically executed, our treacherous captain was waving us a theatrical salute. the infant mate was grinning like a gargoyle. they were both delightfully unconscious, apparently, of any event having transpired, during the afternoon's pleasuring, which could possibly tinge the moment of parting with the hues of regret. "_pour les bagages, mesdames_--" two dripping, outstretched hands, two berets doffed, two picturesque giants bowing low, with a frenchman's grace--this, on the trouville sands, was the last act of this little comedy of our landing on the coast of france. chapter ii. a spring drive. the trouville beach was as empty as a desert. no other footfall, save our own, echoed along the broad board walks; this boulevard des italiens of the normandy coast, under the sun of may was a shining pavement that boasted only a company of jelly-fishes as loungers. down below was a village, a white cluster of little wooden houses; this was the village of the bath houses. the hotels might have been monasteries deserted and abandoned, in obedience to a nod from rome or from the home government. not even a fisherman's net was spread a-drying, to stay the appetite with a sense of past favors done by the sea to mortals more fortunate than we. the whole face of nature was as indifferent as a rich relation grown callous to the voice of entreaty. there was no more hope of man apparently, than of nature, being moved by our necessity; for man, to be moved, must primarily exist, and he was as conspicuously absent on this occasion as genesis proves him to have been on the fourth day of creation. meanwhile we sat still, and took counsel together. the chief of the council suddenly presented himself. it was a man in miniature. the masculine shape, as it loomed up in the distance, gradually separating itself from the background of villa roofs and casino terraces, resolved itself into a figure stolid and sturdy, very brown of leg, and insolent of demeanor--swaggering along as if conscious of there being a full-grown man buttoned up within a boy's ragged coat. the swagger was accompanied by a whistle, whose neat crispness announced habits of leisure and a sense of the refined pleasures of life; for an artistic rendering of an aria from "la fille de madame angot" was cutting the air with clear, high notes. the whistle and the brown legs suddenly came to a dead stop. the round blue eyes had caught sight of us: "_ouid-a-a!_" was this young norman's salutation. there was very little trouser left, and what there was of it was all pocket, apparently. into the pockets the boy's hands were stuffed, along with his amazement; for his face, round and full though it was, could not hold the full measure of his surprise. "we came over by boat--from havre," we murmured meekly; then, "is there a cake-shop near?" irrelevantly concluded charm with an unmistakable ring of distress in her tone. there was no need of any further explanation. these two hearty young appetites understood each other; for hunger is a universal language, and cake a countersign common among the youth of all nations. "until you came, you see, we couldn't leave the luggage," she went on. the blue eyes swept the line of our boxes as if the lad had taken his afternoon stroll with no other purpose than to guard them. "there are eight, and two umbrellas. _soyez tranquille, je vous attendrai._" it was the voice and accent of a man of the world, four feet high--a pocket edition, so to speak, in shabby binding. the brown legs hung, the next instant, over the tallest of the trunks. the skilful whistling was resumed at once; our appearance and the boy's present occupation were mere interludes, we were made to understand; his real business, that afternoon, was to do justice to the lecoq's entire opera, and to keep his eye on the sea. only once did he break down; he left a high _c_ hanging perilously in mid-air, to shout out "i like madeleines, i do!" we assured him he should have a dozen. "_bien!_" and we saw him settling himself to await our return in patience. up in the town the streets, as we entered them, were as empty as was the beach. trouville might have been a buried city of antiquity. yet, in spite of the desolation, it was french and foreign; it welcomed us with an unmistakably friendly, companionable air. why is it that one is made to feel the companionable element, by instantaneous process, as it were, in a frenchman and in his towns? and by what magic also does a french village or city, even at its least animated period, convey to one the fact of its nationality? we made but ten steps progress through these silent streets, fronting the beach, and yet, such was the subtle enigma of charm with which these dumb villas and mute shops were invested, that we walked along as if under the spell of fascination. perhaps the charm is a matter of sex, after all: towns are feminine, in the wise french idiom, that idiom so delicate in discerning qualities of sex in inanimate objects, as the greeks before them were clever in discovering sex distinctions in the moral qualities. trouville was so true a woman, that the coquette in her was alive and breathing even in this her moment of suspended animation. the closed blinds and iron shutters appeared to be winking at us, slyly, as if warning us not to believe in this nightmare of desolation; she was only sleeping, she wished us to understand; the touch of the first parisian would wake her into life. the features of her fashionable face, meanwhile, were arranged with perfect composure; even in slumber she had preserved her woman's instinct of orderly grace; not a sign was awry, not a window-blind gave hint of rheumatic hinges, or of shattered vertebrae; all the machinery was in order; the faintest pressure on the electrical button, the button that connects this lady of the sea with the paris bourse and the boulevards, and how gayly, how agilely would this trouville of the villas and the beaches spring into life! the listless glances of the few tailors and cobblers who, with suspended thread, now looked after us, seemed dazed--as if they could not believe in the reality of two early tourists. a woman's head, here and there, leaned over to us from a high window; even these feminine eyes, however, appeared to be glued with the long winter's lethargy of dull sleep; they betrayed no edge of surprise or curiosity. the sun alone, shining with spendthrift glory, flooding the narrow streets and low houses with a late afternoon stream of color, was the sole inhabitant who did not blink at us, bovinely, with dulled vision. half an hour later we were speeding along the roadway. half an hour--and trouville might have been a thousand miles away. inland, the eye plunged over nests of clover, across the tops of the apple and peach trees, frosted now with blossoms, to some farm interiors. the familiar normandy features could be quickly spelled out, one by one. it was the milking-hour. the fields were crowded with cattle and women; some of the cows were standing immovable, and still others were slowly defiling, in processional dignity, toward their homes. broad-hipped, lean-busted figures, in coarse gowns and worsted kerchiefs, toiled through the fields, carrying full milk-jugs; brass _amphorae_ these latter might have been, from their classical elegance of shape. ploughmen appeared and disappeared, they and their teams rising and sinking with the varying heights and depressions of the more distant undulations. in the nearer cottages the voices of children would occasionally fill the air with a loud clamor of speech; then our steed's bell-collar would jingle, and for the children's cries, a bird-throat, high above, from the heights of a tall pine would pour forth, as if in uncontrollable ecstasy, its rapture into the stillness of this radiant normandy garden. the song appeared to be heard by other ears than ours. we were certain the dull-brained sheep were greatly affected by the strains of that generous-organed songster--they were so very still under the pink apple boughs. the cows are always good listeners; and now, relieved of their milk, they lifted eyes swimming with appreciative content above the grasses of their pasture. two old peasants heard the very last of the crisp trills, before the concert ended; they were leaning forth from the narrow window-ledges of a straw-roofed cottage; the music gave to their blinking old eyes the same dreamy look we had read in the ruminating cattle orbs. for an aeronaut on his way to bed, i should have felt, had i been in that blackbird's plumed corselet, that i had had a gratifyingly full house. meanwhile, toward the west, a vast marine picture, like a panorama on wheels, was accompanying us all the way. sometimes at our feet, beneath the seamy fissures of a hillside, or far removed by sweep of meadow, lay the fluctuant mass we call the sea. it was all a glassy yellow surface now; into the liquid mirror the polychrome sails sent down long lines of color. the sun had sunk beyond the havre hills, but the flame of his mantle still swept the sky. and into this twilight there crept up from the earth a subtle, delicious scent and smell--the smell and perfume of spring--of the ardent, vigorous, unspent normandy spring. [illustration: a village street--villerville] suddenly a belfry grew out of the grain-fields. "_nous voici_--here's villerville!" cried lustily into the twilight our coachman's thick peasant voice. with the butt-end of his whip he pointed toward the hill that the belfry crowned. below the little hamlet church lay the village. a high, steep street plunged recklessly downward toward the cliff; we as recklessly were following it. the snapping of our driver's whip had brought every inhabitant of the street upon the narrow sidewalks. a few old women and babies hung forth from the windows, but the houses were so low, that even this portion of the population, hampered somewhat by distance and comparative isolation, had been enabled to join in the chorus of voices that filled the street. our progress down the steep, crowded street was marked by a pomp and circumstance which commonly attend only a royal entrance into a town; all of the inhabitants, to the last man and infant, apparently, were assembled to assist at the ceremonial of our entry. a chorus of comments arose from the shadowy groups filling the low doorways and the window casements. "_tiens_--it begins to arrive--the season!" "two ladies--alone--like that!" "_dame! anglaises, américaines_--they go round the world thus, _à deux_!" "and why not, if they are young and can pay?" "bah! old or poor, it's all one--they're never still, those english!" a chorus of croaking laughter rattled down the street along with the rolling of our carriage-wheels. above, the great arch of sky had shrunk, all at once, into a narrow scallop; with the fields and meadows the glow of twilight had been left behind. we seemed to be pressing our way against a great curtain, the curtain made by the rich dusk that filled the narrow thoroughfare. through the darkness the sinuous street and rickety houses wavered in outline, as the bent shapes of the aged totter across dimly-lit interiors. a fisherman's bare legs, lit by some dimly illumined interior; a line of nets in the little yards; here and there a white kerchief or cotton cap, dazzling in whiteness, thrown out against the black facades, were spots of light here and there. there was a glimpse of the village at its supper--in low-raftered interiors a group of blouses and women in fishermen's rig were gathered about narrow tables, the coarse-featured faces and the seamed foreheads lit up by the feeble flame of candles that ended in long, thin lines of smoke. "_ohé--mère mouchard!--des voyageurs!_" cried forth our coachman into the darkness. he had drawn up before a low, brightly-lit interior. in response to the call a figure appeared on the threshold of the open door. the figure stood there for a long instant, rubbing its hands, as it peered out into the dusk of the night to take a good look at us. the brown head was cocked on one side thoughtfully; it was an attitude that expressed, with astonishingly clear emphasis, an unmistakable professional conception of hospitality. it was the air and manner, in a word, of one who had long since trimmed the measurement of its graciousness to the price paid for the article. "_ces dames_ wished rooms, they desired lodgings and board--_ces dames_ were alone?" the voice finally asked, with reticent dignity. "from havre--from trouville, _par p'tit bateau!_" called out lustily our driver, as if to furnish us, _gratis_, with a passport to the landlady's not too effusive cordiality. what secret spell of magic may have lain hidden in our friendly coachman's announcement we never knew. but the "p'tit bateau" worked magically. the figure of mère mouchard materialized at once into such zeal, such effusion, such a zest of welcome, that we, our bags, and our coachman were on the instant toiling up a pair of spiral wooden stairs. there was quite a little crowd to fill the all-too-narrow landing at the top of the steep steps, a crowd that ended in a long line of waiters and serving-maids, each grasping a remnant of luggage. our hostess, meanwhile, was fumbling at a door-lock--an obstinate door that refused to be wrenched open. "augustine--run--i've taken the wrong key. _cours, mon enfant_, it is no farther away than the kitchen." the long line pressed itself against the low walls. augustine, a blond-haired, neatly-garmented shape, sped down the rickety stairs with the step of youth and a dancer; for only the nimble ankles of one accomplished in waltzing could have tripped as dexterously downward as did augustine. "how she lags! what an idiot of a child!" fumed mère mouchard as she peered down into the round blackness about which the curving staircase closed like an embrace. "one must have patience, it appears, with people made like that. _ah, tiens,_ here she comes. how could you keep _ces dames_ waiting like this? it is shameful, shameful!" cried the woman, as she half shook the panting girl, in anger. "if _ces dames_ will enter,"--her voice changing at once to a caressing falsetto, as the door flew open, opened by augustine's trembling fingers--"they will find their rooms in readiness." the rooms were as bare as a soldier's barrack, but they were spotlessly clean. there was the pale flicker of a sickly candle to illumine the shadowy recesses of the curtained beds and the dark little dressing-rooms. a few moments later we wound our way downward, spirally, to find ourselves seated at a round table in a cosy, compact dining-room. directly opposite, across the corridor, was the kitchen, from which issued a delightful combination of vinous, aromatic odors. the light of a strong, bright lamp made it as brilliant as a ball-room; it was a ball-room which for decoration had rows of shining brass and copper kettles--each as burnished as a jewel--a mass of sunny porcelain, and for carpet the satin of a wooden floor. there was much bustling to and fro. shapes were constantly passing and repassing across the lighted interior. the mère's broad-hipped figure was an omniscient presence: it hovered at one instant over a steaming saucepan, and the next was lifting a full milk-jug or opening a wine-bottle. above the clatter of the dishes and the stirring of spoons arose the thick normandy voices, deep alto tones, speaking in strange jargon of speech--a world of patois removed from our duller comprehension. it was made somewhat too plain in this country, we reflected, that a man's stomach is of far more importance than the rest of his body. the kitchen yonder was by far the most comfortable, the warmest, and altogether the prettiest room in the whole house. augustine crossed the narrow entry just then with a smoking pot of soup. she was followed, later, by mère mouchard, who bore a sole au vin blanc, a bottle of white burgundy, and a super-naturally ethereal soufflé. and an hour after, even the curtainless, carpetless bed chambers above were powerless to affect the luxurious character of our dreams. chapter iii. from an inn window. one travels a long distance, sometimes, to make the astonishing discovery that pleasure comes with the doing of very simple things. we had come from over the seas to find the act of leaning on a window casement as exciting as it was satisfying. it is true that from our two inn windows there was a delightful variety of nature and of human nature to look out upon. from the windows overlooking the garden there was only the horizon to bound infinity. the atlantic, beginning with the beach at our feet, stopped at nothing till it met the sky. the sea, literally, was at our door; it and the seine were next-door neighbors. each hour of the day these neighbors presented a different face, were arrayed in totally different raiment, were grave or gay, glowing with color or shrouded in mists, according to the mood and temper of the sun, the winds, and the tides. [illustration: on the beach--villerville] the width of the sky overhanging this space was immense; not a scrap, apparently, was left over to cover, decently, the rest of the earth's surface--of that one was quite certain in looking at this vast inverted cup overflowing with ether. what there was of land was a very sketchy performance. opposite ran the red line of the havre headlands. following the river, inland, there was a pretence of shore, just sufficiently outlined, like a youth's beard, to give substance to one's belief in its future growth and development. beneath these windows the water, hemmed in by this edge of shore, panted, like a child at play; its sighs, liquid, lisping, were irresistible; one found oneself listening for the sound of them as if they had issued from a human throat. the humming of the bees in the garden, the cry of a fisherman calling across the water, the shout of the children below on the beach, or, at twilight, the chorusing birds, carolling at full concert pitch; this, at most, was all the sound and fury the sea beach yielded. the windows opening on the village street let in a noise as tumultuous as the sea was silent. the hubbub of a perpetual babble, all the louder for being compressed within narrow space, was always to be heard; it ceased only when the village slept. there was an incessant clicking accompaniment to this noisy street life; a music played from early dawn to dusk over the pavement's rough cobbles--the click clack, click clack of the countless wooden sabots. part of this clamor in the streets was due to the fact that the village, as a village, appeared to be doing a tremendous business with the sea. men and women were perpetually going to and coming from the beach. fishermen, sailors, women bearing nets, oars, masts, and sails, children bending beneath the weight of baskets filled with kicking fish; wheelbarrows stocked high with sea-food and warm clothing; all this commerce with the sea made the life in these streets a more animated performance than is commonly seen in french villages. in time, the provincial mania began to work in our veins. to watch our neighbors, to keep an eye on this life--this became, after a few days, the chief occupation of our waking hours. the windows of our rooms fronting on the street were peculiarly well adapted for this unmannerly occupation. by merely opening the blinds, we could keep an eye on the entire village. not a cat could cross the street without undergoing inspection. augustine, for example, who, once having turned her back on the inn windows, believed herself entirely cut off from observation, was perilously exposed to our mercy. we knew all the secrets of her thieving habits; we could count, to a second, the time she stole from the mere, her employer, to squander in smiles and dimples at the corner creamery. there a tall norman rained admiration upon her through wide blue eyes, as he patted, caressingly, the pots of blond butter, just the color of her hair, before laying them, later, tenderly in her open palm. soon, as our acquaintance with our neighbors deepened into something like intimacy, we came to know their habits of mind as we did their facial peculiarities; certain of their actions made an event in our day. it became a serious matter of conjecture as to whether madame de tours, the social swell of the town, would or would not offer up her prayer to deity, accompanied by friponne, her black poodle. if friponne issued forth from the narrow door, in company with her austere mistress, the shining black silk gown, we knew, would not decorate the angular frame of this aristocratic provincial; a sober beige was best fitted to resist the dashes made by friponne's sharply-trimmed nails. it was for this, to don a silk gown in full sight of her neighbors; to set up as companion a dog of the highest fashion, the very purest of _caniches_, that twenty years of patient nursing a paralytic husband--who died all too slowly--had been counted as nothing! once we were summoned to our outlook by the vigorous beating of a drum. madame mouchard and augustine were already at their own post of observation--the open inn door. the rest of the village was in full attendance, for it was not every day in the week that the "tambour," the town-crier, had business enough to render his appearance, in his official capacity, necessary; as a mere townsman he was to be seen any hour of the day, as drunk as a lord, at the sign of "l'ami fidèle." his voice, as it rolled out the words of his cry, was as _staccato_ in pitch as any organ can be whose practice is largely confined to unceasing calls for potations. to the listening crowd, the thick voice was shouting: "_madame tricot--à la messe--dimanche--a--perdu une broche--or et perles--avec cheveux--madame merle a perdu--sur la plage--un panier avec--un chat noir--_" we ourselves, to our astonishment, were drummed the very next morning. augustine had made the discovery of a missing shoulder-cape; she had taken it upon herself to call in the drummer. so great was the attendance of villagers, even the abstractors of the lost garment must, we were certain, be among the crowd assembled to hear our names shouted out on the still air. we were greatly affected by the publicity of the occasion; but the village heard the announcement, both of our names and of our loss, with the phlegm of indifference. "vingt francs pour avoir tambouriné mademoiselle!" this was an item which a week later, in madame's little bill, was not confronted with indifference. "it gives one the feeling of having had relations with a wandering circus," remarked the young philosopher at my side. "but it is really a great convenience, that system," she continued; "i'm always mislaying things--and through the drummer there's a whole village as aid to find a lost article. i shall, doubtless, always have that, now, in my bills!" and charm, with an air of serene confidence in the village, adjusted her restored shoulder-cape. down below, in our neighbor's garden--the one adjoining our own and facing the sea--a new and old world of fashion in capes and other garments were a-flutter in the breeze, morning after morning. who and what was this neighbor, that he should have so curious and eccentric a taste in clothes? no woman was to be seen in the garden-paths; a man, in a butler's apron and a silk skullcap, came and went, his arms piled high with gowns and scarves, and all manner of strange odds and ends. each morning some new assortment of garments met our wondering eyes. sometimes it was a collection of empire embroidered costumes that were hung out on the line; faded fleur-de-lis, sprigs of dainty lilies and roses, gold-embossed empire coats, strewn thick with seed-pearls on satins softened by time into melting shades. when next we looked the court of napoleon had vanished, and the bourbon period was, literally, in full swing. a frou-frou of laces, coats with deep skirts, and beribboned trousers would be fluttering airily in the soft may air. once, in fine contrast to these courtly splendors, was a wondrous assortment of flannel petticoats. they were of every hue--red, yellow, brown, pink, patched, darned, wide-skirted, plaited, ruffled--they appeared to represent the taste and requirement of every climate and country, if one could judge by the thickness of some and the gossamer tissues of others; but even the smartest were obviously, unmistakably, effrontedly, flannel petticoats. it was a mystery that greatly intrigued us. one morning the mystery was solved. a whiff of tobacco from an upper window came along with a puff of wind. it was a heated whiff, in spite of the cooling breeze. it was from a pipe, a short, black pipe, owned by some one in the mansard window next door. there was the round disk of a dark-blue beret drooping over the pipe. "good--" i said to myself--"i shall see now--at last--this maniac with a taste for darned petticoats!" the pipe smoked peacefully, steadily on. the beret was motionless. between the pipe and the cap was a man's profile; it was too much in shadow to be clearly defined. the next instant the man's face was in full sunlight. the face turned toward me--with the quick instinct of knowing itself watched--and then-- "pas--possible!" "you--here!" "been here a year--but you, when did you arrive? what luck! what luck!" it was john renard, the artist; after the first salutations question followed question. "are you alone?--" "no." "is she--young?" "yes." "pretty?" "judge for yourself--that is she--in the garden yonder." the beret dipped itself perilously out into the sky--to take a full view. "hem--i'll come in at once." it was as a trio that the conversation was continued later, in the garden. but renard was still chief questioner. "have you been out on the mussel-beds?" "not yet." "we'll go this afternoon--have you been to honfleur? not yet?--we'll go to-morrow. the tide will be in to-day about four--i'll call for you--wear heavy boots and old clothes. it's jolly dirty. where do you breakfast?" the breakfast was eaten, as a trio, at our inn, an hour later. it was so warm a day, it was served under one of the arbors. augustine was feeding and caressing the doves as we entered the inn garden. at sight of renard she dropped a quiet courtesy, smiles and roses struggling for a supremacy on her round peasant face. she let the doves loose at once, saying: "allez, allez," as if they quite understood that with monsieur renard's advent their hour of success was at an end. why does a man's presence always seem to communicate such surprising animation to a woman--to any woman? why does his appearance, for instance, suddenly, miraculously stiffen the sauces, lure from the cellar bottles incrusted with the gray of thick cobwebs, give an added drop of the lemon to the mayonnaise, and make an omelette to swim in a sea of butter? all these added touches to our commonly admirable breakfast were conspicuous that day--it was a breakfast for a prince and a gourmet. "the mère can cook--when she gives her mind to it," was renard's meagre masculine comment, as the last morsel of the golden omelette disappeared behind his mustache. it was a gay little breakfast, with the circling above of the birds and the doves. there are duller forms of pleasure than to eat a repast in the company of an artist. i know not why it is, but it has always seemed to me that the man who lives only to copy life appears to get far more out of it than those who make a point of seeing nothing in it save themselves. renard, meanwhile, was taking pains to assure us that in less than a month the villerville beaches would be crowded; only the artists of the brushes were here now; the artists of high life would scarcely be found deserting the avenue des acacias before june. "french people are always coming to the seashore, you know--or trying to come. it's a part of their emotional religion to worship the sea. 'la mer! la mer!' they cry, with eyes all whites; then they go into little swoons of rapture--i can see them now, attitudinizing in salons and at tables-d'hôte!" to which comment we could find no more original rejoinder than our laughter. it was a day when laughter was good; it put one in closer relations with the universal smiling. there are certain days when nature seems to laugh aloud; in this hour of noon the entire universe, all we could see of it, was on a broad grin. everything moved, or danced, or sang; the leaves were each alive, trembling, quivering, shaking; the insect hum was like a wagnerian chorus, deafening to the ear; there was a brisk, light breeze stirring--a breeze that moved the higher branches of the trees as if it had been an arm; that rippled the grass; that tossed the wavelets of the sea into such foam that they seemed over-running with laughter; and such was still its unspent energy that it sent the seine with a bound up through its shores, its waters clanging like a sheet of mail armor worn by some lusty warrior. we were walking in the narrow lane that edged the cliff; it was a lane that was guarded with a sentinel row of osiers, syringas, and laburnums. this was the guard of the cliffs. on the other side was the high garden wall, over which we caught dissolving views of dormer-windows, of gabled roofs, vine-clad walls, and a maze of peach and pear blossoms. this was not precisely the kind of lane through which one hurried. one needed neither to be sixteen nor even in love to find it a delectable path, very agreeable to the eye, very suggestive to the imaginative faculty, exceedingly satisfactory to the most fastidious of all the senses, to that aristocrat of all the five, the sense of smell. like all entirely perfect experiences in life, the lane ended almost as soon as it began; it ended in a steep pair of steps that dropped, precipitously, on the pebbles of the beach. for some reason best known to the day and the view, we all, with one accord, proceeded to seat ourselves on the topmost step of this stairway. we were waiting for the tide to fall, to go out to the mussel-bed. meanwhile the prospect to be seen from this improvised seat was one made to be looked at. there is a certain innate compelling quality in all great beauty. when nature or woman presents a really grandiose appearance, they are singularly reposeful, if you notice; they have the calm which comes with a consciousness of splendor. it is only prettiness which is tormented with the itching for display; and therefore this prospect, which rolled itself out beneath our feet, curling in a half-moon of beach, broadening into meadows that dropped to the river edge, lifting its beauty upward till the hills met the sky. and the river was lost in the clasp of the shore--this aspect of nature, in this moment of beauty, was as untroubled as if chateaubriand had not found her a lover, and had flattered man by persuading him that, "la voix de l'univers, c'est mon intelligence." chapter iv. out on a mussel-bed. that same afternoon we were out on the mussel bed. the tide was at its lowest. before us, for an acre or more, there lay a wide, wet, stretch of brown mud. near the beach was a strip of yellow sand; here and there it had contracted into narrow ridges, elsewhere it had expanded into scroll-like patterns. the bed of mud and slime ran out from this yellow sand strip--a surface diversified by puddles of muddy water, by pools, clear, ribbed with wavelets, and by little heaps of stones covered with lichens. the surface of the bed, whether pools or puddles, or rock-heaps, or sea-weeds massed, was covered by thousands and thousands of black, lozenge-shaped bivalves. these bivalves were the mussels. over this bed of shells and slime there moved and toiled a whole villageful of old women. where the sea met the edges of the mud-flat the throng of women was thickest. the line of the ever-receding shore was marked by the shapes of countless bent figures. the heads of these stooping women were on a level with their feet, not one stood upright. all that the eye could seize for outline was the dome made by the bent hips, and the backs that closed against the knees as a blade is clasped into a knife handle. the oblong masses that were lifted now and then, from the level of the sabots, resolved themselves into the outlines of women's heads and women's faces. these heads were tied up in cotton kerchiefs or in cotton nightcaps; these being white, together with the long, thick, aprons also white, were in startling contrast to the blue of the sky and to the changing sea-tones. between these women and the incoming tide, twice daily, was fought a persistent, unrelenting duel. it was a duel, on the part of the fish-wives, against time, against the fate of the tides, against the blind forces of nature. for this combat the women were armed to the teeth, clad as they were in their skeleton muscular leanness; helmeted with their heads of iron; visored in the bronze of their skin and in wrinkles that laughed at the wind. in these sinewy, toughened bodies there was a grim strength that appeared to know neither ache nor fatigue nor satiety. high, clear, strong, came their voices. the tones were the tones that come from deep chests, and with a prolonged, sustained capacity for enduring the toil of men. but the high-pitched laughter proved them women, as did their loud and unceasing gossip. the battle of the voices rose above the swash of the waves, above, also, another sound, as incessant as the women's chatter and the swish of the water as it hissed along the mud-flat's edges. [illustration: a sale of mussels--villerville] this was the swift, sharp, saw-like cutting among the stones and the slime, the scrape, scrape of the hundred of knives into the moist earth. this ceaseless scraping, lunging, digging, made a new world of sound--strange, sinister, uncanny. it was neither of the sea nor yet of the land--it was a noise that seemed inseparable from this tongue of mud, that also appeared to be neither of the heavens above nor of the earth, from the bowels out of which it had sprung. the mussels cling to their slime with extraordinary tenacity; only an expert, who knows the exact point of attachment between the hard shell and its soil, can remove a mussel with dexterity. these women, as they dipped their knives into the thick mud, swept the diminutive black bivalve with a trenchant movement, as a moor might cleave a human head with one turn of his moon-shaped sword. into the bronzed, wrinkled old hands the mussels then were slipped as if they had been so many dainty sweets. new and pungent smells were abroad on this strip of slime. sea smells, strong and salty; smells of the moist and damp soil, the bitter-sweet of wetted weeds, the aromatic flavor that shell-life yields, and the smells also of rotten and decaying fish--all these were inextricably blended in the air, that was of the keenness of a frost-blight for freshness, and yet was warm with the softness of a june sun. meanwhile the voices of the women were nearing. some of the bent heads were lifted as we approached. here and there a coif, or cotton cap, nodded, and the slit of a smile would gape between the nose and the meeting chin. a high good humor appeared to reign among the groups; a carnival of merriment laughed itself out in coarse, cracked laughter; loud was the play of the jests, hoarse and guttural the gibes that were abroad on the still air, from old mouths that uttered strong, deep notes. "why should they all be old?" we queried. we were near enough to see the women face to face now, since we were far out along the outer edges of the bed; we were so near the sea that the tide was beginning to wash us back, along with the fringe of the diggers. "they're not--they only look old," replied renard, stopping a moment to sketch in a group directly in front. "this life makes old women of them in no time. how old, for instance, should you think that girl was, over there?" the girl whom he designated was the only figure of youth we had seen on the bed. she was working alone and remote from the others. she wore no coif. her masses of red, wavy hair shaded a face already deeply seamed with lines of premature age. a moment later she passed close to us. she was bent almost double beneath a huge, reeking basket, heaped with its pile of wet mussels. she was carrying it to a distant pool. once beside the pool, with swift, dexterous movement the heavy basket was slipped from the bent back, the load of mussels falling in a shower into the miniature lake. the next instant she was stamping on the heap, to plunge them with her sabot still further into the pool. she was washing her load. soon she shouldered the basket again, filling it with the cleansed mussels. a moment later she joined the long, toiling line of women that were perpetually forming and reforming on their way to the carts. these latter were drawn up near the beach, their contents guarded by boys and old men, who received the loads the women had dug, dragging the whole, later, up the hill. "she has the venus de milo lines, that girl," renard continued, critically, with his eyes on her, as she now repassed us. the figure was drawn up at its full height. it had in truth a noble dignity of outline. there was a spartan vigor and severity in the lean, uncorseted shape, with the bust thrown out against the sky--the bust of a young warrior rather than a woman. there was a hardy, masculine freedom in the pliable motion of her straight back, a ripple with muscles that played easily beneath the close bodice, in her arms, and her finely turned ankles and legs, that were bared below the knee. the very simplicity of her costume helped to mark the greek severity of her figure. she wore a short skirt of some coarse hempen stuff, covered with a thick apron made of sail-cloth, her feet thrust into black sabots, while the upper part of her body was covered with an unbleached chemise, widely open at the throat. she had the phidian breadth and the modern charm--that charm which troubles and disturbs, haunting the mind with vague, unsatisfied suggestions of something finer than is seen, something nobler than the gross physical envelope reveals. "i must have her--for my salon picture," calmly remarked renard, after a long moment of scrutiny, his eyes following the lean, stately figure in its grave walk across the weeds and slime. "yes, i must have her." "won't she be hard to get? how can she be made to sit, a stiffened image of clay, after this life of freedom, this athletic struggle out here--with these winds and tides?" one of us, at least, was stirred at renard's calm assumption--the assumption so common to artists, who, when they see a good thing at once count on its possessorship, as if the whole world, indeed, were eternally sitting, agape with impatience, awaiting the advent of some painter to sketch in its portrait. "oh, it'll be easy enough. she makes two francs a day with her six basketfuls. i'll offer her three, and she'll drop like a shot." "i'll make it a red picture," he continued, dipping his brushes into a little case of paints he held on his thumb; "the mussel-bed a reddish violet, the sky red in the horizon, and the girl in the foreground, with that torrent of hair as the high light. i've been hunting for that hair all over europe." and he began sketching her in at once. "_bonjour, mère_, how goes it?" he nodded as he sketched at a wrinkled, bent figure, who was smiling out at him from beneath her load of mussels. "_pas mal--e' vous, m'sieur renard?_" "all right--and the mortgage, how goes that?" "pas si mal--it'll be paid off next year." "who is she? one of your models?" "yes, last year's: she was my belle--the belle of the mussel-bed for me, a year ago. now there's a lesson in patience for you. she's sixty-five, if she's a minute; she's been working here, on this mussel-bed, for five years, to pay the mortgage off her farm; when that is done, her daughter augustine can marry; augustine's _dot_ is the farm." "augustine--at our inn?" "the very same." "and the blonde--the handsome man at the creamery, he is the future--?" "i'm sorry to hear such things of augustine," smiled renard, as he worked; "she must be indulging in an entr'acte. no, the gentleman of augustine's--well, perhaps not of her affections, but of her mother's choice, is a peasant who works the farm; the creamery is only an incidental diversion. again, i'm sorry to hear such sad things of augustine--" "horrors!" "exactly. that's the way it's done--over here. will you join me--over there?" renard blushed a little. "i mean i wish to follow that girl--she's going to dig out yonder. will you come?" meanwhile the light was changing, and so was the tide. the women were coming inward, washed up to the shore along with the grasses and seaweeds. a band of diggers suddenly started, with full basket loads, toward a fishing boat that had dropped anchor close in to the shore; it was a honfleur craft, come to buy mussels for the paris market. the women trudged through the water, up to their waists; they clustered about the boats like so many laden beasts. but their shrill bargaining proved them women. meanwhile that gentle hissing along the level stretch of brown mud was the tide. it was pushing the women upward, as if it had been a hand--the hand of a relentless fate--instead of a little, liquid kiss. the sun, as it dipped, made a glory of splendor out of this commonplace bank. it soaked the mud in gold; it was in a royal mood, throwing its largess with reckless abundance to this poor of earth--to the slime and the mud. the long, yellow, lichen leaves massed on the rocks were dyed as if lying in a yellow bath. the sands were richly colored; the ridges were brown in the shadows and burnished at the tops. in the distance the sea weeds were black, sable furs, covering the velvet robes of earth. the sea out beyond was as rosy as a babe, and the sails were dazzlingly white as they floated past, between the sky and the distant purple line of the horizon. meanwhile the tide is coming in. the procession of the women toward the carts grows in numbers. the thick sabots plunge into the mud, the water squirts out of the wooden shoes as the strong heels press into them. the straw, the universal stocking of these women-diggers, is reeking with dirt. volumes of slush are splashed on the bared skinny ankles, on the wet skirts, wet to the waists, and on the coarse sail-cloth aprons tied beneath the hanging bosoms. the women are all drenched now in a bath of filth. the baskets are reeking with filth also, they rain showers of dirt along the bent backs. a long line of the bent figures has formed on their way to the carts. there is, however, a thick fringe of diggers left who still dispute their rights with the sea. but the tide is pushing them inward, upward. and all the while the light is getting more and more golden, shimmery, radiant. under this light, beneath this golden mantel of color, these creatures appear still more terrible. as they bend over, their faces tirelessly held downward on a level with their hands, they seem but gnomes; surely they are huge, undeveloped embryos of women, with neither head nor trunk. for this light is pitiless. it makes them even more a part of this earth, out of which they seem to have sprung, a strange amorphous growth. the bronzed skins are dyed in the gold as if to match with the hue of the mud; the wet skirts are shreds, gray and brown tatters, not so good in texture as the lichens, and the ragged jerseys seem only bits of the more distant weeds woven into tissues to hide mercifully the lean, sinewy backs. the tide is almost in. in the shallows the sunset is fading. here and there are brilliant little pools, each pool a mirror, and each mirror reflects a different picture. here is a second sky--faintly blue, with a trailing saffron scarf of cloud; there, the inverted silhouettes of two fish-wives are conical shapes, their coifs and wet skirts startlingly distinct in tones; beyond, sails a fantastic fleet, with polychrome sails, each spar, masthead, and wrinkled sail as sharply outlined as if chiselled in relief. presently these miniature pictures fade as the light fades. blacker grows the mud, and there is less and less of it; the silhouetted shapes of the diggers are seen no more; they are following the carts up the steep cliffs; even the sky loses its color and fades also. and the little pools that have been a burning orange, then a darkening violet, gay with pictured worlds, in turn pale to gray, and die into the universal blackness. the tide is in. it is flowing, rich and full, crested with foam beneath the osier hedges. we hear it break with a sudden dash and splutter against the cliff parapets. and the mud-bank is no more. half an hour later, from our chamber windows we looked forth through the dusk across at the mussel bed. the great mud-bank, all that black acreage of slime and sea-weed, the eager, struggling band of toiling fish wives, all was gone; it was all as if it had not been--would never be again. the water hissed along the beach; it broke in rhythmic, sonorous measure against the parapet. surely there had never been any beds, or any mussels, or any toiling fish-wives; or if there had, it was all a world that the sea had washed up, and then as quietly, as heedlessly, as pitilessly had obliterated. it was the very epitome of life itself. chapter v. the village. our visit to the mussel-bed, as we soon found, had been our formal introduction to the village. henceforth every door step held a friend; not a coif or a blouse passed without a greeting. the village, as a village, lived in the open street. villerville had the true french genius for society; the very houses were neighborly, crowding close upon the narrow sidewalk. conversation, to be carried on from a dormer-window or from opposite sides of the street, had evidently been the first architectural consideration in the mind of the builders; doors and windows must be as open and accessible as the lives of the inhabitants. the houses themselves appeared to be regarded in the light of pockets, into which the old women and fishermen plunged to drag forth a net or a knife; also as convenient, if rude, little caverns into which the village crawled at night, to take its heavy slumber. the door-step was the drawing-room, and the open street was the club of this villerville world. the door-way, the yard, or the bit of garden tucked in between two high walls--it was here, under the tent of sky rather than beneath the stuffy roofs, that the village lived, talked, quarrelled, bargained, worked, and more or less openly made love. to the door-step everything was brought that was portable. there was nothing, from the small boy to the brass kettle, that could not be more satisfactorily polished off, in full view of one's world, than by one's self, in seclusion and solitude. justice, at least, appeared to gain by this passion for open-air ministration, if one were to judge by the frequency with which the villerville boy was laid across the parental knee. we were repeatedly called upon to coincide, at the very instant of flagellation, with the verdict pronounced against the youthful offender. "_s'il est assez méchant, lui?_ ah, mesdames, what do you think of one who goes forth dry, with clean sabots, that i, myself, have washed, and behold him returned, _après un tout p'tit quart d'heure_, stinking with filth? bah! it's he that will catch it when his father comes home!" and meanwhile the mother's hand descends, lest justice should cool ere night. [illustration: a villerville fish-wife] there were other groups that crowded the doorsteps; there were young mothers that sat there, with their babes clasped to the full breasts, in whose eyes was to be read the satisfied passion of recent motherhood; there were gay clusters of young norman maidens, whose glances, brilliant and restless, were pregnant with all the meaning of unspent youth. the figures of the fishermen, toiling up the street with bared legs and hairy breast, bending beneath their baskets alive with fish, stopped to have a word or two, seasoned with a laugh, with these latter groups. there were also knots of patient old men, wrecks that the sea had tossed back to earth, to rot and die there, that came out of the black little houses to rest their bones in the sun. and everywhere there were groups of old women, or of women still young, to whom the look of age had come long before its due time. the village seemed peopled with women, sexless creatures for the most part, whom toil and the life on the mussel-bed or in the field had dried and hardened into mummy shapes. only these, the old and the useless, were left at home to rear the younger generation and to train them to take up the same heavy burden of life. the coifs of these old hags made dazzling spots of brightness against the gray of the walls and the stuccoed houses; clustered together, the high caps that nodded in unison to the chatter were in startling contrast to the bronzed faces bending over the fish-nets, and to the blue-veined, leathery hands that flew in and out of the coarse meshes with the fluent ease of long practice. with one of these old women we became friends. we had made her acquaintance at a poetic moment, under romantic circumstances. we were all three watching a sunset, under a pink sky; we were sitting far out on the grasses of the cliff. her house was in the midst of the grasses, some little distance from the village, attached to it only as a ragged fringe might edge a garment. it was a thatched hut; yet there were circumstances in the life of the owner which had transformed the interior into a luxurious apartment. the owner of the hut was herself hanging on the edge of life; she was a toothless, bent, and withered old remnant; but her vigor and vivacity were those of a witch. her hands and eyes were ceaselessly active; she was forever busy, fingering a fish-net, or polishing her normandy brasses, or stirring some dark liquid in an iron pot over the dim fire. at our first meeting, conversation had immediately engaged itself; it had ended, as all right talk should, in friendship. on this morning of our visit, many a gay one having preceded it, we found our friend arrayed as if for an outing. she had mounted her best coif, and tied across her shrivelled old breast was a vivid purple silk kerchief. "_tiens, mes enfants, soyez les bienvenues_," was her gay greeting, seasoned with a high cackling laugh, as she waved us to two rickety chairs. "no, i'm not going out, not yet; there is plenty of time, plenty of time. it is you who are good, _si aimables_, to come out here to see me. and tired, too, _hein_, with the long walk? _tiens_, i had nearly forgotten; there's a bottle of wine open below--you must take a glass." she never forgot. the bottle of wine had always just been opened; the cork was always also miraculously rebellious for a cork that had been previously pulled. although our ancient friend was a peasant, her cellar was the cellar of a gourmet. wonderful old wines were hers! port, bordeaux, white wines, of vintages to make the heart warm; each was produced in turn, a different vintage and wine on each one of our visits, but no champagne. this was no wine for women--for the right women. champagne was a bad, fast wine, for fast, disreputable people. "_c'est un vrai poison, qui vous infecte_," she had declared again and again, and when she saw her daughter drinking it, it made her shudder; she confessed to having a moment of doubt; had paris, indeed, really brought her child no harm? then the old mere would shrug her bent shoulders and rub her hands, and for a moment she would be lost in thought. presently the cracked old laugh would peal forth again, and, as she threw back her head, she would shake it as if to dispel some dark vision. to-day she had dropped, almost as soon as we entered, into a narrow trap-door, descending a flight of stone steps. we could hear a clicking of bottles and a rustling of straw; and then, behold, a veritable fairy issuing from the bowels of the earth, with flushes of red suffusing the ribbed, bewrinkled face, as the old figure straightens its crookedness to carry the dusty bottle securely, steadily, lest the cloudy settling at the bottom should be disturbed. what a merry little feast then began! we had learned where the glasses were kept; we had been busily scouring them while our hostess was below. then wine and glasses, along with three chairs, were quickly placed on the pine table at the door of the old house. here, on the grass of the cliffs, we sat, sipping our wine, enjoying the sea that lay at our feet, and above, the sunlit sky. to our friend both sky and sea were familiar companions; but the fichu was a new friend. "yes, it is very beautiful, as you say," she said, in answer to our admiring comments. "it came from paris, from my daughter. she sent it to me; she is always making me gifts; she is one who remembers her old mother! figure to yourselves that last year, in midwinter, she sent me no less than three gowns, all wool! what can i do with them? _c'est pour me flatter, c'est sa manière de me dire qu'il faut vivre pour longtemps! ah, la chère folle!_ but she spoils me, the darling!" this daughter had become the most mysterious of all our villerville discoveries. our old friend was a peasant, the child of peasant farmers. she would always remain a peasant; and yet her daughter was a parisian, and lived in a _bonbonnière_. she was also married; but that only served to thicken the web of mystery enshrouding her. how could a daughter of a peasant, brought up as a peasant, who had lived here, a tiller of the fields till her nineteenth year, suddenly be transformed into a woman of the parisian world, gain the position of a banker's wife, and be dancing, as the old mere kept telling us, at balls at the elysée? her mother never answered this riddle for us; and, more amazing still, neither could the village. the village would shrug its shoulders, when we questioned it, with discretion, concerning this enigma. "ah, dame! it was she--the old mere--who had had chances in life, to marry her daughter like that! victorine was pretty--yes, there was no gainsaying she was pretty--but not so beautiful as all that, to entrap a banker, _un homme sérieux, qui vit de ses rentes!_ and who was generous, too, for the old mere needn't work now, since she was always receiving money." gifts were perpetually pouring into the low rooms--wines, and parisian delicacies, and thick garments. the tie between the two, between the mother and daughter, appeared to be as strong and their relations as complete, as if one were not clad in homespun and the other in worth gowns. there was no shame, that was easily seen, on either side; each apparently was full of pride in the other; their living apart was entirely due to the old mère's preference for a life on the cliffs, alone in the midst of all her old peasant belongings. "_c'est plus chez-soi, ici!_ victorine feels that, too. she loves the smell of the old wood, and of the peat burning there in the fireplace. when she comes down to see me, i must shut fast all the doors and windows; she wants the whole of the smell, _pour faire le vrai bouquet_, as she says. if she had had children--ah!--i don't say but what i might have consented; but as it is, i love my old fire, and my view out there, and the village, best!" at this point in the conversation, the old eyes, bright as they were, turned dim and cloudy; the inward eye was doubtless seeing something other than the view; it was resting on a youthful figure, clad in parisian draperies, and on a face rising above the draperies, that bent lovingly over the deep-throated fireplace, basking in its warmth, and revelling in its homely perfume. we were silent also, as the picture of that transfigured daughter of the house flitted across our own mental vision. "the village?" suddenly broke in the old mère. "_dieu de dieu!_ that reminds me. i must go, my children, i must go. loisette is waiting; _la pauvre enfant_--perhaps suffering too--how do i know? and here am i, playing, like a lazy clout! did you know she had had un _nini_ this morning? the little angel came at dawn. that's a good sign! and what news for auguste! he was out last night--fishing; she was at her washing when he left her. _tiens_, there they are, looking for him! they've brought the spy-glass." the old mère shaded her eyes, as she looked out into the dazzling sunlight. we followed her finger, that pointed to a projection on the cliffs. among the grasses, grouped on top of the highest rock, was a family party. an old fish-wife was standing far out against the sky; she also was shading her eyes. a child's round head, crowded into a white knit cap, was etched against the wide blue; and, kneeling, holding in both hands a seaman's long glass, was a girl, sweeping the horizon with swift, skilful stretches of arm and hand. the sun descended in a shower of light on the old grandam's seamy face, on the red, bulging cheeks of the chubby child, and on the bent figure of the girl, whose knees were firmly implanted in the deep, tall grasses. beyond the group there was nothing but sea and sky. "yes," the mere went on, garrulously, as she recorked the bottle of old port, carrying table and glasses within doors. "yes, they're looking for him. it ought to be time, now; he's due about now. there's a man for you--good--_bon comme le bon dieu_. sober, saving too--good father--in love with loisette as on the wedding night--_ah, mes enfants!_--there are few like him, or this village would be a paradise!" she shut the door of the little cabin. and then she gave us a broad wink. the wink was entirely by way of explanation; it was to enlighten us as to why a certain rare bottle of port--a fresh one--was being secreted beneath her fichu. it was a wink that conveyed to us a really valuable number of facts; chief among them being the very obvious fact that the french government was an idiot, and a tyrant into the bargain, since it imposed stupid laws no one meant to carry out; least of all a good norman. what? pay two _sous octroi_ on a bottle of one's own wine, that one had had in one's cellar for half a lifetime? to cheat the town out of those twopence becomes, of course, the true norman's chief pleasure in life. what is his reputation worth, as a shrewd, sharp man of business, if a little thing like cheating stops him? it is even better fun than bargaining, to cheat thus one's own town, since nothing is to be risked, and one is so certain of success. the mere nodded to us gayly, in farewell, as we all three re-entered the town. she disappeared all at once into a narrow door way, her arms still clasping her old port, that lay in the folds of her shawl. on her shrewd kindly old face came a light that touched it all at once with a glow of divinity; the mother in her had sprung into life with sharp, sweet suddenness; she had caught the wail of the new-born babe through the open door. the village itself seemed to have caught something of the same glow. it was not only the splendor of the noon sun that made the faces of the worn fish-wives and the younger women softer and kindlier than common; the groups, as we passed them, were all talking of but one thing--of this babe that had come in the night, of auguste's absence, and of loisette's sharp pains and her cries, that had filled the street, so that none could sleep. chapter vi. a pagan cobbler. at dusk that evening the same subject, with variations, was the universal topic of the conversational groups. still auguste had not come; half the village was out watching for him on the cliffs. the other half was crowding the streets and the doorsteps. twilight is the classic time, in all french towns and villages, for the _al fresco_ lounge. the cool breath of the dusk is fresh, then, and restful; after the heat and sweat of the long noon the air, as it touches brow and lip, has the charm of a caress. so the door ways and streets were always crowded at this hour, groups moved, separated, formed and re formed, and lingered to exchange their budget of gossip, to call out their "_bonne nuit_," the girls to clasp hands, looking longingly over their shoulders at the younger fishermen and farmers; the latter to nod, carelessly, gayly back at them; and then--as men will--to fling an arm about a comrade's shoulder as they, in their turn, called out into the dusk, "_allons, mon brave; de l'absinthe, toi?_" as the cabaret swallowed them up. great and mighty were the cries and the oaths that issued from the cabaret's open doors and windows. the villerville fisherman loved bacchus only, second to neptune; when he was not out casting his net into the channel he was drinking up his spoils. it was during the sobering process only that affairs of a purely domestic nature engaged his attention. some of the streets were permeated with noxious odors, with the poison of absinthe and the fumes of cheap brandy. noisy, reeling groups came out of the tavern doors, to shout and sing, or to fight their way homeward. one such figure was filling a narrow alley, swaying from right to left, with a jeering crowd at his heels. "_est-il assez ridicule, lui?_ with his cap over his nose, and his knees knocking at everyone's door? _bah! ça pue! _" the group of lads following him went on, shouting about the poor sot, as they pelted him with their rain of pebbles and paper bullets. "ah--h, he will beat her, in his turn, poor soul; she always gets it when he's full, as full as that--" the voice was so close to our ears that we started. the words appeared addressed to us; they were, in a way, since they were intended for the street, as a street, and for the benefit of the groups that filled it. the voice was gruff yet mellow; despite its gruffness it had the ring of a latent kindliness in its deep tones. the man who owned it was seated on a level with our elbows, at a cobbler's bench. we stopped to let the crowd push on beyond us. the man had only lifted his head from his work, but involuntarily one stopped to salute the power in it. "_bonsoir, mesdames_"--the head gravely bowed as the great frame of the body below the head rose from the low seat. the room within seemed to contain nothing else save this giant figure, now that it had risen and was moving toward us. the half-door was courteously opened. "will not _ces dames_ give themselves the trouble of entering? the streets are not gay at this hour." we went in. a dog and a woman came forth from a smaller inner room to greet us; of the two the dog was obviously the personage next in point of intelligence and importance to the master. the woman had a snuffed-out air, as of one whose life had died out of her years ago. she blinked at us meekly as she dropped a timid courtesy; at a low word of command she turned a pitifully patient back on us all. there were years of obedience to orders written on its submissive curves; and she bent it once more over her kettles; both she and the kettles were on the bare floor. it was the poorest of all the villerville interiors we had as yet seen; the house was also, perhaps, the oldest in the village. it and the old church had been opposite neighbors for several centuries. the shop and the living-room were all in one; the low window was a counter by day and a shutter by night. within, the walls were bare as were the floors. three chairs with sunken leather covers, and a bed with a mattress also sunken--a hollow in a pine frame, was the equipment in furniture. the poverty was brutal; it was the naked, unabashed poverty of the middle ages, with no hint of shame or effort of concealment. the colossus whom the low roof covered was as unconscious of the barrenness of his surroundings as were his own walls. this hovel was his home; he had made us welcome with the manners of a king. meanwhile the dog was sniffing at our skirts. after a tour of observation and inspection he wagged his tail, gave a short bark, and seated himself by charm. the giant's eyes twinkled. "you see, mesdames, it is a dog with a mind--he knows in an instant who are the right sort. and eloquence, also--he is one who can make speeches with his tail. a dog's tongue is in his tail, and this one wags his like an orator!" some one else, as well as the dog, possessed the oratorical gift. the cobbler's voice was the true speaker's voice--rich, vibrating, sonorous, with a deep note of melody in it. pose and gestures matched with the voice; they were flexible and picturesquely suggestive. "if you care for oratory--" charm smiled out upon the huge but mobile face--"you are well placed. the village lies before you. you can always see the play going on, and hear the speeches--of the passers-by." the large mouth smiled back. but at charm's first sentence the keen norman eyes had fixed their twinkling glitter on the girl's face. they seemed to be reading to the very bottom of her thought and being. the scrutiny was not relaxed as he answered. "yes, yes, it is very amusing. one sees a little of everything here. _le monde qui passe_--it makes life more diverting; it helps to kill the time. i look out from my perch, like a bird--a very old one, and caged"--and he shook forth a great laugh from beneath the wide leather apron. the woman, hearing the laugh, came out into the room. "_e'ben--et toi_--what do you want?" the giant stopped laughing long enough to turn tyrant. the woman, at the first of his growl, smiled feebly, going back with unresisting meekness to her knees, to her pots, and her kettles. the dog growled in imitation of his master; obviously the soul of the dog was in the wrong body. meanwhile the master of the dog and the woman had forgotten both now; he was continuing, in a masterful way, to enlighten us about the peculiarities of his native village. the talk had now reached the subject of the church. "oh, yes, it is fine, very, and old; it and this old house are the oldest of all the inhabitants of this village. the church came first, though, it was built by the english, when they came over, thinking to conquer us with their hundred years' war. little they knew france and frenchmen. the church was thoroughly french, although the english did build it; on the ground many times, but up again, only waiting the hand of the builder and the restorer." again the slim-waisted shape of the old wife ventured forth into the room. "yes, as he says"--in a voice that was but an echo--"the church has been down many times." "_tais-toi--c'est moi qui parle_," grumbled anew her husband, giving the withered face a terrific scowl. "_ohé, oui, c'est toi_," the echo bleated. the thin hands meekly folded themselves across her apron. she stood quite still, as if awaiting more punishment. "it is our good curé who wishes to pull it down once more," her terrible husband went on, not heeding her quiet presence. "do you know our curé? ah, ha, he's a fine one. it's he that rules us now--he's our king--our emperor. ugh, he's a bad one, he is." "ah, yes, he's a bad one, he is," his wife echoed, from the side wall. "well, and who asked you to talk?" cried her husband, with a face as black as when the curé's name had first been mentioned. the echo shrank into the wall. "as i was telling these ladies"--he resumed here his boot work, clamping the last between his great knees--"as i was saying, we have not been fortunate in cures, we of our parish. there are curés and curés, as there are fagots and fagots--and ours is a bad lot. we've had nothing but trouble since he came to rule over us. we get poorer day by day, and he richer. there he is now, feeding his hens and his doves--look, over there--with the ladies of his household gathered about him--his mother, his aunt, and his niece--a perfect harem. oh, he keeps them all fat and sleek, like himself! bah!" the grunt of disgust the cobbler gave filled the room like a thunder-clap. he was peering over his last, across the open counter, at a little house adjoining the church green, with a great hatred in his face. from one of the windows of the house there was leaning forth a group of three heads; there was the tonsured head of a priest, round, pink-tinted, and the figures of two women, one youthful, with a long, sad-featured face, and the other ruddy and vigorous in outline. they were watching the priest as he scattered corn to the hens and geese in the garden below the window. the cobbler was still eying them fiercely, as he continued to give vent to his disgust. "_méchant homme--lui_," he here whipped his thread, venomously, through the leather he was sewing. "figure to yourselves, mesdames, that besides being wicked, our curé is a very shrewd man; it is not for the pure good of the parish he works, not he." "not he," the echo repeated, coming forth again from the wall. this time the whisper passed unnoticed; her master's hatred of the curé was greater than his passion for showing his own power. "religion--religion is a very good way of making money, better than most, if one knows how to work the machine. the soul, it is a fine instrument on which to play, if one is skilful. our curé has a grand touch on this instrument. you should see the good man take up a collection, it is better than a comedy." here the cobbler turned actor; he rose, scattering his utensils right and left; he assumed a grand air and a mincing, softly tread, the tread of a priest. his flexible voice imitated admirably the rounded, unctuous, autocratic tone peculiar to the graduates of st. sulpice. "you should hear him, when the collection does not suit him: '_mes frères et mes soeurs_, i see that _le bon dieu_ isn't in your minds and your hearts to-day; you are not listening to his voice; the saviour is then speaking in vain?' then he prays--" the cobbler folded his hands with a great parade of reference, lifting his eyes as he rolled his lids heavenward hypocritically--"yes, he prays--and then he passes the plate himself! he holds it before your very nose, there is no pushing it aside; he would hold it there till you dropped--till doomsday. ah, he's a hard crust, he is! there's a tyrant for you--_la monarchie absolue_--that's what he believes in. he must have this, he must have that. now it is a new altar-cloth, or a fresh virgin of the modern make, from paris, with a robe of real lace; the old one was black and faded, too black to pray to. now it is a _huissier_, forsooth, that we must have, we, a parish of a few hundred souls, who know our seats in the church as well as we know our own noses. one would think a 'suisse' would have done; but we are swells now--_avec ce gaillard-là_, only the tiptop is good enough. so, if you grace our poor old church with your presence you will be shown to your bench by a very splendid gentleman in black, in knee-breeches, with silver chains, with a three-cornered hat, who strikes with his stick three times as he seats you. bah! ridiculous!" "ridiculous!" the woman repeated, softly. "they had the curé once, though. one day in church he announced a subscription to be taken up for restorations, from fifty centimes to--to anything; he will take all you give him, avaricious that he is! he believes in the greasing of the palm, he does. well, think you the subscription was for restorations, _mesdames_? it was for demolition--that's what it was for--to make the church level with the ground. to do this would cost a little matter of twenty thousand francs, which would pass through his hands, you understand. well, that staggered the parish. our mayor--a man _pas trop fin_, was terribly upset. he went about saying the curé claimed the church as his; he could do as he liked with it, he said, and he proposed to make it a fine modern one. all the village was weeping. the church was the oldest friend of the village, except for such as i, whom these things have turned pagan. well, one of our good citizens reminds the mayor that the church, under the new laws, belongs to the commune. the mayor tells this timidly to the curé. and the curé retorts, 'ah, _bien_, at least one-half belongs to me.' and the good citizen answers--he has gone with the mayor to prop him up--'which half will you take? the cemetery, doubtless, since your charge is over the souls of the parish.' ah! ah! he pricked him well then! he pricked him well!" the low room rang with the great shout of the cobbler's laughter. the dog barked furiously in concert. our own laughter was drowned in the thunder of our host's loud guffaws. the poor old wife shook herself with a laugh so much too vigorous for her frail frame, one feared its after-effects. the after-effects were a surprise. after the first of her husband's spasms of glee the old woman spoke out, but in trembling tones no longer. "ah, the cemetery, it is i who forgot to go there this week." her husband stopped, the laugh dying on his lip as he turned to her. "_ah, ma bonne_, how came that? you forgot?" his own tones trembled at the last word. "yes, you had the cramps again, you remember, and there was no money left for the bouquet." "yes, i remember," and the great chest heaved a deep sigh. "you have children--you have lost someone?" "_hélas!_ no living children, mademoiselle. no, no--one daughter we had, but she died twenty years ago. she lies over there--where we can see her. she would have been thirty-eight years now--the fourteenth of this very month!" "yes, this very month." then the old woman, for the first time, left her refuge along the wall; she crept softly, quietly near to her husband to put her withered hand in his. his large palm closed over it. both of the old faces turned toward the cemetery; and in the old eyes a film gathered, as they looked toward all that was left of the hope that was buried away from them. we left them thus, hand in hand, with many promises to renew the acquaintance. the village was no longer abroad in the streets. during our talk in the shop the night had fallen; it had cast its shadow, as trees cast theirs, in a long, slow slant. lights were trembling in the dim interiors; the shrill cries of the children were stilled; only a muffled murmur came through the open doors and windows. the villagers were pattering across the rough floors, talking, as their sabots clattered heavily over the wooden surface, as they washed the dishes, as they covered their fires, shoving back the tables and chairs. as we walked along, through the nearer windows came the sound of steps on the creaking old stairs, then a rustling of straw and the heavy fall of weary bodies, as the villagers flung themselves on the old oaken beds, that groaned as they received their burden. presently all was still. only our steps resounded through the streets. the stars filled the sky; and beneath them the waves broke along the beach. in the closely packed little streets the heavy breathing of the sleeping village broke also in short, quick gasps. only we and the night were awake. chapter vii. some norman landladies. quite a number of changes came about with our annexation of an artist and his garden. chief among these changes was the surprising discovery of finding ourselves, at the end of a week, in possession of a villa. "it's next door," renard remarked, in the casual way peculiar to artists. "you are to have the whole house to yourselves, all but the top floor; the people who own it keep that to live in. there's a garden of the right sort, with espaliers, also rose trees, and a tea house; quite the right sort of thing altogether." the unforeseen, in its way, is excellent and admirable. _de l'imprévu,_ surely this is the dash of seasoning--the caviare we all crave in life's somewhat too monotonous repasts. but as men have been known to admire the still life in wifely character, and then repented their choice, marrying peace only to court dissension, so we, incontinently deserting our humble inn chambers to take possession of a grander state, in the end found the capital of experience drained to pay for our little infidelity. [illustration: a departure--villerville] the owners of the villa belle etoile, our friend announced, he had found greatly depressed; of this, their passing mood, he had taken such advantage as only comes to the knowing. "they speak of themselves drearily as 'deux pauvres malheureux' with this villa still on their hands, and here they are almost 'touching june,' as they put it. they also gave me to understand that only the finest flowers of the aristocracy had had the honor of dwelling in this villa. they have been able, i should say, more or less successfully to deflower this 'fine fleur' of some of their gold. but they are very meek just now--they were willing to listen to reason." the "two poor unhappies" were looking surprisingly contented an hour later, when we went in to inspect our possessions. they received us with such suave courtesy, that i was quite certain renard's skill in transactions had not played its full gamut of capacity. civility is the frenchman's mask; he wears it as he does his skin--as a matter of habit. but courtesy is his costume de bal; he can only afford to don his bravest attire of smiles and graciousness when his pocket is in holiday mood. madame fouchet we found in full ball-room toilet; she was wreathed in smiles. would _ces dames_ give themselves the trouble of entering? would they see the house or the garden first? would they permit their trunks to be sent for? monsieur fouchet, meanwhile, was making a brave second to his wife's bustling welcome; he was rubbing his hands vigorously, a somewhat suspicious action in a frenchman, i have had occasion to notice, after the completion of a bargain. nature had cast this mild-eyed individual for the part of accompanyist in the comedy we call life; a _rôle_ he sometimes varied as now, with the office of _claqueur_, when an uncommonly clever proof of madame's talent for business drew from him this noiseless tribute of applause. his weak, fat contralto called after us, as we followed madame's quick steps up the waxed stairway; he would be in readiness, he said, to show us the garden, "once the chambers were visited." "it wasn't a real stroke, mesdames, it was only a warning!" was the explanation conveyed to us in loud tones, with no reserve of whispered delicacy, when we expressed regret at monsieur's detention below stairs; a partially paralyzed leg, dragged painfully after the latter's flabby figure, being the obvious cause of this detention. the stairway had the line of beauty, describing a pretty curve before its glassy steps led us to a narrow entry; it had also the brevity which is said to be the very soul, _l'anima viva_, of all true wit; but it was quite long and straight enough to serve madame fouchet as a stage for a prolonged monologue, enlivened with much affluence of gesture. fouchet's seizure, his illness, his convalescence, and present physical condition--a condition which appeared to be bristling with the tragedy of danger, "un vrai drame d'anxiété"--was graphically conveyed to us. the horrors of the long winter also, so sad for a parisian--"si triste pour la parisienne, ces hivers de province"--together with the miseries of her own home life, between this paralytic of a husband below stairs, and above, her mother, an old lady of eighty, nailed to her sofa with gout. "you may thus figure to yourselves, mesdames, what a melancholy season is the winter! and now, with this villa still on our hands, and the season already announcing itself, ruin stares us in the face, mesdames--ruin!" it was a moving picture. yet we remained strangely unaffected by this tale of woe. madame fouchet herself, the woman, not the actress, was to blame, i think, for our unfeelingness. somehow, to connect woe, ruin, sadness, melancholy, or distress, in a word, of any kind with our landlady's opulent figure, we found a difficult acrobatic mental feat. she presented to the eye outlines and features that could only be likened, in point of prosperity, to a dutch landscape. like certain of the mediaeval saints presented by the earlier delineators of the martyrs as burning above a slow fire, while wearing smiles of purely animal content, as if in full enjoyment of the temperature, this lady's sufferings were doubtless an invisible discipline, the hair shirt which her hardened cuticle felt only to be a pleasurable itching. "_voilà, mesdames!_" it was with a magnificent gesture that madame opened doors and windows. the drama of her life was forgotten for the moment in the conscious pride of presenting us with such a picture as her gay little house offered. inside and out, summer and the sun were blooming and shining with spendthrift luxuriance. the salon opened directly on the garden; it would have been difficult to determine just where one began and the domain of the other ended, with the pinks and geraniums that nodded in response to the peach and pear blossoms in the garden. a bit of faded aubusson and a print representing madame geoffrin's salon in full session, with a poet of the period transporting the half-moon grouped listeners about him to the point of tears, were evidences of the refined tastes of our landlady in the arts; only a sentimentalist would have hung that picture in her salon. other decorations further proved her as belonging to both worlds. the chintzes gay with garlands of roses, with which walls, beds, and chairs were covered, revealed the mundane element, the woman of decorative tastes, possessed of a hidden passion for effective backgrounds. two or three wooden crucifixes, a _prie-dieu_, and a couple of saints in plaster, went far to prove that this excellent _bourgeoise_ had thriftily made her peace with heaven. it was a curious mixture of the sacred and the profane. down below, beneath the windows overlooking the sea, lay the garden. all the houses fronting the cliff had similar little gardens, giving, as the french idiom so prettily puts it, upon the sea. but compared to these others, ours was as a rose of sharon blooming in the midst of little deserts. renard had been entirely right about this particular bit of earth attached to our villa. it was a gem of a garden. it was a french garden, and therefore, entirely as a matter of course, it had walls. it was as cut off from the rest of the world as if it had been a prison or a fortification. the frenchman, above all others, appears to have the true sentiment of seclusion, when the society of trees and flowers is to be enjoyed. next to woman, nature is his fetish. true to his national taste in dress, he prefers that both should be costumed _à la parisienne_; but as poet and lover, it is his instinct to build a wall about his idol, that he may enjoy his moments of expansion unseen and unmolested. this square of earth, for instance, was not much larger than the space covered by the chamber roof above us; and yet, with the high walls towering over the rose-stalks, it was as secluded as a monk's cloister. we found it, indeed, on later acquaintance, as poetic and delicately sensuous a retreat as the romance-writers would wish us to believe did those mediaeval connoisseurs of comfort, when, with sandalled feet, they paced their own convent garden-walks. fouchet was a broken-down shopkeeper; but somewhere hidden within, there lurked the soul of a maecenas; he knew how to arrange a feast--of roses. the garden was a bit of greensward, not much larger than a pocket handkerchief; but the grass had the right emerald hue, and one's feet sank into the rich turf as into the velvet of an oriental rug. small as was the enclosure, between the espaliers and the flower-beds serpentined minute paths of glistening pebbles. nothing which belonged to a garden had been forgotten, not even a pine from the tropics, and a bench under the pine that was just large enough for two. this latter was an ideal little spot in which to bring a friend or a book. one could sit there and gorge one's self with sweets; a dance was perpetually going on--the gold-and-purple butterflies fluttering gayly from morning till night; and the bees freighted the air with their buzzing. if one tired of perfumes and dancing, there was always music to be enjoyed, from a full orchestra. the sea, just the other side of the wall of osiers, was always in voice, whether sighing or shouting. the larks and blackbirds had a predilection for this nest of color, announcing their preference loudly in a combat of trills. and once or twice, we were quite certain, a nightingale with patti notes had been trying its liquid scales in the dark. it was in this garden that our acquaintance with our landlord deepened into something like friendship. monsieur fouchet was always to be found there, tying up the rose-trees, or mending the paths, or shearing the bit of turf. _"mon jardin, c'est un peu moi, vous savez_--it is my pride and my consolation." at the latter word, fouchet was certain to sigh. then we fell to wondering just what grief had befallen this amiable person which required horatian consolation. horace had need of rose-leaves to embalm his disappointments, for had he not cooled his passions by plunging into the bath of literature? besides, horace was bitten by the modern rabies: he was as restless as an american. when at rome was he not always sighing for his sabine farm, and when at the farm always regretting rome? but this harmless, innocent-eyed, benevolent-browed old man, with his passive brains tied up in a foulard, o' morning's, and his _bourgeois_ feet adorned with carpet slippers, what grief in the past had bitten his poor soul and left its mark still sore? "it isn't monsieur--it is madame who has made the past dark," was renard's comment, when we discussed our landlord's probable acquaintance with regret--or remorse. whatever secret of the past may have hovered over the fouchet household, the evil bird had not made its nest in madame's breast, that was clear; her smooth, white brow was the sign of a rose-leaf conscience; that dark curtain of hair, looped madonna-wise over each ear, framed a face as unruffled as her conscience. she was entirely at peace with her world, and with heaven as well, that was certain. whatever her sins, the confessional had purged her. like others, doubtless, she had found a husband and the provinces excellent remedies for a damaged reputation. she lived now in the very odor of sanctity; the cure had a pipe in her kitchen, with something more sustaining, on certain bright afternoons. although she was daily announcing to us her approaching dissolution--"i die, mesdames--i die of ennui"--it seemed to me there were still signs, at times, of a vigorous resuscitation. the cure's visits were wont to produce a deeper red in the deep bloom of her cheek; the mayor and his wife, who drank their sunday coffee in the arbor, brought, as did beatrix's advent to dante, _vita nuova_ to this homesick parisian. there were other pleasures in her small world, also, which made life endurable. bargaining, when one teems with talent, may be as exciting as any other form of conquest. madame's days were chiefly passed in imitation of the occupation so dear to an earlier, hardier race, that race kings have knighted for their powers in dealing mightily with their weaker neighbors. madame, it is true, was only a woman, and villerville was somewhat slimly populated. but in imitation of her remote feudal lords, she also fell upon the passing stranger, demanding tribute. when the stranger did not pass, she kept her arm in practice, so to speak, by extracting the last _sou_ in a transaction from a neighbor, or by indulging in a drama in which the comedy of insult was matched by the tragedy of contempt. one of these mortal combats it was my privilege to witness. the war arose on our announcement to mère mouchard, the lady of the inn by the sea, of our decision to move next door. to us mère mouchard presented the unruffled plumage of a dove; her voice also was as the voice of the same, mellowed by sucking. ten minutes later the town was assembled to lend its assistance at the encounter between our two landladies. each stood on their respective doorsteps with arms akimbo and head thrust forward, as geese protrude head and tongue in moments of combat. and it was thus, the mere hissed, that her boarders were stolen from her--under her very nose--while her back was turned, with no more thought of honesty or shame than a----. the word was never uttered. the mère's insult was drowned in a storm of voices? for there came a loud protest from the group of neighbors. madame fouchet, meanwhile, was sustaining her own role with great dignity. her attitude of self-control could only have been learned in a school where insult was an habitual weapon. she smiled, an infuriating, exasperating, successful smile. she showed a set of defiant white teeth, and to her proud white throat she gave a boastful curve. was it her fault if _ces dames_ knew what comfort and cleanliness were? if they preferred "_des chambres garnies avec goût, vraiment artistiques_"--to rooms fit only for peasants? _ces dames_ had just come from paris; doubtless, they were not yet accustomed to provincial customs--_aux moeurs provinciales_. then there were exchanged certain melodious acerbities, which proved that these ladies had entered the lists on previous occasions, and that each was well practised in the other's methods of warfare. opportunely, renard appeared on the scene; his announcement that we proposed still to continue taking our repasts with the mere, was as oil on the sea of trouble. a reconciliation was immediately effected, and the street as immediately lost all interest in the play, the audience melting away as speedily as did the wrath of the disputants. "_le bon dieu soit loué_," cried madame fouchet, puffing, as she mounted the stairs a few moments later--"god be praised"--she hadn't come here to the provinces to learn her rights--to be taught her alphabet. mère mouchard, forsooth, who wanted a week's board as indemnity for her loss of us! a week's board--for lodgings scorned by peasants! "ah, these normans! what a people, what a people! they would peel the skin off your back! they would sell their children! they would cheat the devil himself!" "you, madame, i presume, are from paris." madame smiled as she answered, a thin fine smile, richly seasoned with scorn. "ah, mesdames! all the world can't boast of paris as a birthplace, unfortunately. i also, i am a norman, _mais je ne m'en fiche pas!_ most of my life, however, i've lived in paris, thank god!" she lifted her head as she spoke, and swept her hands about her waist to adjust the broad belt, an action pregnant with suggestions. for it was thus conveyed to us, delicately, that such a figure as hers was not bred on rustic diet; also, that the parisian glaze had not failed of its effect on the coarser provincial clay. meanwhile, below in the garden, her husband was meekly tying up his rose-trees. neither of the landladies' husbands had figured in the street-battle. it had been a purely amazonian encounter, bloodless but bitter. both the husbands of these two belligerent landladies appeared singularly well trained. mouchard, indeed, occupied a comparatively humble sphere in his wife's _ménage_. he was perpetually to be seen in the court-yard, at the back of the house, washing dogs, or dishes, in a costume in which the greatest economy of cloth compatible with decency had been triumphantly solved. his wife ran the house, and he ran the errands, an arrangement which, apparently, worked greatly to the satisfaction of both. but mouchard was not the first or the second french husband who, on the threshold of his connubial experience, had doubtless had his role in life appointed to him, filling the same with patient acquiescence to the very last of the lines. there is something very touching in the subjection of french husbands. in point of meekness they may well serve, i think, as models to their kind. it is a meekness, however, which does not hint of humiliation; for, after all, what humiliation can there be in being thoroughly understood? the frenchwoman, by virtue of centuries of activity, in the world and in the field, has become an expert in the art of knowing her man; she has not worked by his side, under the burn of the noon sun, or in the cimmerian darkness of the shop-rear, counting the pennies, for nothing. in exchanging her illusions for the bald front of fact, man himself has had to pay the penalty of this mixed gain. she tests him by purely professional standards, as man tests man, or as he has tested her, when in the ante-matrimonial days he weighed her _dot_ in the scale of his need. the frenchwoman and shakespeare are entirely of one mind; they perceive the great truth of unity in the scheme of things: "woman's test is man's taste." this is the first among the great truths in the feminine grammar of assent. french masculine taste, as its criterion, has established the excellent doctrine of utilitarianism. with quick apprehension the frenchwoman has mastered this fact; she has cleverly taken a lesson from ophidian habits--she can change her skin, quickly shedding the sentimentalist, when it comes to serious action, to don the duller raiment of utility. she has accepted her world, in other words, as she finds it, with a philosopher's shrug. but the philosopher is lined with the logician; for this system of life has accomplished the miracle of making its women logical; they have grasped the subtleties of inductive reasoning. marriage, for example, they know is entered into solely on the principle of mutual benefit; it is therefore a partnership, _bon_; now, in partnerships sentiments and the emotions are out of place, they only serve to dim the eye; those commodities, therefore, are best conveyed to other markets than the matrimonial one; for in purely commercial transactions one has need of perfect clearness of vision, if only to keep one well practised in that simple game called looking out for one's own interest. in frenchwomen, the ratiocinationist is extraordinarily developed; her logic penetrates to the core of things. hence it is that mouchard washes dishes. monsieur jourdain, in molière's comedy, who expressed such surprise at finding that he had been talking prose for forty years without knowing it, was no more amazed than would mère mouchard have been had you announced to her that she was a logician; or that her husband's daily occupations in the bright little court-yard were the result of a system. yet both facts were true. in that process we now know as the survival of the fittest, the mère's capacity had snuffed out her weaker spouse's incompetency; she had taken her place at the helm, because she belonged there by virtue of natural fitness. there were no tender illusions which would suffer, in seeing the husband allotted to her, probably by her parents and the _dot_ system, relegated to the ignominy of passing his days washing dishes--dishes which she cooked and served--dishes, it should be added, which she was entirely conscious were cooked by the hand of genius, and which she garnished with a sauce and served with a smile, such as only issue from french kitchens. chapter viii. the quartier latin on the beach. the beach, one morning, we found suddenly peopled with artists. it was a little city of tents. beneath striped awnings and white umbrellas a multitude of flat-capped heads sat immovably still on their three-legged stools, or darted hither and thither. paris was evidently beginning to empty its studios; the normandy beaches now furnished the better model. one morning we were in luck. a certain blonde beard had counted early in the day on having the beach to himself. he had posed his model in the open daylight, that he might paint her in the sun. he had placed her, seated on an edge of seawall; for a background there was the curve of the yellow sands and the flat breadth of the sea, with the droop of the sky meeting the sea miles away. the girl was a slim, fair shape, with long, thin legs and delicately moulded arms; she was dressed in the fillet and chiton of greece. during her long poses she was as immovable as an antique marble; her natural grace and prettiness were transfigured into positive beauty by the flowing lines and the pink draperies of her attic costume. seated thus, she was a breathing embodiment of the best greek period. when the rests came, her jump from the wall landed her square on her feet and at the latter end of the nineteenth century. once free, she bounded from her perch on the high sea-wall. in an instant she had tucked her tinted draperies within the slender girdle; her sandalled feet must be untrammelled, she was about to take her run on the beach. soon she was pelting, irreverently, her painter with a shower of loose pebbles. next she had challenged him to a race; when she reached the goal, her thin, bare arms were uplifted as she clapped and shouted for glee; the quartier latin in her blood was having its moment of high revelry in the morning sun. this little grisette, running about free and unshackled in her loose draperies, quite unabashed in her state of semi-nudity--gay, reckless, wooing pleasure on the wing, surely she might have posed as the embodied archetype of france itself. so has this pagan among modern nations borrowed something of the antique spirit of wantonness. along with its theft of the attic charm and grace, it has captured, also, something of its sublime indifference; in the very teeth of the dull modern world, france has laughed opinion to scorn. at noon the tents were all deserted. it was at this hour that the inn garden was full. the gayety and laughter overflowed the walls. everyone talked at once; the orders were like a rattle of artillery--painting for hours in the open air gives a fine edge to appetite, and patience is never the true twin of hunger. everything but the _potage_ was certain to be on time. colinette, released from her greek draperies, with her parisian bodice had recovered the _blague_ of the studios. "_sacré nom de--on reste donc claquemuré ainsi toute la matinée!_ and all for an _omelette_--a puny, good-for-nothing _omelette_. and you--you've lost your tongue, it seems?" and a shrill voice pierced the air as colinette gave her painter the hint of her prodding elbow. with the appearance of the _omelette_ the reign of good humor would return. everything then went as merrily as that marriage-bell which, apparently, is the only one absent in bohemia's gay chimes. these arbors had obviously been built out of pure charity: they appeared to have been constructed on the principle that since man, painting man, is often forced to live alone, from economic necessity, it is therefore only the commonest charity to provide him with the proper surroundings for eating _à deux._ the little tables beneath the kiosks were strictly _tête-à-tête_ tables; even the chairs, like the visitors, appeared to come only in couples. the frenchman has been reproached with the sin of ingratitude; has been convicted, indeed, as possessed of more of that pride that comes late--the day after the gift of bounty has been given--than some other of his fellow-mortals. yet here were a company of frenchmen--and frenchwomen--proving in no ordinary fashion their equipment in this rare virtue. it was early in may; up yonder, where the seine flows beneath the parisian bridges, the pulse of the gay paris world was beating in time to the spring in the air. yet these artists had deserted the asphalt of the boulevards for the cobbles of a village street, the delights of the _café chantant_ had been exchanged for the miracle of the moon rising over the sea, and for the song of the thrush in the bush. the frenchman, more easily and with simpler art than any of his modern brethren, can change the prose of our dull, practical life into poetry; he can turn lyrical at a moment's notice. he possesses the power of transmuting the commonplace into the idyllic, by merely clapping on his cap and turning his back on the haunts of men. he has retained a singular--an almost ideal sensitiveness, of mental cuticle--such acuteness of sensation, that a journey to a field will oftentimes yield him all the flavor of a long voyage, and a sudden introduction to a forest, the rapture that commonly comes only with some unwonted aspect of nature. perhaps it is because of this natural poet indwelling in a frenchman, that makes him content to remain so much at home. surely the extraordinary is the costly necessity for barren minds; the richly-endowed can see the beauty that lies the other side of their own door-step. chapter ix. a norman household. there were two paths in the village that were well worn. one was that which led the village up into the fields. the other was the one that led the tillers of the soil down into the village, to the door step of the justice of the peace. a good norman is no norman who has not a lawsuit on hand. anything will serve as a pretext for a quarrel no sum of money is so small as not to warrant a breaking of the closest blood ties, if thereby one's rights may be secured. those beautiful stripes of rye, barley, corn, and wheat up yonder in the fields, that melt into one another like sea-tones--down here on the benches before the _juge de paix_--what quarrels, what hatreds, what evil passions these few acres of land have brought their owners, facing each other here like so many demons, ready to spring at the others' throats! brothers on these benches forget they are brothers, and sisters that they have suckled the same mother. two more yards of the soil that should have been fillette's instead of jeanne's, and the grave will enclose both before the clenched fist of either is relaxed, and the last _sous_ in the stocking will be spent before the war between their respective lawyers will end. many and many were the tales told us of the domestic tragedies, born of wills mal-administered, of the passions of hate, ambition, and despair kept at a white heat because half the village owned, up in the fields, what the other half coveted. many, also, and fierce were the heated faces we looked in upon at the justice's door, in the very throes of the great moment of facing justice, and their adversary. our own way, by preference, took us up into the fields. here, in the broad open, the farms lay scattered like fortifications over a plain. doubtless, in the earlier warlike days they had served as such. once out of the narrow villerville streets, and the pastoral was in full swing. the sea along this coast was not in the least insistant; it allowed the shore to play its full gamut of power. there were no tortured shapes of trees or plants, or barren wastes, to attest the fierce ways of the sea with the land. reminders of the sea and of the life that is lived in ships were conspicuous features everywhere, in the pastoral scenes that began as soon as the town ended. women carrying sails and nets toiled through the green aisles of the roads and lanes. fishing-tackle hung in company with tattered jerseys outside of huts hidden in grasses and honeysuckle. the shepherdesses, as they followed the sheep inland into the heart of the pasture land, were busy netting the coarse cages that trap the finny tribe. long-limbed, vigorous-faced, these shepherdesses were biblical figures. in their coarse homespun, with only a skirt and a shirt, with their bare legs, half-open bosoms, and the fine poise of their blond heads, theirs was a beauty that commanded the homage accorded to a rude virginity. in some of the fields, in one of our many walks, the grass was being cut. in these fields the groups of men and women were thickest. the long scythes were swung mightily by both; the voices, a gay treble of human speech, rose above the metallic swish of the sharp blades cutting into the succulent grasses. the fat pasture lands rose and sank in undulations as rounded as the nascent breasts of a young greek maiden. a medley of color played its charming variations over fields, over acres of poppies, over plains of red clover, over the backs of spotted cattle, mixing, mingling, blending a thousand twists and turns into one exquisite, harmonious whole. there was no discordant note, not one harsh contrast; even the hay-ricks seemed to have been modelled rather than pitched into shape; their sloping sides and finely pointed apexes giving them the dignity of structural intent. why should not a peasant, in blouse and sabots, with a grinning idiot face, have put the picture out? but he did not. he was walking, or rather waddling, toward us, between two green walls that rose to be arched by elms that hid the blue of the sky. this lane was the kind of lane one sees only in devonshire and in normandy. there are lanes and lanes, as, to quote our friend the cobbler, there are cures and cures. but only in these above-named countries can one count on walking straight into the heart of an emerald, if one turns from the high-road into a lane. the trees, in these devonshire and normandy by-paths, have ways of their own of vaulting into space; the hedges are thicker, sweeter, more vocal with insect and song notes than elsewhere; the roadway itself is softer to the foot, and narrower--only two are expected to walk therein. it was through such a lane as this that the coarse, animal shape of a peasant was walking toward us. his legs and body were horribly twisted; the dangling arms and crooked limbs appeared as if caricaturing the gnarled and tortured boughs and trunks of the apple-trees. the peasant's blouse was filthy; his sabots were reeking with dirty straw; his feet and ankles, bare, were blacker than the earth over which he was painfully crawling; and on his face there was the vacuous, sensuous deformity of the smile idiocy wears. again i ask, why did he not disfigure this fair scene, and put out something of the beauty of the day? is it because the french peasant seems now to be an inseparable adjunct of the frenchman's landscape? that even deformity has been so handled by the realists as to make us see beauty in ugliness? or is it that, as moderns, we are all bitten by the rabies of the picturesque; that all things serve and are acceptable so long as we have our necessary note of contrast? certain it is that it appears to be the peasant's blouse that perpetuates the salon, and perhaps--who knows?--when over-emigration makes our own american farmer too poor to wear a boiled shirt when he ploughs, we also may develop a school of landscape, with figures. meanwhile the walk and the talk had made charm thirsty. "why should we not go," she asked, "across the next field, into that farm house yonder, and beg for a glass of milk?" the farm-house might have been waiting for us, it was so still. even the grasses along its sloping roof nodded, as if in welcome. the house, as we approached it, together with its out-buildings, assumed a more imposing aspect than it had from the road. its long, low facade, broken here and there by a miniature window or a narrow doorway, appeared to stretch out into interminable length beneath the towering beeches and the snarl of the peach-tree boughs. the stillness was ominous--it was so profound. the only human in sight was a man in a distant field; he was raking the ploughed ground. he was too far away to hear the sound of our voices. "perhaps the entire establishment is in the fields," said charm, as we neared the house. just then a succession of blows fell on our ear. "someone is beating a mattress within, we shall have our glass after all." we knocked. but no one answered our knock. the beating continued; the sound of the blows fell as regularly as if machine-impelled. then a cry rose up; it was the cry of a young, strong voice, and it was followed by a low wail of anguish. the door stood half-open, and this is what we saw: a man--tall, strong, powerful, with a face purple with passion--bending over the crouching form of a girl, whose slender body was quivering, shrinking, and writhing as the man's hand, armed with a short stick, fell, smiting her defenceless back and limbs. her wail went on as each blow fell. in a corner, crouched in a heap, sitting on her heels, was a woman. she was clapping her hands. her eyes were starting from her head; she clapped as the blows came, and above the girl's wail her strong, exultant voice arose--calling out: "_tue-la! tue-la!_" it was the voice of a triumphant fury. the backs of all these people were turned upon us; they had not seen, much less heard, our entrance. someone else had seen us, however. a man with a rake over his shoulder rushed in through the open door; it was the peasant we had seen in the field. he seized charm by the arm, and then my own hand was grasped as in a grip of iron. before we had time for resistance he had pushed us out before him into the entry, behind the outer door. this latter he slammed. he put his broad back against it; then he dropped his rake and began to mop his face, violently, with a filthy handkerchief he plucked from beneath his blouse. "_que chance! nom de dieu, que chance! je v'avions vue_, i saw you just in time--just in time--" "but, i must go in--i wish to go back!" but charm might as well have attempted to move a pillar of stone. the peasant's coarse, good-humored face broke into a broad laugh. "pardon, mam'selle--_j'n bougeons pas. not' maitre e encoléré; e' son jour--faut pas l'irriter--aujou'hui."_ meantime, during the noise of our forced exit and the ensuing dialogue, the scene within had evidently changed in character, for the blows had ceased. steps could be heard crossing and recrossing the wooden floor. a creaking sound succeeded to the beating--it was the creaking and groaning of a wooden staircase bending beneath the weight of a human figure. in an upper chamber there came the sound of a quiet, subdued sobbing now. they were the sobs of the girl. she at least had been released. a face, cruel, pinched, hardened, with flaming agate eyes and an insolent smile, stood looking out at us through the dulled, dusty window-pane. it was the fury. meanwhile the peasant was still defending his post. a moment later the tall frame of the farmer suddenly filled the open doorway. the peasant well-nigh fell into his master's arms. the farmer's face was still terrible to look upon, but the purple stain of passion was now turned to red. there was a mocking insolence in his tone as he addressed us, that matched with the woman's unconcealed glee. "will you not come in, mesdames? will you not rest a while after your long walk?" on the man's hard face there was still the shadow of a sinister cruelty as he waved his hand toward the room within. the peasant's good-humored, loutish smile, and his stupid, cow-like eyes, by contrast, were the eyes and smile of a benevolent deity. the smile told us we were right, as we slunk away toward the open road. the head kept nodding approval as we vanished presently beneath the shade of the protecting trees. the fields, as we swept rapidly past them, were as bathed in peace as when we had left them; there was even a more voluptuous content abroad: for the twilight was wrapping about the landscape its poppied dusk of gloom and shadow. above, the birds were swirling in sweeping circles, raining down the ecstasy of their night-song; still above, far beyond them, across a zenith pure, transparent, ineffably pink, illumined wisps of clouds were trailing their scarf-like shapes. it was a scene of beatific peace. across the fields came the sound of a distant bell. it was the _angelus_. the ploughmen stopped to doff their hats, the women to bend their heads in prayer. and in our ears, louder than the vibrations of the hamlet bell, louder than the bird-notes and the tumult of the voluptuous insect whirr, there rang the thud, thud of cruel blows falling on quivering human flesh. the curtain that hid the life of the peasant-farmer had indeed been lifted. chapter x. ernestine. "ah, mesdames, what will you have? the french peasant is like that. when he is in a rage nothing stops him--he beats anything, everything; whatever his hand encounters must suffer when he is angry; his wife, his child, his servant, his horse, they are all alike to him when he sees red." monsieur fouchet was tying up his rose-trees; we were watching him from our seat on the green bench. here in the garden, beneath the blue vault, the roses were drooping from very heaviness of glory; they gave forth a scent that made the head swim. it was a healthy, virile intoxication, however, the salt in the air steadying one's nerves. nature, not being mortal and cursed with a conscience, had risen that morning in a mood for carousal; at this hour of noon she had reached the point of ecstatic stupor. no state of trance was ever so exquisite. the air was swooning, but how delicate its gasps, as if it fell away into calm! how adorably blue the sky in its debauch of sun-lit ether! the sea, too, although it reeled slightly, unsteadily rising only to fall away, what a radiance of color it maintained! here in the garden the drowsy air would lift a flower petal, as some dreamer sunk in hasheesh slumber might touch a loved hand, only to let it slip away in nerveless impotence. never had the charm of this normandy sea-coast been as compelling; never had the divine softness of this air, this harmonious marriage of earth-scents and sea-smells seemed as perfect; never before had the delicacy of the foliage and color-gradations of the sky as triumphantly proved that nowhere else, save in france, can nature be at once sensuous and poetic. we looked for something other than pure enjoyment from this golden moment; we hoped its beauty would help us to soften our landlord. this was the moment we had chosen to excite his sympathies, also to gain counsel from him concerning the tragedy we had witnessed the day before. he listened to our tale with evident interest, but there was a disappointing coolness in his eye. as the narrative proceeded, the brutality of the situation failed to sting him to even a mild form of indignation. he went on tying his rose-trees, his ardor expending itself in choice snippings of the stray stalks and rebellious tendrils. "this guichon," he said, after a brief moment, in the tone that goes with the pursuance of an occupation that has become a passion. "this guichon--i know him. he is a hard man, but no harder than many others, and he has had his losses, which don't always soften a man. '_qui terre a guerre a_,' molière says, and guichon has had many lawsuits, losing them all. he has been twice married; that was his daughter by his first wife he was touching up like that. he married only the other day madame tier, a rich woman, a neighbor, their lands join. it was a great match for him, and she, the wife, and his daughter don't hit it off, it appears. there was some talk of a marriage for the girl lately; a good match presented itself, but the girl will have none of it; perhaps that accounts for the beating." a rose, overblown with its fulness of splendor, dropped in a shower at fouchet's feet just then. "_tiens, elle est finie, celle-là_" he cried, with an accent of regret, and he stooped over the fallen petals as if they had been the remains of a friend. then he sighed as he swept the mass into his broad palm. "come, let us leave him to the funeral of his roses; he hasn't the sensibilities of an insect;" and charm grasped my arm to lead me over the turf, across the gravel paths, toward the tea-house. this tottering structure had become one of our favorite retreats; in the poetic _mise-en-scène_ of the garden it played the part of ruin. it was absurdly, ridiculously out of repair; its gaping beams and the sunken, dejected floor could only be due to intentional neglect. fouchet evidently had grasped the secrets of the laws of contrast; the deflected angle of the tumbling roof made the clean-cut garden beds doubly true. nature had had compassion on the aged little building, however; the clustering, fragrant vines, in their hatred of nudity, had invested the prose of a wreck with the poetry of drapery. the tip-tilted settee beneath the odorous roof became, in time, our chosen seat; from that perch we could overlook the garden-walls, the beach, the curve of the shore, the grasses and hollyhocks in our neighbor's garden, the latter startlingly distinct against the great arch of the sky. it was here renard found us an hour later. to him, likewise, did charm narrate our extraordinary experience of yesterday, with much adjunct of fiery comment, embellishment of gesture, and imitative pose. "ye gods, what a scene to paint! you were in luck--in luck; why wasn't i there?" was renard's tribute to human pity. "oh, you are all alike, all--nothing moves you--you haven't common human sympathies--you haven't the rudiments of a heart! you are terrible--all of you--terrible!" a moment after she had left us, as if the narrowness of the little house stifled her. with long, swinging steps she passed out, to air her indignation, apparently, beneath the wall of the espaliers. "splendid creature, isn't she?" commented renard, following the long lines of the girl's fluttering muslin gown, as he plucked at his mustache. "she should always wear white and gold--what is that stuff?--and be lit up like that with a kind of goddess-like anger. she is wrong, however," he went on, a moment later; "those of us who live here aren't really barbarians, only we get used to things. it's the peasants themselves that force us; they wouldn't stand interference. a peasant is a kind of king on his own domain; he does anything he likes, short of murder, and he doesn't always stop at that." "but surely the government--at least their church, ought to teach them--" "oh, their church! they laugh at their curés--till they come to die. he's a heathen, that's what the french peasant is--there's lots of the middle ages abroad up there in the country. along here, in the coast villages, the nineteenth century has crept in a bit, humanizing them, but the _fonds_ is always the same; they're by nature avaricious, sordid, cruel; they'll do anything for money; there isn't anything sacred for them except their pocket." a few days later, in our friend the cobbler we found a more sympathetic listener. "dame! i also used to beat my wife," he said, contemplatively, as he scratched his herculean head, "but that was when i was a christian, when i went to confession; for the confessional was made for that, _c'est pour laver le linge sale des consciences, çà_" (interjecting his epigram). "but now--now that i am a free-thinker, i have ceased all that; i don't beat her," pointing to his old wife, "and neither do i drink or swear." "it's true, he's good--he is, now," the old wife nodded, with her slit of a smile; "but," she added, quickly, as if even in her husband's religious past there had been some days of glory, "he was always just--even then--when he beat me." "_c'est très femme, çà--hein, mademoiselle?_" and the cobbler cocked his head in critical pose, with a philosopher's smile. the result of the interview, however, although not entirely satisfactory, was illuminating, besides this light which had been thrown on the cobbler's reformation. for the cobbler was a cousin, distant in point of kinship, but still a cousin, of the brutal farmer and father. he knew all the points of the situation, the chief of which was, as fouchet had hinted, that the girl had refused to wed the _bon parti_, who was a connection of the step-mother. as for the step-mother's murderous outcry, "kill her! kill her!" the cobbler refused to take a dramatic view of this outburst. "in such moments, you understand, one loses one's head; brutality always intoxicates; she was a little drunk, you see." when we proposed our modest little scheme, that of sending for the girl and taking her, for a time at least, into our service, merely as a change of scene, the cobbler had found nothing but admiration for the project. "it will be perfect, mesdames. they, the parents, will ask nothing better. to have the girl out at service, away, and yet not disgracing them by taking a place with any other farmer; yes, they will like that, for they are rich, you see, and wealth always respects itself. ah, yes, it's perfect; i'll arrange all that--all the details." two days later the result of the arrangement stood before us. she was standing with her arms crossed, her fingers clasping her elbows--with her very best peasant manner. she was neatly, and, for a peasant, almost fashionably attired in her holiday dress--a short, black skirt, white stockings, a flowery kerchief crossed over her broad bosom, and on her pretty hair a richly tinted blue _foulard_. she was very well dressed for a peasant, and, from the point of view of two travellers, of about as much use as a plough. "it's a beautiful scheme, and it's as dramatic as the fifth act of a play; but what shall we do with her?" "oh." replied charm, carelessly, "there isn't anything in particular for her to do. i mean to buy her a lot of clothes, like those she has on, and she can walk about in the garden or in the fields." "ah, i see; she's to be a kind of a perambulating figure-piece." "yes, that's about it. i dare say she will be very useful at sunset, in a dim street; so few peasants wear anything approaching to costume nowadays." ernestine herself, however, as we soon discovered, had an entirely different conception of her vocation. she was a vigorous, active young woman, with the sap of twenty summers in her lusty young veins. her energies soon found vent in a continuous round of domestic excitements. there were windows and floors that cried aloud to heaven to be scrubbed; there were holes in the sheets to make mam'zelle's lying between them _une honte, une vraie honte_. as for madame fouchet's little weekly bill, _dieu de dieu_, it was filled with such extortions as to make the very angels weep. madame and ernestine did valiant battle over those bills thereafter. ernestine was possessed of the courage of a true martyr; she could suffer and submit to the scourge, in the matter of personal persecution, for the religion of her own convictions; but in the service of her rescuer, she could fight with the fierceness of a common soldier. "when norman meets norman--" charm began one day, the sound of voices, in a high treble of anger, coming in to us through the windows. but ernestine was knocking at the door, with a note in her hand. "an answer is asked, mesdames," she said, in a voice of honey, as she dropped her low courtesy. this was the missive: along an old post-road. to honfleur and trouville. chapter xi. to an old manor. "will _ces dames_ join me in a marauding expedition? like the poet villon, i am about to turn marauder, house breaker, thief. i shall hope to end the excursion by one act, at least, of highway robbery. i shall lose courage without the enlivening presence of _ces dames._ we will start when the day is at its best, we will return when the moon smiles. in case of finding none to rob, the coach of the desperadoes will be garrisoned with provisions; henri will accompany us as counsellor, purveyor, and bearer of arms and costumes. the carriage for _ces dames_ will stop the way at the hour of eleven. "i have the honor to sign myself their humble servant and co-conspirator. "john renard." "this, in plain english," was charm's laconic translation of this note, "means that he wishes us to be ready at eleven for the excursion to p----, to spend the day, you may remember, at that old manor. he wants to paint in a background, he said yesterday, while we stroll about and look at the old place. what shall i wear?" in an hour we were on the road. a jaunty yellow cart, laden with a girl on the front seat; with a man, tawny of mustache, broad of shoulder, and dark of eye, with face shining to match the spring in the air and that fair face beside him; laden also with another lady on the back seat, beside whom, upright and stiff, with folded arms, sat henri, costumer, valet, cook, and groom. it was in the latter capacity that henri was now posing. the role of groom was uppermost in his orderly mind, although at intervals, when his foot chanced to touch a huge luncheon-basket with which the cart was also laden, there were betraying signs of anxiety; it was then that the chef crept back to life. this spring in the air was all very well, but how would it affect the sauces? this great question was written on henri's brow in a network of anxious wrinkles. "henri," i remarked, as we were wheeling down the roadway, "i am quite certain you have put up enough luncheon for a regiment." "madame has said it, for a regiment; monsieur renard, when he works, eats with the hunger of a wolf." "henri, did you get in all the rags?" this came from renard on the front seat, as he plied his steed with the whip. "the costume of monsieur le marquis, and also of madame la marquise de pompadour, are beneath my feet in the valise, monsieur renard. i have the sword between my legs," replied henri, the costumer coming to the surface long enough to readjust the sword. "capital fellow, henri, never forgets anything," said renard, in english. "couldn't we offer a libation or something, on such a morning--" "on such a morning," interrupted the painter, "one should be seated next to a charming young lady who has the genius to wear nile green and white; even a painter with an honorable mention behind him and fame still ahead, in spite of the mention, is satisfied. you know a greek deity was nothing to a painter, modern, and of the french school, in point of fastidiousness." "nonsense! it's the american woman who is fastidious, when it comes to clothes." meanwhile, there was one of the party who was looking at the road; that also was arrayed in nile green and white; the tall trees also held umbrellas above us, but these coverings were woven of leaves and sky. this bit of roadway appeared to have slipped down from the upper country, and to have carried much of the upper country with it. it was highway posing as pure rustic. it had brought all its pastoral paraphernalia along. nothing had been forgotten: neither the hawthorn and the osier hedges, nor the tree-trunks, suddenly grown modest at sight of the sea, burying their nudity in nests of vines, nor the trick which elms and beeches have, of growing arches in the sky. timbered farm-houses were here, also thatched huts, to make the next villa-gate gain in stateliness; apple orchards were dotted about with such a knowing air of wearing the long line of the atlantic girdled about their gnarled trunks, that one could not believe pure accident had carried them to the edge of the sea. there were several miles of this driving along beneath these green aisles. through the screen of the hedges and the crowded tree-trunks, picture succeeded picture; bits of the sea were caught between slits of cliff; farmhouses, huts, and villas lay smothered in blossoms; above were heights whereon poplars seemed to shiver in the sun, as they wrapped about them their shroud-like foliage; meadows slipped away from the heights, plunging seaward, as if wearying for the ocean; and through the whole this line of green roadway threaded its path with sinuous grace, serpentining, coiling, braiding in land and sea in one harmonious, inextricable blending of incomparable beauty. one could quite comprehend, after even a short acquaintance with this road, that two gentlemen of paris, as difficult to please as daubigny and isabey, should have seen points of excellence in it. there are all sorts of ways of being a painter. perhaps as good as any, if one cares at all about a trifling matter like beauty, is to know a good thing when one sees it. that poet of the brush, daubigny, not only was gifted with this very unusual talent in a painter, but a good thing could actually be entrusted in his hands after its discovery. and herein, it appears to me, lies all the difference between good and bad painting; not only is an artist--any artist--to be judged by what he sees, but also by what he does with a fact after he's acquired it--whether he turns it into poetry or prose. i might incautiously have sprung these views on the artist on the front seat, had he not wisely forestalled my outburst by one of his own. "by the way," he broke in; "by the way, i'm not doing my duty as cicerone. there's a church near here--we're coming to it in a moment--famous--eleventh or twelfth century, romanesque style--yes--that's right, although i'm somewhat shaky when it comes to architecture--and an old manoir, museum now, with lots of old furniture in it--in the manoir, i mean." "there's the church now. oh, let us stop!" in point of fact there were two churches before us. there was one of ivy: nave, roof, aisles, walls, and conic-shaped top, as perfectly defined in green as if the beautiful mantle had been cut and fitted to the hidden stone structure. every few moments the mantle would be lifted by the light breeze, as might a priest's vestment; it would move and waver, as if the building were a human frame, changing its posture to ease its long standing. between this church of stone and this church of vines there were signs of the fight that had gone on for ages between them. the stones were obviously fighting decay, fighting ruin, fighting annihilation; the vines were also struggling, but both time and the sun were on their side. the stone edifice was now, it is true, as renard told us, protected by the government--it was classed as a "monument historique"--but the church of greens was protected by the god of nature, and seemed to laugh aloud, as if with conscious gleeful strength. this gay, triumphant laugh was reflected, as if to emphasize its mockery of man's work, in the tranquil waters of a little pond, lily-leaved, garlanded in bushes, that lay hidden beyond the roadway. through the interstices of the vines one solitary window from the tower, like a sombre eye, looked down into the pond; it saw there, reflected as in a mirror, the old, the eternal picture of a dead ruin clasped by the arms of living beauty. this criqueboeuf church presents the ideal picturesque accessories. it stands at the corner of two meeting roadways. it is set in an ideal pastoral frame--a frame of sleeping fields, of waving tree-tops, of an enchanting, indescribable snarl of bushes, vines, and wild flowers. in the adjoining fields, beneath the tree-boughs, ran the long, low line of the ancient manoir--now turned into a museum. we glanced for a few brief moments at the collection of antiquities assembled beneath the old roof--at the henry ii. chairs, at the pompadour-wreathed cabinets, at the long rows of panels on which are presented the whole history of france--the latter an amazing record of the industry of a certain dr. le goupils. "criqueboeuf doesn't exactly hide its light under a bushel, you know, although it doesn't crown a hill. no end of people know it; it sits for its portrait, i should say at least twice a week regularly, on an average, during the season. english water-colorists go mad over it--they cross over on purpose to `do' it, and they do it extremely badly, as a rule." this was renard's last comment of a biographical and critical nature, concerning the "historical monument," as we reseated ourselves to pursue our way to p----. "why don't you show them how it can be done?" "would," coolly returned renard, "if it were worth while, but it isn't in my line. henri, did you bring any ice?" henri, i had noticed, when we had reseated ourselves in the cart, had greeted us with an air of silent sadness; he clearly had not approved of ruins that interfered with the business of the day. "_oui, monsieur_, i did bring some ice, but as monsieur can imagine to himself--a two hours' sun--" "nonsense, this sun wouldn't melt a pat of butter; the ice is all right, and so is the wine." then he continued in english: "now, ladies, as i should begin if i were a politician, or an auctioneer; now, ladies, the time for confession has arrived; i can no longer conceal from you my burglarious scheme. in the next turn that we shall make to the right, the park of the p---- manoir will disclose itself. but, between us and that park, there is a gate. that gate is locked. now, gates, from the time of the garden of eden, i take it, have been an invention of--of--the other fellow, to keep people out. i know a way--but it's not the way you can follow. henri and i will break down a few bars, we'll cross a few fields over yonder, and will present ourselves, with all the virtues written on our faces, to you in the park. meanwhile you must enter, as queens should--through the great gates. behold, there is a curé yonder, a great friend of mine. you will step along the roadway; you will ring a door-bell; the curé will appear; you will ask him if it be true that the manoir of p---- is to rent, you have heard that he has the keys; he will present you the keys; you will open the big gate and find me." "but--but, mr. renard, i really don't see how that scheme will work." "work! it will work to a charm. you will see. henri, just help the ladies, will you?" henri, with decisive gravity, was helping the ladies to alight; in another instant he had regained his seat, and he and renard were flying down the roadway, out of sight. "really--it's the coolest proceeding," charm began. then we looked through the bars of the park gate. the park was as green and as still as a convent garden; a pink brick mansion, with closed window-blinds, was standing, surrounded by a terrace on one side, and by glittering parterres on the other. "where did he say the old curé was?" asked charm, quite briskly, all at once. everything had turned out precisely as renard had predicted. doubtless he had also counted on the efficacy of the old fable of the peri at the gate--one look had been sufficient to turn us into arrant conspirators; to gain an entrance into that tranquil paradise any ruse would serve. "here's a church--he said nothing about a church, did he?" across the avenue, above the branches of a row of tall trees, rose the ivied facade of a rude hamlet church; a flight of steep weedy steps led up to its norman doorway. the door was wide open; through the arched aperture came the sounds of footfalls, of a heavy, vigorous tread; charm ran lightly up a few of the lower steps, to peer into the open door. "it's the curé dusting the altar--shall i go in?" "no, we had best ring--this must be his house." the clatter of the curé's sabots was the response that answered to the bell we pulled, a bell attached to a diminutive brick house lying at the foot of the churchyard. the tinkling of the cracked-voiced bell had hardly ceased when the door opened. but the curé had already taken his first glance at us over the garden hedges. chapter xii. a norman cure. "mesdames!" the priest's massive frame filled the narrow door; the tones of his mellow voice seemed also suddenly to fill the air, drowning all other sounds. the grace of his manner, a grace that invested the simple act of his uncovering and the holding of his _calotte_ in hand, with an air of homage, made also our own errand the more difficult. i had already begun to murmur the nature of our errand: we were passing, we had seen the manoir opposite, we had heard it was to rent, also that he, monsieur le curé, had the keys. yes, the keys were here. then the velvet in monsieur le curé's eyes turned to bronze, as they looked out at us from beneath the fine dome of brow. "i have the keys of the garden only, mesdames," he replied, with perfect but somewhat distant courtesy; "the gardener, down the road yonder, has the keys of the house. do you really wish to rent the house?" he had seen through our ruse with quick norman penetration. he had not, from the first, been in the least deceived. it became the more difficult to smooth the situation into shape. "we had thought perhaps to rent a villa, we were in one now at villerville. if monsieur le curé would let us look at the garden. monsieur renard, whom perhaps he remembered-- "m. renard! oh ho! oh ho! i see it all now," and a deep, mellow laugh smote the air. the keenness in the fine eyes melted into mirth, a mirth that laid the fine head back on the broad shoulders, that the laugh that shook the powerful frame might have the fuller play. "ah, _mes enfants_, i see it all now--it is that scoundrel of a boy. i'll warrant he's there, over yonder, already. he was here yesterday, he was here the day before, and he is afraid, he is ashamed to ask again for the keys. but come, _mes enfants_, come, let us go in search of him." and the little door was closed with a slam. down the broad roadway the next instant fluttered the old curé's soutane. we followed, but could scarcely keep pace with the brisk, vigorous strides. the sabots ploughed into the dust. the cane stamped along in company with the sabots, all three in a fury of impatience. the curé's step and his manner might have been those of a boy, burning with haste to discover a playmate in hiding. all the keenness and shrewdness on the fine, ruddy face had melted into sweetness; an exuberance of mirth seemed to be the sap that fed his rich nature. it was easy to see he had passed the meridian of his existence in a realm of high spirits; an irrepressible fountain within, the fountain of an unquenchable good-humor, bathed the whole man with the hues of health. ripe red lips curved generously over superb teeth; the cheeks were glowing, as were the eyes, the crimson below them deepening to splendor the velvet in the iris. the one severe line in the face, the thin, straight nose, ended in wide nostrils in the quivering, mobile nostrils of the humorist. the swell of the gourmand's paunch beneath the soutane was proof that the curé was a true norman he had not passed a lifetime in these fertile gardens forgetful of the fact that the fine art of good living is the one indulgence the church has left to its celibate sons. meanwhile, our guide was peering with quick, excited gaze, through the thick foliage of the park; his fine black eyes were sweeping the parterre and terrace. "ah-h!" his rich voice cried out, mockingly; and he stopped, suddenly, to plant his cane in the ground with mock fierceness. "_tiens_, monsieur le curé!" cried renard, from behind a tree, in a beautiful voice. it was a voice that matched with his well-acted surprise, when he appeared, confronting us, on the other side of the tree-trunk. the curé opened his arms. "_ah, mon enfant, viens, viens!_ how good it is to see thee once again!" they were in each other's arms. the curé was pressing his lips to renard's cheek, in hearty french fashion. the priest, however, administered his reproof before he released him. renard's broad shoulders received a series of pats, which turned to blows, dealt by the curé's herculean hand. "why didn't you let me know you were here, yesterday, _hein_? answer me that. how goes the picture? is it set up yet? you see, mesdames," turning with a reddened cheek and gleaming eyes, "it is thus i punish him--for he has no heart, no sensibilities--he only understands severities! and he defrauded me yesterday, he cheated me. i didn't even know of his being here till he had gone. and the picture, where is it?" it was on an easel, sunning itself beneath the park trees. the old priest clattered along the gravelly walk, to take a look at it. "_tiens_--it grows--the figures begin to move--they are almost alive. there should be a trifle more shadow under the chin, what do you think?" henri raised his chin. henri had undergone the process of transformation in our absence. he was now m. le marquis de pompadour--under the heart-shaped arch of the great trees, he was standing, resplendent in laces, in glistening satins, leaning on a rusty, dull-jewelled sword. renard had mounted his palette; he was dipping already into the mounds of color that dotted the palette-board, with his long brushes. on the canvas, in colors laid on by the touch of genius, this archway beneath which we were standing reared itself aloft; the park trees were as tall and noble, transfixed in their image of immutable calm, on that strip of linen, as they towered now above us; even the yellow cloud of the laburnum blossoms made the sunshine of the shaded grass, as it did here, where else no spot of sun might enter, so dense was the night of shade. the life of another day and time lived, however, beneath that shade; charm and the curé, as they drooped over the canvas, confronted a graceful, attenuated courtier, sickening in a languor of adoration, and a sprightly coquette, whose porcelain beauty was as finished as the feathery edges of her lacy sleeves. "_très bien très bien_" said the curé, nodding his head in critical commendation. "it will be a little masterpiece. and now," waving his hand toward us, "what do you propose to do with these ladies while you are painting?" "oh, they can wander about," renard replied, abstractedly. he had already reseated himself and had begun to ply his brushes; he now saw only henri and the hilt of the sword he was painting in. "i knew it, i could have told you--a painter hasn't the manners of a peasant when he's painting," cried the priest, lifting cane and hands high in air, in mock horror. "but all the better, all the better, i shall have you all to myself. come, come with me. you can see the house later. i'll send for the gardener. it's too fine a day to be indoors. what a day, _hein_? _le bon dieu_ sends us such days now and then, to make us ache for paradise. this way, this way--we'll go through the little door--my little door; it was made for me, you know, when the manoir was last inhabited. i and the children were too impatient--we suffered from that malady--all of us--we never could wait for the great gates yonder to be opened. so monsieur de h---- built us this one." the little door opened directly on the road, and on the curé's house. there was a tangle of underbrush barring the way; but the curé pushed the briars apart with his strong hands, beating them down with his cane. when the door opened, we passed directly beyond the roadway, to the steep steps leading to the church. the curé, before mounting the steps, swept the road, upward and downward, with his keen glance. it was the instinctive action of the provincial, scenting the chance of novelty. some distant object, in the meeting of two distant roadways, arrested the darting eyes; this time, at least, he was to be rewarded for his prudence in looking about him. the object slowly resolved itself into two crutches between which hung the limp figure of a one-legged man. "_bonjour, monsieur le curé_." the crutches came to a standstill; the cripple's hand went up to doff a ragged worsted cap. "good-day, good-day, my friend; how goes it? not quite so stiff, _hein_--in such a bath of sunlight as this? good-day, good-day." the crutches and their burden passed on, kicking a little cloud of dust about the lean figure. "_un peu cassé, le bonhomme_" he said, as he nodded to the cripple in a tone of reflection, as if the breakage that bad befallen his humble friend were a fresh incident in his experience. "yes, he's a little broken, the poor old man; but then," he added, quickly renewing his tone of unquenchable high spirits--"one doesn't die of it. no, one doesn't die, fortunately. why, we're all more or less cracked, or broken up here." he shook another laugh out, as he preceded us up the stone steps. then he turned to stop for a moment to point his cane toward the small house with whose chimneys we were now on a level. "there, mesdames, there is the proof that more breaking doesn't signify in this matter of life and death, _tenez_, madame--" and with a charming gesture he laid his richly-veined, strong old hand on my arm--a hand that ended in beautiful fingers, each with its rim of moon-shaped dirt; "_tenez_--figure to yourself, madame, that i myself have been here twenty years, and i came for two! i bought out the _bonhomme_ who lived over yonder. "i bought him and his furniture out. i said to myself, 'i'll buy it for eight hundred, and i'll sell it for four hundred, in a year.'" here he laid his finger on his nose--lengthwise, the norman in him supplanting the priest in his remembrance of a good bargain. "and now it is twenty years since then. everything creaks and cracks over there: all of us creak and crack. you should hear my chairs, _elles se cassent les reins_--they break their thighs continually. ah! there goes another, i cry out, as i sit down in one in winter and hear them groan. poor old things, they are of the empire, no wonder they groan. you should see us, when our brethren come to take a cup of soup with me. such a collection of antiquities as we are! i catch them, my brothers, looking about, slyly peering into the secrets of my little ménage. 'from his ancestors, doubtless, these old chairs and tables, say these good frères, under their breath. and then i wink slyly at the chairs, and they never let on." again the mellow laugh broke forth. he stopped again to puff and blow a little, from his toil up the steep steps. then all at once, as the rough music of his clicking sabots and the playful taps of his cane ceased, the laugh on his mobile lips melted into seriousness. he lifted his cane, pointing to the cemetery just above us, and to the gravestones looking down over the hillsides between a network of roses. "we are old, madame--we are old, but, alas! we never die! it is difficult to people, that cemetery. there are only sixty of us in the parish, and we die--we die hard. for example, here is my old servant"--and he covered a grave with a sweep of his cane--for we were leisurely sauntering through the little cemetery now. the grave to which he pointed was a garden; heliotrope, myosotis, hare-bells and mignonette had made of the mound a bed of perfume--"see how quietly she lies--and yet what a restless soul the flowers cover! she, too, died hard. it took her years to make up her mind; finally _le bon dieu_ had to decide it for her, when she was eighty-four. she complained to the last--she was poor, she was in my way, she was blind. '_eh bien, tu n'as pas besoin de me faire les beaux yeux, toi_'--i used to say to her. ah, the good soul that she was!" and the dark eye glistened with moisture. a moment later the curé was blowing vigorously the note of his grief, in trumpet-tones, through the organ that only a frenchman can render an effective adjunct to moments of emotion. "you see, _mes enfants_, i am like that--i weep over my friends--when they are gone! but see," he added quickly, recovering himself--"see, over yonder there is my predecessor's grave. he lies well, _hein?_--comfortable, too--looking his old church in the face and the sun on his old bones all the blessed day. soon, in a few years, he will have company. i, too, am to lie there, i and a friend." the humorous smile was again curving his lips, and the laughter-loving nostrils were beginning to quiver. "when my friend and i lie there, we shall be a little crowded, perhaps. i said to him, when he proposed it, proposed to lie there with us, 'but we shall be crunching each other's bones!' 'no,' he replied, 'only falling into each other's arms!' so it was settled. he comes over from havre, every now and then, to talk our tombstones over; we drink a glass of wine together, and take a pipe and talk about our future--in eternity! ah, how gay we are! it is so good to be friends with god!" the voice deepened into seriousness. he went on in a quieter key: "but why am i always preaching and talking about death and eternity to two such ladies--two such children? ah--i know, i am really old--i only deceive myself into pretending i'm young. you will do the same, both of you, some day. but come and see my good works. you know everyone has his little corner of conceit--i have mine. i like to do good, and then to boast of it. you shall see--you shall see." he was hurrying us along the narrow paths now, past the little company of grave-stones, graves that were bearing their barbaric burdens of mortuary wreaths, of beaded crosses, and the motley assemblage, common to all french graveyards, of hideous shrines encasing tin saints and madonnas in plaster. above the sunken graves and the tin effigies of the martyrs behind the church, arose a fair and glittering marble tomb. it was strangely out of keeping with the meagre and paltry surroundings of the peasant grave-stones. as we approached the tomb it grew in imposingness. it was a circular mortuary chapel, with carved pediment and iron-wrought gateway. "it's fine, _hein_, and beautiful, _hein?_ it is the duke's!" the curé, it was easy to see, considered the chapel in the light of a personal possession. he stood before it, bare-headed, with a new earnestness on his mobile face. "it is the duke's. yes, the duke's. i saved his soul, blessed be god! and he--he rebuilds my cellars for me: see"--and he pointed to the fine new base of stone, freshly cemented, on which the church rested--"see, i save his soul, and he preserves my buildings for me. it's a fair deal, isn't it? how does it come about, that he is converted? ah, you see, although i am a man without science, without knowledge, devoid of pretensions and learning, the good god sometimes makes use of such humble instruments to work his will. it came about in the usual way. the duke came here carrying his religion lightly, as one may say, not thinking of his soul. i--i dine with him. we talk, we argue; he does, that is--i only preach from my bible. and behold! one day he is converted. he is devout. and from gratitude, he repairs my crumbling old stones. and now see how solid, how strong is my church cellar!" again the fountain of his irrepressible merriment bubbled forth. for all the gayety, however, the severe line deepened as one grew to know the face better; the line in profile running from the nose into the firm upper lip and into the still more resolute chin, matched the impress of authority marked on the noble brow. it was the face of one who might have infinite charity and indulgence for a sin, and yet would make no compromise with it. we had resumed our walk. it led us at last into the interior of the little church. the gloom and silence within, after the dazzling brilliancy of the noon-day sun and the noisy insect hum, invested the narrow nave and dim altar with an added charm. the old priest knelt for the briefest instant in reverence to the altar. when he turned there was surprise as well as a gentle reproach in the changeable eyes. "and you, mesdames! how is this? you are not catholics? and i was so sure of it! quite sure of it, you were so sympathetic, so full of reverence. and you, my child"--turning to charm--"you speak our tongue so well, with the very accent of a good catholic. what! you are protestant? la! la! what do i hear?" he shook his cane over the backs of the straw-bottomed chairs; the sweet, mellow accents of his voice melted into loving protest--a protest in which the fervor was not quenched in spite of the merry key in which it was pitched. "protestants? pouffe! pouffe! what is that? what is it to be a protestant? heretics, heretics, that is what you are. so you are _deux affreuses hérétiques_? ah, la! la! horrible! horrible! i must cure you of all that. i must cure you!" he dropped his cane in the enthusiasm of his attack; it fell with a clanging sound on the stone pavement. he let it lie. he had assumed, unconsciously, the orator's, the preacher's attitude. he crowded past the chairs, throwing back his head as he advanced, striking into argumentative gesture: "_tenez_, listen, there is so little difference, after all. as i was saying to m. le comte de chermont the other day, no later than thursday--he has married an english wife, you know--can't understand that either, how they can marry english wives. however, that's none of my business--we have nothing to do with marrying, we priests, except as a sacrament for others. i said to m. le comte, who, you know, shows tendencies toward anglicism--astonishing the influence of women--i said: 'but, my dear m. le comte, why change? you will only exchange certainty for uncertainty, facts for doubts, truth for lies.' 'yes, yes,' the comte replied, 'but there are so many new truths introduced now into our blessed religion--the infallibility of the pope--the--' '_ah, mon cher comte--ne m'en parlez pas_. if that is all that stands in your way--_faites comme le bon dieu! lui--il ferme les yeux et tend les bras._ that is all we ask--we his servants--to have you close your eyes and open your arms.'" the good curé was out of breath; he was panting. after a moment, in a deeper tone, he went on: "you, too, my children, that is what i say to you--you need only to open your arms and to close your eyes. god is waiting for you." for a long instant there was a great stillness--a silence during which the narrow spaces of the dim aisles were vibrating with the echoes of the rich voice. the rustle of a light skirt sweeping the stone flooring broke the moment's silence. charm was crossing the aisles. she paused before a little wooden box, nailed to the wall. there came suddenly on the ear the sound of coin rattling down into the empty box; she had emptied into it the contents of her purse. "for your poor, monsieur le curé," she smiled up, a little tremulously, into the burning, glowing eyes. the priest bent over the fair head, laying his hand, as if in benediction, upon it. "my poor need it sadly, my child, and i thank you for them. god will bless you." it was a touching little scene, and i preferred, for one, to look out just then at henri's figure advancing toward us, up the stone steps. when the priest spoke again, it was in a husky tone, the gold in his voice dusted with moisture; but the bantering spirits in him had reappeared. "what a pity, that you must burn! for you must, dreadful heretics that you are! and this dear child, she seems to belong to us--i can never sit by, now, in paradise, happy and secure, and see her burn!" the laugh that followed was a mingled caress and a blessing. henri came in for a part of the indulgence of the good curé's smile as he came up the steps. "ah, henri, you have come for these ladies?" "_oui_, monsieur le curé, luncheon is served." our friend followed us to the topmost step, and to the very edge of the step. he stood there, talking down to us, as we continued to press him to return with us. "no, my children--no--no, i can't join you; don't urge me; i can't, i must not. i must say my prayers instead; besides the children come soon, for their catechism. no, don't beg me, i don't need to be importuned; i know what that dear renard's wine is. _au revoir et a bientôt_--and remember," and here he lifted his arms--cane and all, high in the air--"all you need do is to close your eyes and to open your arms. god himself is doing the same." high up he stood, with uplifted hands, the smile irradiating a face that glowed with a saint's simplicity. behind the black lines of his robe, the sunlight lay streaming in noon glory; it aureoled him as never saint was aureoled by mortal brush. a moment only he lingered there, to raise his cap in parting salute. then he turned, the trail of his gown sweeping the gravel paths, and presently the low church door swallowed him up. through the door, as we crossed the road, there came out to us the click of sabots striking the rude flagging; and a moment after, the murmuring echo of a deep, rich voice, saying the office of the hour. chapter xiii. honfleur--new and old. the stillness of the park trees, as we passed beneath them, was like the silence that comes after a blessing. the sun, flooding the landscape with a deluge of light, lost something of its effulgence, by contrast with the fulness of the priest's rich nature. this fair world of beauty that lay the other side of the terrace wall, beneath which our luncheon was spread, was fair and lovely still--but how unimportant the landscape seemed compared to the varied scenery of the curé's soul-lit character! of all kinds of nature, human nature is assuredly the best; it is at least the most perdurably interesting. when we tire of it, when we weary of our fellow-man and turn the blasé cheek on the fresh pillow of mother-earth, how quickly is the pillow deserted once the mental frame is rested or renewed! the history of all human relations has the same ending--we all of us only fall out of love with man to fall as swiftly in again. the remainder of the afternoon passed with the rapidity common to all phases of enchantment. how could one eat seriously, with vulgar, gluttonous hunger, of a feast spread on the parapet of a terrace-wall? the white foam of napkins, the mosaic of the _patties_, the white breasts of chicken, the salads in their bath of dew--these spoke the language of a lost cause. for there was an open-air concert going on in full swing, and the performance was one that made the act of eating seem as gross as the munching of apples at an oratorio--the music being, indeed, of a highly refined order of perfection. one's ears needed to be highly attuned to hear the pricking of the locusts in the leaves; even the breeze kept uncommonly still, that the brushing of the humming-birds' and bees' wings against the flower-petals might be the more distinctly heard. i never knew which one of the party it was that decided we were to see the day out and the night in; that we were to dine at the cheval blanc, on the honfleur quays, instead of sedately breaking bread at the mère mouchard's. even our steed needed very little urging to see the advantages of such a scheme. henri alone wore a grim air of disapproval. his aspect was an epitome of rigid protest. as he took his seat in the cart, he held the sword between his legs with the air of one burning with a pent-up anguish of protest. his eye gloomed on the day; his head was held aloft, reared on a column of bristling vertebra, and on his brow was written the sign of mutiny. "henri--you think we should go back; you think going on to honfleur a mistake?" "madame has said it"--henri was a fatalist--in his speech, at least, he lived up to his creed. "honfleur is far--monsieur renard has not the good digestion when he is tired--he suffers. _il passe des nuits d'angoisse. il souffre des fatigues de l'estomac. il se fatigue aujourd'hui!_" this, with an air of stern conviction, was accompanied by a glance at his master in which compassion was not the most obvious note to be read. he went on, remorselessly: "and, as madame knows, the work but begins for me when we are at home. there are the costumes to be dusted and put away, the paintbrushes to clean, the dishes and lunch-basket to be attended to. as madame says, monsieur is sometimes lacking in consideration. _mais, que voulez-vous? le génie, c'est fait comme ça._" madame had not expressed the feeblest echo of a criticism on the composition of the genius in front; but the short dialogue had helped, perceptibly, to lift the weight of henri's gloom; he was beginning to accept the fate of the day with a philosopher's phlegm. already he had readjusted a little difficulty between his feet and the lunch basket, making his religious care of the latter compatible with the open sin of improved personal comfort. meanwhile the two on the front seat were a thousand miles away. neither we, nor the day, nor the beauty of the drive had power to woo their glances from coming back to the focal point of interest they had found in each other. they were beginning to talk, not about each other but of themselves--the danger-signal of all tête-à-tête adventures. when two young people have got into the personal-pronoun stage of human intercourse, there is but one thing left for the unfortunate third in the party to do. yes, now that i think of it, there are two roles to be played. the usual conception of the part is to turn marplot--to spoil and ruin the others' dialogue--to put an end to it, if possible, by legitimate or illegitimate means; a very successful way, i have observed, of prolonging, as a rule, such a duet indefinitely. the more enlightened actor in any such little human comedy, if he be gifted with insight, will collapse into the wings, and let the two young idiots have the whole stage to themselves. as like as not they'll weary of the play, and of themselves, if left alone. no harm will come of all the sentimental strutting and the romantic attitudinizing, other than viewing the scene, later, in perspective, as a rather amusing bit of emotional farce. besides being in the very height of the spring fashion, in the matter of the sentiments, these two were also busily treading, at just this particular moment, the most alluring of all the paths leading to what may be termed the outlying territorial domain of the emotions; they were wandering through the land called mutual discovery. now, this, i have always held, is among the most delectable of all the roads of life; for it may lead one--anywhere or nowhere. therefore it was from a purely generous impulse that i continued to look at the view. the surroundings were, in truth, in conspiracy with the sentimentalists on the front seat; the extreme beauty of the road would have made any but sentimental egotists oblivious to all else. the road was a continuation of the one we had followed in the morning's drive. again, all the greenness of field and grass was braided, inextricably, into the blue of river and ocean. above, as before, in that earlier morning drive, towered the giant aisles of the beaches and elms. through those aisles the radiant normandy landscape flowed again, as music from rich organ-piped throats flows through cathedral arches. out yonder, on the seine's wide mouth, the boats were balancing themselves, as if they also were half divided between a doubt and a longing; a freshening spurt of breeze filled their flapping sails, and away they sped, skipping through the waters with all the gayety which comes with the vigor of fresh resolutions. the light that fell over the land and waters was dazzling, and yet of an astonishing limpidity; only a sun about to drop and end his reign could be at once so brilliant and so tender--the diffused light had the sparkle of gold made soft by usage. wherever the eye roved, it was fed as on a banquet of light and color. nothing could be more exquisite, for depth of green swimming in a bath of shadow, than the meadows curled beneath the cliffs; nothing more tempting, to the painter's brush, than the arabesque of blossoms netted across the sky; and would you have the living eye of nature, bristling with animation, alive with winged sails, and steeped in the very soul of yellow sunshine, look out over the great sheet of the waters, and steep the senses in such a breadth of aqueous splendor as one sees only in one or two of the rare shows of earth. then, all at once, all too soon, the great picture seemed to shrink; the quivering pulsation of light and color gave way to staid, commonplace gardens. instead of hawthorn hedges there was the stench of river smells--we were driving over cobble-paved streets and beneath rows of crooked, crumbling houses. a group of noisy street urchins greeted us in derision. and then we had no doubt whatsoever that we were already in honfleur town. "honfleur is an evil-smelling place," i remarked. "oh, well, after all, the smells of antiquity are a part of the show; we should refuse to believe in ancientness, all of us, i fancy, if mustiness wasn't served along with it." "how can any town have such a stench with all this river and water and verdure to sweeten it?" i asked, with a woman's belief in the morality of environment--a belief much cherished by wives and mothers, i have noticed. "wait till you see the inhabitants--they'll enlighten you--the hags and the nautical gentlemen along the basins and quays. they've discovered the secret that if cleanliness is next to godliness, dirt and the devil are likewise near neighbors. awful set--those honfleur sailors the havre and seine people call them chinamen, they are so unlike the rest of france and frenchmen." "why are they so unlike?" asked charm. "they're so low down, so hideously wicked; they're like the old houses, a rotten, worm-eaten set--you'll see." charm stopped him then, with a gesture. she stopped the horse also; she brought the whole establishment to a standstill; and then she nodded her head briskly forward. we were in the midst of the honfleur streets--streets that were running away from a wide open space, in all possible directions. in the centre of the square rose a curious, an altogether astonishing structure. it was a tower, a belfry doubtless, a house, a shop, and a warehouse, all in one; such a picturesque medley, in fact, as only modern irreverence, in its lawless disregard of original purpose and design, can produce. the low-timbered sub-base of the structure was pierced by a lovely doorway with sculptured lintel, and also with two impertinent modern windows, flaunting muslin curtains, and coquettishly attired with rows of flowering carnations. beneath these windows was a shop. above the whole rose, in beautiful symmetrical lines, a wooden belfry, tapering from a square tower into a delicately modelled spire. to complete and accentuate the note of the picturesque, the superstructure was held in its place by rude modern beams, propping the tower with a naive disregard of decorative embellishment. we knew it at once as the quaint and famous belfry of st. catherine. as we were about to turn away to descend the high street, a norman maiden, with close-capped face, leaned over the carnations to look down upon us. "that's the daughter of the bell-ringer, doubtless. economical idea that," renard remarked, taking his cap off to the smiling eyes. "economical?" "yes, can't you see? bell-ringer sends pretty daughter to window, just before vespers or service, and she rings in the worshippers; no need to make the bells ring." "what nonsense!"--but we laughed as flatteringly as if his speech had been a genuine coin of wit. a turn down the street, and the famous honfleur of the wharves and floating docks lay before us. about us, all at once, was the roar and hubbub of an extraordinary bustle and excitement; all the life of the town, apparently, was centred upon the quays. the latter were swarming with a tattered, ragged, bare-footed, bare-legged assemblage of old women, of gamins, and sailors. the collection, as a collection, was one gifted with the talent of making itself heard. everyone appeared to be shrieking, or yelling, or crying aloud, if only to keep the others in voice. sailors lying on the flat parapets shouted hoarsely to their fellows in the rigging of the ships that lay tossing in the docks; fishermen's families tossed their farewells above the hubbub to the captain-fathers launching their fishing-smacks; one shrieking infant was being passed, gayly, from the poop of a distant deck, across the closely lying shipping, to the quay's steps, to be hushed by the generous opening of a peasant mother's bodice. one could hear the straining of cordage, the creak of masts, the flap of the sails, all the noises peculiar to shipping riding at anchor. the shriek of steam-whistles broke out, ever and anon, above all the din and uproar. along the quay steps and the wharves there were constantly forming and re-forming groups of wretched, tattered human beings; of men with bloated faces and a dull, sodden look, strikingly in contrast with the vivacity common among french people. even the children and women had a depraved, shameless appearance, as if vice had robbed them of the last vestige of hope and ambition. along the parapet a half-dozen drunkards sprawled, asleep or dozing. at the legs of one a child was pulling, crying: "_viens--mère t'battra, elle est soûle aussi._" the sailors out yonder, busy in the rigging, and the men on the decks of the smart brigs and steamships, whistled and shouted and sang, as indifferent to this picture of human misery and degradation as if they had no kinship with it. as a frame to the picture, honfleur town lay beneath the crown of its hills; on the tops and sides of the latter, villa after villa shot through the trees, a curve of roof-line, with rows of daintily draped windows. at the right, close to the wharves, below the wooded heights, there loomed out a quaint and curious gateway flanked by two watchtowers, grim reminders of the honfleur of the great days. and above and about the whole, encompassing villa-crowded hills and closely packed streets, and the forest of masts trembling against the sky, there lay a heaven of spring and summer. renard had driven briskly up to a low, rambling facade parallel with the quays. it was the "cheval blanc." a crowd assembled on the instant, as if appearing according to command. "_allons--n'encombrez pas ces dames!_" cried a very smart individual, in striking contrast to the down at-heel air of the hotel--a personage who took high-handed possession of us and our traps. "will _ces dames_ desire a salon--there is _un vrai petit bijou_ empty just now," murmured a voice in a purring soprano, through the iron opening of the cashier's desk. another voice was crying out to us, as we wound our way upward in pursuit of the jewel of a salon. "and the widow, _la veuve_, shall she be dry or sweet?" when we entered the low dining-room, a little later, we found that the artist as well as the epicure has been in active conspiracy to make the dinner complete; the choice of the table proclaimed one accomplished in massing effects. the table was parallel with the low window, and through the latter was such a picture as one travels hundreds of miles to look upon, only to miss seeing it, as a rule. there was a great breadth of sky through the windows; against the sky rose the mastheads; and some red and brown sails curtained the space, bringing into relief the gray line of the sad-faced old houses fringing the shoreline. "couldn't have chosen better if we'd tried, could we? it's just the right hour, and just the right kind of light. those basins are unendurable--sinks of iniquitous ugliness, unless the tide's in and there's a sunset going on. just look now! who cares whether honfleur has been done to death by the tourist horde or not? and been painted until one's art-stomach turns? i presume i ought to beg your pardon, but i can't stand the abomination of modern repetitions; the hand-organ business in art, i call it. but at this hour, at this time of the year, before this rattle-trap of an inn is as packed with baedeker attachments as a siberian prison is with nihilists--to run out here and look at these quays and basins, and old honfleur lying here, beneath her green cliffs--well, short of cairo, i don't know any better bit of color. look out there, now! see those sails, dripping with color, and that fellow up there, letting the sail down--there, splash it goes into the water, i knew it would; now tell me where will you get better blues or yellows or browns, with just the right purples in the shore line, than you'll get here?" renard was fairly started; he had the bit of the born monologist between his teeth; he stopped barely long enough to hear even an echoing assent. we were quite content; we continued to sip our champagne and to feast our eyes. meanwhile renard talked on. "guide-books--what's the use of guide-books? what do they teach you, anyway? open any one of the cursed clap-trap things. yes, yes, i know i oughtn't to use vigorous language." "do," bleated charm, smiling sweetly up at him. "do, it makes you seem manly." even renard had to take time to laugh. "thank you! i'm not above making use of any aids to create that illusion. well, as i was saying, what guide-book ever really helped anyone to _see?_--that's what one travels for, i take it. here, for instance, murray or baedeker would give you this sort of thing: 'honfleur, an ancient town, with pier, beaches, three floating docks, and a good deal of trade in timber, cod, etc.; exports large quantities of eggs to england.' good heavens! it makes one boil! do sane, reasonable mortals travel three thousand miles to read ancient history done up in modern binding, served up a la murray, a la baedeker?" "oh, you do them injustice, i think--the guides do go in for a little more of the picturesque than that--" "and how--how do they do it? this is the sort of thing they'll give you: 'church of st. catherine is large and remarkable, entirely of timber and plaster, the largest of its kind in france.' ah! ha! that's the picturesque with a vengeance. no, no, my friends, throw the guide-books into the river, pitch them overboard through the port holes, along with the flowers, and letters _to be read three days out_, and the nasty novels people send you to make the crossing pleasant. and when you travel, really travel, mind, never make a plan--just go--go anywhere, whenever the impulse seizes you--and you may hope to get there, in the right way, possibly." here renard stopped to finish his glass, draining-the last drop of the yellow liquid. then he went on: "to travel! to start when an impulse seizes one! to go--anywhere! why not! it was for this, after all, that all of us have come our three thousand miles." perhaps it was the restless tossing of the shipping out yonder in the basins that awoke an answering impatience within, in response to renard's outburst. where did they go, those ships, and, up beyond this mouth of the seine, how looked the shores, and what life lived itself out beneath the rustling poplars? is it the mission of all flowing water to create an unrest in men's minds? meanwhile, though the talk was not done, the dinner was long since eaten. we rose to take a glimpse of honfleur and its famous old basin. the quays and the floating docks, in front of which we had been dining, are a part of the nineteenth century; the great ships ride in to them from the sea. but here, in this inner quadrangular dock, beside which we were soon standing, traced by duquesne when louis the great discovered the maritime importance of honfleur, we found still reminders of the old life. here were the same old houses that, in the seventeenth century, upright and brave in their brand new carvings, saw the high-decked, picturesquely painted spanish and portuguese ships ride in to dip their flag to the french fleur-de-lis. there are but few of the old streets left to crowd about the shipping life that still floats here, as in those bygone days of honfleur pride;--when havre was but a yellow strip of sand; when the honfleur merchants would have laughed to scorn any prophet's cry of warning that one day that sand-bar opposite, despised, disregarded, boasting only a chapel and a tavern, would grow and grow, and would steal year by year and inch by inch bustling honfleur's traffic, till none was left. in the old adventurous days, along with the spanish ships came others, french trading and fishing vessels, with the salty crustations of long voyages on their hulls and masts. the wharves were alive then with fish-wives, whom evelyn will tell you wore "useful habits made of goats' skin." the captains' daughters were in quaint normandy costumes; and the high-peaked coifs and the stiff woollen skirts, as well as the goat-skin coats, trembled as the women darted hither and thither among the sailors--whose high cries filled the air as they picked out mother and wife. then were bronzed beards buried in the deeply-wrinkled old mères' faces, and young, strong arms clasped about maidens' waists. the whole town rang with gayety and with the mad joy of reunion. on the morrow, coiling its way up the steep hillsides, wound the long lines of the grateful company, one composed chiefly of the crews of these vessels happily come to port. the procession would mount up to the little church of notre dame de grâce perched on the hill overlooking the harbor. some even--so deep was their joy at deliverance from shipwreck and so fervent their piety--crawled up, bare-footed, with bared head, wives and children following, weeping for joy, as the rude _ex-votos_ were laid by the sailors' trembling hands at the feet of the virgin lady. as reminders of this old life, what is left? within the stone quadrangle we found clustered a motley fleet of wrecks and fishing-vessels; the nets, flung out to dry in the night air, hung like shrouds from the mastheads; here and there a figure bestrode a deck, a rough shape, that seemed endowed with a double gift of life, so still and noiseless was the town. around the silent dock, grouped in mysterious medley and confusion, were tottering roof lines, projecting eaves, narrow windows, all crazily tortured and out of shape. here and there, beneath the broad beams of support, a little interior, dimly lighted, showed a knot of sailors gathered, drinking or lounging. up high beneath a chimney perilously overlooking a rude facade, a quaint shape emerged, one as decrepit and forlorn of life and hope as the decaying houses it overlooked. silence, poverty, wretchedness, the dregs of life, to this has honfleur fallen. these old houses, in their slow decay, hiding in their dark bosom the gaunt secrets of this poverty and human misery, seemed to be dancing a dance of drunken indifference. some day the dance will end in a fall, and then the honfleur of the past will not even boast of a ghost, as reminder of its days of splendor. an artist quicker than anyone else, i think, can be trusted to take one out of history and into the picturesque. renard refused to see anything but beauty in the decay about us; for him the houses were at just the right drooping angle; the roof lines were delightful in their irregularity; and the fluttering tremor of the nets, along the rigging, was the very poetry of motion. "we'll finish the evening on the pier," he exclaimed, suddenly; "the moon will soon be up--we can sit it out there and see it begin to color things." the pier was more popular than the quaint old dock. it was crowded with promenaders, who, doubtless, were taking a bite of the sea-air. through the dusk the tripping figures of gentlemen in white flannels and jaunty caps brushed the provincial honfleur swells. some gentle english voices told us some of the villa residents had come down to the pier, moved by the beauty of the night. groups of sailors, with tanned faces and punctured ears hooped with gold rings, sat on the broad stone parapets, talking unintelligible breton _patois_. the pier ran far out, almost to the havre cliffs, it seemed to us, as we walked along in the dusk of the young night. the sky was slowly losing its soft flame. a tender, mellow half light was stealing over the waters, making the town a rich mass of shade. over the top of the low hills the moon shot out, a large, globular mass of beaten gold. at first it was only a part and portion of the universal lighting, of the still flushed sky, of the red and crimson harbor lights, of the dim twinkling of lamps and candles in the rude interiors along the shore. but slowly, triumphantly, the great lamp swung up; it rose higher and higher into the soft summer sky, and as it mounted, sky and earth began to pale and fade. soon there was only a silver world to look out upon--a wealth of quivering silver over the breast of the waters, and a deeper, richer gray on cliffs and roof tops. out of this silver world came the sound of waters, lapping in soft cadence against the pier; the rise and fall of sails, stirring in the night wind; the tread of human footsteps moving in slow, measured beat, in unison with the rhythm of the waters. just when the stars were scattering their gold on the bosom of the sea-river, a voice rang out, a rich, full baritone. quite near, two sailors were seated, with their arms about each other's shoulders. they also were looking at the moonlight, and one of them was singing to it: "_te souviens-tu, marie, de notre enfance aux champs?_ "_te souviens-tu? le temps que je regrette c'est le temps qui n'est plus._" [illustration: the inn at dives--guillaume-le-conquerant] dives: an inn on a high-road. chapter xiv. a coast drive. on our return to villerville we found that the charm of the place, for us, was a broken one. we had seen the world; the effect of that experience was to produce the common result--there was a fine deposit of discontent in the cup of our pleasure. madame fouchet had made use of our absence to settle our destiny; she had rented her villa. this was one of the bitter dregs. another was to find that the life of the village seemed to pass us by; it gave us to understand, with unflattering frankness, that for strangers who made no bargains for the season, it had little or no civility to squander. for the villerville beach, the inn, and the villas were crowded. mere mouchard was tossing omelettes from morning till night; even augustine was far too hurried to pay her usual visit to the creamery. a detachment of parisian costumes and beribboned nursery maids was crowding out the fish-wives and old hags from their stations on the low door-steps and the grasses on the cliffs. even fouchet was no longer a familiar figure in the foreground of his garden; his roses were blooming now for the present owners of his villa. he and madame had betaken themselves to a box of a hut on the very outskirts of the village--a miserable little hovel with two rooms and a bit of pasture land being the substitute, as a dwelling, for the gay villa and its garden along the sea-cliffs. pity, however, would have been entirely wasted on the fouchet household and their change of habitation. tucked in, cramped, and uncomfortable beneath the low eaves of their cabin ceilings, they could now wear away the summer in blissful contentment: were they not living on nothing--on less than nothing, in this dark pocket of a _chaumière_, while their fine house yonder was paying for itself handsomely, week after week? the heart beats high, in a norman breast, when the pocket bulges; gold--that is better than bread to feel in one's hand. the whole village wore this triumphant expression--now that the season was beginning. paris had come down to them, at last, to be shorn of its strength; angling for pennies in a parisian pocket was better, far, than casting nets into the sea. there was also more contentment in such fishing--for true norman wit. only once did the village change its look of triumph to one of polite regret; for though it was norman, it was also french. it remembered, on the morning of our departure, that the civility of the farewell costs nothing, and like bread prodigally scattered on the waters, may perchance bring back a tenfold recompense. even the morning arose with a flattering pallor. it was a gray day. the low houses were like so many rows of pale faces; the caps of the fishwives, as they nodded a farewell, seemed to put the village in half mourning. "you will have a perfect day for your drive--there's nothing better than these grays in the french landscape," renard was saying, at our carriage wheels; "they bring out every tone. and the sea is wonderful. pity you're going. grand day for the mussel-bed. however, i shall see you, i shall see you. remember me to monsieur paul; tell him to save me a bottle of his famous old wine. good-by, good-by." there was a shower of rose-leaves flung out upon us; a great sweep of the now familiar beret; a sonorous "hui!" from our driver, with an accompaniment of vigorous whip-snapping, and we were off. the grayness of the closely-packed houses was soon exchanged for the farms lying beneath the elms. with the widening of the distance between our carriage-wheels and villerville, there was soon a great expanse of mouse-colored sky and the breath of a silver sea. the fields and foliage were softly brilliant; when the light wind stirred the grain, the poppies and bluets were as vivid as flowers seen in dreams. it is easy to understand, i think, why french painters are so enamoured of their gray skies--such a background makes even the commonplace wear an air of importance. all the tones of the landscape were astonishingly serious; the features of the coast and the inland country were as significant as if they were meditating an outbreak into speech. it was the kind of day that bred reflection; one could put anything one liked into the picture with a certainty of its fitting the frame. we were putting a certain amount of regret into it; for though villerville has seen us depart with civilized indifference or the stolidity of the barbarian--for they are one, we found our own attainments in the science of unfeelingness deficient: to look down upon the village from the next hill top was like facing a lost joy. once on the highroad, however, the life along the shore gave us little time for the futility of regret. regret, at best, is a barren thing: like the mule, it is incapable of perpetuating its own mistakes; it appears to apologize, indeed, for its stupidity by making its exit as speedily as possible. with the next turn of the road we were in fitting condition to greet the wildest form of adventure. pedlars' carts and the lumbering normandy farm wagons were, at first, our chief companions along the roadway. here and there a head would peep forth from a villa window, or a hand be stretched out into the air to see if any rain was falling from the moist sky. the farms were quieter than usual; there was an air of patient waiting in the courtyards, among the blouses and standing cattle, as though both man and beast were there in attendance on the day and the weather, till the latter could come to the point of a final decision in regard to the rain. finally, as we were nearing trouville, the big drops fell. the grain-fields were soon bent double beneath the spasmodic shower. the poppies were drenched, so were the cobble paved courtyards; only the geese and the regiment of the ducks came abroad to revel in the downpour. the villas were hermetically sealed now--their summer finery was not made for a wetting. the landscape had no such reserves; it gave itself up to the light summer shower as if it knew that its raiment, like rachel's, when dampened the better to take her plastic outlines, only gained in tone and loveliness the closer it fitted the recumbent figure of mother earth. our coachman could never have been mistaken for any other than a good norman. he was endowed with the gift of oratory peculiar to the country; and his profanity was enriched with all the flavor of the provincial's elation in the committing of sin. from the earliest moment of our starting, the stream of his talk had been unending. his vocabulary was such as to have excited the envy and despair of a french realist, impassioned in the pursuit of "the word." "_hui!--b-r-r-r!_"--this was the most common of his salutations to his horse. it was the norman coachman's familiar apostrophe, impossible of imitation; it was also one no norman horse who respects himself moves an inch without first hearing. chat noir was a horse of purest norman ancestry; his percheron blood was as untainted as his intelligence was unclouded by having no mixtures of tongues with which to deal. his owner's "_hui!_" lifted him with arrowy lightness to the top of a hill. the deeper "_bougre_" steadied his nerve for a good mile of unbroken trotting. any toil is pleasant in the gray of a cool morning, with a friend holding the reins who is a gifted monologist; even imprecations, rightly administered, are only lively punctuations to really talented speech. "come, my beauty, take in thy breath--courage! the hill is before thee! curse thy withered legs, and is it thus thou stumbleth? on--up with thee and that mountain of flesh thou carriest about with thee." and the mountain of flesh would be lifted--it was carried as lightly by the finely-feathered legs and the broad haunches as if the firm avoirdupois were so much gossamer tissue. on and on the neat, strong hoofs rang their metallic click, clack along the smooth macadam. they had carried us past the farm-houses, the cliffs, the meadows, and the norman roofed manoirs buried in their apple-orchards. these same hoofs were now carefully, dexterously picking their way down the steep hill that leads directly into the city of the trouville villas. presently, the hoofs came to a sudden halt, from sheer amazement. what was this order, this command the quick percheron hearing had overheard? not to go any farther into this summer city--not to go down to its sand-beach--not to wander through the labyrinth of its gay little streets?--verily, it is the fate of a good horse, how often! to carry fools, and the destiny of intelligence to serve those deficient in mind and sense. the criticism on our choice of direction was announced by the hoofs turning resignedly, with the patient assent of the fatigue that is bred of disgust, into one of the upper trouville by-streets. our coachman contented himself with a commiserating shrug and a prolonged flow of explanation. perhaps _ces dames_, being strangers, did not know that trouville was now beginning its real season--its season of baths? the casino, in truth, was only opened a week since; but we could hear the band even now playing above the noise of the waves. and behold, the villas were filling; each day some _grande dame_ came down to take possession of her house by the sea. how could we hope to make a frenchman comprehend an instinctive impulse to turn our backs on the trouville world? what, pray, had we just now to do with fashion--with the purring accents of boudoirs, with all the life we had run away from? surely the romance--the charm of our present experiences would be put to flight once we exchanged salutations with the _beau monde_--with that world that is so sceptical of any pleasure save that which blooms in its own hot-houses, and so disdainful of all forms of life save those that are modelled on fashion's types. we had fled from cities to escape all this; were we, forsooth, to be pushed into the motley crowd of commonplace pleasure-seekers because of the scorn of a human creature, and the mute criticism of a beast that was hired to do the bidding of his betters? the world of fashion was one to be looked out upon as a part of the general _mise-en-scène_--as a bit of the universal decoration of this vast amphitheatre of the normandy beaches. chat noir had little reverence for philosophic reflections; he turned a sharp corner just then; he stopped short, directly in front of the broad windows of a confectioner's shop. this time he did not appeal in vain to the strangers with a barbarian's contempt for the great world. the brisk drive and the salt in the air were stimulants to appetite to be respected; it is not every day the palate has so fine an edge. "_du thé, mesdames--à l'anglaise?_" a neatly-corsetted shape, in black, to set off a pair of dazzling pink cheeks, shone out behind rows of apricot tarts. there was also a cap that conveyed to one, through the medium of pink bows, the capacities of coquetry that lay in the depths of the rich brown eyes beneath them. the attractive shape emerged at once from behind the counter, to set chairs about the little table. we were bidden to be seated with an air of smiling grace, one that invested the act with the emphasis of genuine hospitality. soon a great clatter arose in the rear of the shop; opinions and counter-opinions were being volubly exchanged in shrill french, as to whether the water should or should not come to a boil; also as to whether the leaves of oolong or of green should be chosen for our beverage. the cap fluttered in several times to ask, with exquisite politeness--a politeness which could not wholly veil the hidden anxiety--our own tastes and preferences. when the cap returned to the battling forces behind the screen, armed with the authority of our confessed prejudices, a new war of tongues arose. the fate of nations, trembling on the turn of a battle, might have been settled before that pot of water, so watched and guarded over, was brought to a boil. when, finally, the little tea service was brought in, every detail was perfect in taste and appointment, except the tea; the action that had held out valiantly, that the water should not boil, had prevailed, as the half-soaked tea-leaves floating on top of our full cups triumphantly proclaimed. we sipped the beverage, agreeing balzac had well named it _ce boisson fade et mélancolique_; the novelist's disdain being the better understood as we reflected he had doubtless only tasted it as concocted by french ineptitude. we were very merry over the liver-colored liquid, as we sipped it and quoted balzac. but not for a moment had our merriment deceived the brown eyes and the fluttering cap-ribbons. a little drama of remorse was soon played for our benefit. it was she, her very self, the cap protested--as she pointed a tragic finger at the swelling, rounded line of her firm bodice--it was she who had insisted that the water should _not_ boil; there had been ladies--_des vraies anglaises_--here, only last summer, who would not that the water should boil, when their tea was made. and now, it appears that they were wrong, "_c'etait probablement une fantaisie de la part de ces dames_." would we wait for another cup? it would take but an instant, it was a little mistake, so easy to remedy. but this mistake, like many another, like crime, for instance, could never be remedied, we smilingly told her; a smile that changed her solicitous remorse to a humorist's view of the situation. another humorist, one accustomed to view the world from heights known as trapeze elevations, we met a little later on our way out of the narrow upper streets; he was also looking down over trouville. it was a motley figure in a pierrot garb, with a smaller striped body, both in the stage pallor of their trade. these were somewhat startling objects to confront on a normandy high-road. for clowns, however, taken by surprise, they were astonishingly civil. they passed their "_bonjour_" to us and to the coachman as glibly as though accosting us from the commoner circus distance. "they have come to taste of the fresh air, they have," laconically remarked our driver, as his round norman eyes ran over the muscled bodies of the two athletes. "i had a brother who was one--i had; he was a famous one--he was; he broke his neck once, when the net had been forgotten. they all do it--_ils se cassent le cou tous, tôt ou tard! allons toi t'as peur, toi?_" chat noir's great back was quivering with fear; he had no taste, himself, for shapes like these, spectral and wan as ghosts, walking about in the sun. he took us as far away as possible, and as quickly, from these reminders of the thing men call pleasure. we, meanwhile, were asking pierre for a certain promised chateau, one famous for its beauty, between trouville and cabourg. "it is here, madame--the château," he said, at last. two lions couchant, seated on wide pedestals beneath a company of noble trees, were the only visible inhabitants of the dwelling. there was a sweep of gardens: terraces that picked their way daintily down the cliffs toward the sea, a mansard roof that covered a large mansion--these were the sole aspects of chateau life to keep the trees company. in spite of pierre's urgent insistence that the view was even more beautiful than the one from the hill, we refused to exchange our first experiences of the beauty of the prospect for a second which would be certain to invite criticism; for it is ever the critic in us that plays the part of bluebeard to our many-wived illusions. we passed between the hedgerows with not even a sigh of regret. we were presently rewarded by something better than an illusion--by reality, which, at its best, can afford to laugh at the spectral shadow of itself. near the château there lived on, the remnant of a hamlet. it was a hamlet, apparently, that boasted only one farm-house; and the farm-house could show but a single hayrick. beneath the sloping roof, modelled into shape by a pitchfork and whose symmetrical lines put mansard's clumsy creation yonder to the blush, sat an old couple--a man and a woman. both were old, with the rounded backs of the laborer; the woman's hand was lying in the man's open palm, while his free arm was clasped about her neck with all the tenderness of young love. both of the old heads were laid back on the pillow made by the freshly-piled grasses. they had done a long day's work already, before the sun had reached its meridian; they were weary and resting here before they went back to their toil. this was better than the view; it made life seem finer than nature; how rich these two poor old things looked, with only their poverty about them! meanwhile pierre had quickly changed the rural _mise-en-scène_; instead of pink hawthorn hedges we were in the midst of young forest trees. why is it that a forest is always a surprise in france? is it that we have such a respect for french thrift, that a real forest seems a waste of timber? there are forests and forests; this one seemed almost a stripling in its tentative delicacy, compared to the mature splendor of fontainebleau, for example. this forest had the virility of a young savage; it was neither dense nor vast; yet, in contrast to the ribbony grain fields, and to the finish of the villa parks, was as refreshing to the eye as the right chord that strikes upon the ear after a succession of trills. in all this fair normandy sea-coast, with its wonderful inland contrasts, there was but one disappointing note. one looked in vain for the old normandy costumes. the blouse and the close white cap--this is all that is left of the wondrous headgear, the short brilliant petticoats, the embroidered stomacher, and the caen and rouen jewels, abroad in the fields only a decade ago. pierre shrugged his shoulders when asked a question concerning these now pre-historic costumes. "ah! mademoiselle, you must see for yourself, that the peasant who doesn't despise himself dresses now in the fields as he would in paris." as if in confirmation of pierre's news of the fashions, there stepped forth from an avenue of trees, fringing a near farm-house, a wedding-party. the bride was in the traditional white of brides; the little cortege following the trail of her white gown, was dressed in costumes modelled on bon marché styles. the coarse peasant faces flamed from bonnets more flowery than the fields into which they were passing. the men seemed choked in their high collars; the agony of new boots was written on faces not used to concealing such form of torture. even the groom was suffering; his bliss was something the gay little bride hanging on his arm must take entirely for granted. it was enough greatness for the moment to wear broadcloth and a white vest in the face of men. "_laissez, laissez, marguerite_, it is clean here; it will look fine on the green!" cried the bride to an improvised train-bearer, who had been holding up the white alpaca. then the full splendor of the bridal skirt trailed across the freshly mown grasses. an irrepressible murmur of admiration welled up from the wedding guests; even pierre made part of the chorus. the bridegroom stopped to mop his face, and to look forth proudly, through starting eyeballs, on the splendor of his possessions. "ah! lizette, thou art pretty like that, thou knowest. _faut l'embrasser, tu sais_." he gave her a kiss full on the lips. the little bride returned the kiss with unabashed fervor. then she burst into a loud fit of laughter. "how silly you look, jean, with your collar burst open." the groom's enthusiasm had been too much for his toilet; the noon sun and the excitements of the marriage service had dealt hardly with his celluloid fastenings. all the wedding cortege rushed to the rescue. pins, shouts of advice, pieces of twine, rubber fastenings, even knives, were offered to the now exploding bridegroom; everyone was helping him repair the ravages of his moment of bliss; everyone excepting the bride. she sat down upon her train and wept from pure rapture of laughter. pierre shook his head gravely, as he whipped up his steed. "jean will repent it; he'll lose worse things than a button, with lizette. a woman who laughs like that on the threshold of marriage will cry before the cradle is rocked, and will make others weep. however, jean won't be thinking of that--to-night." "where are they going--along the highroad?" "only a short distance. they turn in there," and he pointed with his whip to a near lane; "they go to the farm-house now--for the wedding dinner. ah! there'll be some heavy heads to-morrow. for you know, a norman peasant only really eats and drinks well twice in his life--when he marries himself and when his daughter marries. lizette's father is rich--the meat and the wines will be good to-night." our coachman sighed, as if the thought of the excellence of the coming banquet had disturbed his own digestion. chapter xv. guillaume-le-conquerant. the wedding party was lost in a thicket. pierre gave his whip so resounding a snap, it was no surprise to find ourselves rolling over the cobbles of a village street. "this is dives, mesdames, this is the inn!" pierre drew up, as he spoke, before a long, low facade. now, no one, i take it, in this world enjoys being duped. surely disappointment is only a civil term for the varying degrees of fraud practised on the imagination. this inn, apparently, was to be classed among such frauds. it did not in the least, externally at least, fulfil renard's promises. he had told us to expect the marvellous and the mediaeval in their most approved period. yet here we were, facing a featureless exterior! the facade was built yesterday--that was writ large, all over the low, rambling structure. one end, it is true, had a gabled end; there was also an old shrine niched in glass beneath the gable, and a low norman gateway with rude letters carved over the arch. june was in its glory, and the barrenness of the commonplace structure was mercifully hidden by a wreath of pink and amber roses. but one scarcely drives twenty miles in the sun to look upon a facade of roses! chat noir, meanwhile, was becoming restless. pierre had managed to keep his own patience well in hand. now, however, he broke forth: "shall we enter, my ladies?" pierre drove us straight into paradise; for here, at last, within the courtyard, was the inn we had come to seek. a group of low-gabled buildings surrounded an open court. all of the buildings were timbered, the diagonal beams of oak so old they were black in the sun, and the snowy whiteness of fresh plaster made them seem blacker still. the gabled roofs were of varying tones and tints; some were red, some mossy green, some as gray as the skin of a mouse; all were deeply, plentifully furrowed with the washings of countless rains, and they were bearded with moss. there were outside galleries, beginning somewhere and ending anywhere. there were open and covered outer stairways so laden with vines they could scarce totter to the low heights of the chamber doors on which they opened; and there were open sheds where huge farm-wagons were rolled close to the most modern of parisian dog-carts. that not a note of contrast might be lacking, across the courtyard, in one of the windows beneath a stairway, there flashed the gleam of some rich stained glass, spots of color that were repeated, with quite a different lustre, in the dappled haunches of rows of sturdy percherons munching their meal in the adjacent stalls. add to such an ensemble a vagrant multitude of rose, honeysuckle, clematis, and wistaria vines, all blooming in full rivalry of perfume and color; insert in some of the corners and beneath some of the older casements archaic bits of sculpture--strange barbaric features with beards of assyrian correctness and forms clad in the rigid draperies of the early jumièges period of the sculptor's art; lance above the roof ridges the quaint polychrome finials of the earlier palissy models; and crowd the rough cobble-paved courtyard with a rare and distinguished assemblage of flamingoes, peacocks, herons, cockatoos swinging from gabled windows, and game-cocks that strut about in company with pink doves--and you have the famous inn of guillaume le conquérant! meanwhile an individual, with fine deep-gray eyes, and a face grave, yet kindly, over which a smile was humorously breaking, was patiently waiting at our carriage door. he could be no other than monsieur paul, owner and inn-keeper, also artist, sculptor, carver, restorer, to whom, in truth, this miracle of an inn owed its present perfection and picturesqueness. "we have been long expecting you, mesdames," monsieur paul's grave voice was saying. "monsieur renard had written to announce your coming. you took the trouble to drive along the coast this fine day? it is idyllically lovely, is it not--under such a sun?" evidently the moment of enchantment was not to be broken by the worker of the spell. monsieur paul and his inn were one; if one was a poem the other was a poet. the poet was also lined with the man of the practical moment. he had quickly summoned a host of serving-people to take charge of us and our luggage. "lizette, show these ladies to the room of madame de sévigné. if they desire a sitting-room--to the marmousets." the inn-keeper gave his commands in the quiet, well-bred tone of a man of the world, to a woman in peasant's dress. she led us past the open court to an inner one, where we were confronted with a building still older, apparently, than those grouped about the outer quadrangle. the peasant passed quickly beneath an overhanging gallery, draped in vines. she was next preceding us up a spiral turret stairway; the adjacent walls were hung here and there with faded bits of tapestry. once more she turned to lead us along an open gallery; on this several rooms appeared to open. on each door a different sign was painted in rude gothic letters. the first was "chambre de l'officier;" the second, "chambre du curé," and the next was flung widely open. it was the room of the famous lady of the incomparable letters. the room might have been left--in the yesterday of two centuries--by the lady whose name it bore. there was a beautiful seventeenth century bedstead, a couple of wide arm-chairs, with down pillows for seats, and a clothes press with the carvings and brass work peculiar to the epoch of louis xiv. the chintz hangings and draperies were in keeping, being copies of the brocades of that day. there were portraits in miniature of the courtiers and the ladies of the great reign on the very ewers and basins. on the flounced dressing-table, with its antique glass and a diminutive patch-box, now the receptacle of lubin's powder, a sprig of the lovely rose the was exhaling a faint, far-away century perfume. it was surely a stage set for a real comedy; some of these high-coiffed ladies, who knows? perhaps madame de sévigné herself would come to life, and give to the room the only thing it lacked--the living presence of that old world grace and speech. presently, we sallied forth on a further voyage of discovery. we had reached the courtyard when monsieur paul crossed it; it was to ask if, while waiting for the noon breakfast, we would care to see the kitchen; it was, perhaps, different to those now commonly seen in modern taverns. the kitchen which was thus modestly described as unlike those of our own century might easily, except for the appetizing smell of the cooking fowls and the meats, have been put under lock and key and turned over to a care-taker as a full-fledged culinary museum of antiquities. one entire side of the crowded but orderly little room was taken up by a huge open fireplace. the logs resting on the great andirons were the trunks of full-grown trees. on two of the spits were long rows of fowl and legs of mutton roasting; the great chains were being slowly turned by a _chef_ in the paper cap of his profession. in deep burnished brass bowls lay water-cresses; in caen dishes of an age to make a bric-a-brac collector turn green with envy, a _béarnaise_ sauce was being beaten by another gallic master-hand. along the beams hung old rouen plates and platters; in the numberless carved normandy cupboards gleamed rare bits of delft and limoges; the walls may be said to have been hung with normandy brasses, each as burnished as a jewel. the floor was sanded and the tables had attained that satiny finish which comes only with long usage and tireless use of the brush. there was also a shrine and a clock, the latter of antique norman make and design. the smell of the roasting fowls and the herbs used by the maker of the sauces, a hungry palate found even more exciting than this most original of kitchens. there was a wine that went with the sauce; this fact monsieur paul explained, on our sitting down to the noonday meal; one which, in remembrance of monsieur renard's injunctions, he would suggest our trying. he crossed the courtyard and disappeared into the bowels of the earth, beneath one of the inn buildings, to bring forth a bottle incrusted with layers of moist dirt. this sauterne was by some, monsieur paul smilingly explained, considered as among the real treasures of the inn. both it and the sauce, we were enabled to assure him a moment later, had that golden softness which make french wines and french sauces at their best the rapture of the palate. in the courtyard, as our breakfast proceeded, a variety of incidents was happening. we were facing the open archway; through it one looked out upon the high-road. a wheelbarrow passed, trundled by a peasant-girl; the barrow stopped, the girl leaving it for an instant to cross the court. "_bonjour, mère--_" "_bonjour, ma fille_--it goes well?" a deep guttural voice responded, just outside of the window. "_justement_--i came to tell you the mare has foaled and jean will be late to-night." "_bien._" "and barbarine is still angry--" "make up with her, my child--anger is an evil bird to take to one's heart," the deep voice went on. "it is my mother," explained monsieur paul. "it is her favorite seat, out yonder, on the green bench in the courtyard. i call it her judge's bench," he smiled, indulgently, as he went on. "she dispenses justice with more authority than any other magistrate in town. i am mayor, as it happens, just now; but madame my mother is far above me, in real power. she rules the town and the country about, for miles. everyone comes to her sooner or later for counsel and command. you will soon see for yourselves." a murmur of assent from all the table accompanied monsieur paul's prophecy. "_femme vraiment remarquable_," hoarsely whispered a stout breakfaster, behind his napkin, between two spoonsful of his soup. "not two in a century like her," said my neighbor. "no--nor two in all france--_non plus_," retorted the stout man. "she could rule a kingdom--hey, paul?" "she rules me--as you see--and a man is harder to govern than a province, they say," smiled monsieur paul with a humorous relish, obviously the offspring of experience. "in france, mesdames," he added, a sweeter look of feeling coming into the deep eyes, "you see we are always children--_toujours enfants_--as long as the mother lives. we are never really old till she dies. may the good god preserve her!" and he lifted his glass toward the green bench. the table drank the toast, in silence. [illustration: chambre de la pucelles--dives] chapter xvi. the green bench. in the course of the first few days we learned what all dives had known for the past fifty years or so--that the focal point of interest in the inn was centred in madame le mois. she drew us, as she had the country around for miles, to circle close about her green bench. the bench was placed at the best possible point for one who, between dawn and darkness, made it the business of her life to keep her eye on her world. not the tiniest mouse nor the most spectral shade could enter or slip away beneath the open archway without undergoing inspection from that omniscient eye, that seemed never to blink nor to grow weary. this same eye could keep its watch, also, over the entire establishment, with no need of the huge body to which it was attached moving a hair's-breadth. was it nitouche, the head-cook, who was grumbling because the kitchen-wench had not scoured the brass saucepans to the last point of mirrory brightness? behold both nitouche and the trembling peasant-girl, together with the brasses as evidence, all could be brought at an instant's call, into the open court. were the maids--were marianne or lizette neglecting their work to flirt with the coachmen in the sheds yonder? "_allons, mes filles--doucement, là-bas--et vos lits? qui les fait--les bons saints du paradis, peut-être?_" and marianne and lizette would slink away to the waiting beds. nothing escaped this eye. if the _poule sultane_ was gone lame, limping in the inner quadrangle, madame's eye saw the trouble--a thorn in the left claw, before the feathered cripple had had time to reach her objective point, her mistress's capacious lap, and the healing touch of her skilful surgeon's fingers. neither were the cockatoes nor the white parrots given license to make all the noise in the court-yard. when madame had an unusually loquacious moment, these more strictly professional conversationists were taught their place. "_e'ben, toi_--and thou wishest to proclaim to the world what a gymnast thou art--swinging on thy perch? quietly, quietly, there are also others who wish to praise themselves! and now, my child, you were telling me how good you had been to your old grandmother, and how she scolded you. well, and how about obedience to our parents, _hein_--how about that?" this, as the old face bent to the maiden beside her. there was one, assuredly, who had not failed in his duty to his parents. monsieur paul's whole life, as we learned later, had been a willing sacrifice to the unconscious tyranny of his mother's affection. the son was gifted with those gifts which, in a parisian atelier, would easily have made him successful, if not famous. he had the artistic endowment in an unusual degree; it was all one to him, whether he modelled in clay, or carved in wood, or stone, or built a house, or restored old bric-a-brac. he had inherited the old world roundness of artistic ability--his was the plastic renascent touch that might have developed into that of a giotto or a benvenuto. it was such a sacrifice as this that he had lain at his mother's feet. think you for an instant the clever, witty, canny woman in madame le mois looked upon her son's renouncing the world of paris, and holding to the glories of dives and their famous inn in the light of a sacrifice? "_parbleu!_" she would explode, when the subject was touched on, "it was a lucky thing for him that paul had had an old mother to keep him from burning his fingers. paris! what did the provinces want with paris? paris had need enough of them, the great, idle, shiftless, dissipated, cruel old city, that ground all their sons to powder, and then scattered their ashes abroad like so many cinders. oh, yes, paris couldn't get along without the provinces, to plunder and rob, to seduce their sons away from living good, pure lives, and to suck these lives as a pig would a trough of fresh water! but the provinces, if they valued their souls, shunned paris as they would the devil. and as for artists--when it came to the young of the provinces, who thought they could paint or model-- "_tenez, madame_--this is what paris does for our young. my neighbor yonder," and she pointed, as only frenchwomen point, sticking her thumb into the air to designate a point back of her bench, "my neighbor had a son like paul. he too was always niggling at something. he niggled so well a rich cousin sent him up to paris. well, in ten years he comes back, famous, rich, too, with a wife and even a child. the establishment is complete. well, they come here to breakfast one fine morning, with his mother, whom he put at a side table, with his nurse--he is ashamed of his mother, you see. well, then his wife talks and i hear her. '_mais, mon charles, c'est toi qui est le plus fameux--il n'y a que toi! tu es un dieu, tu sais--il n'y a pas deux comme toi!_' the famous one deigns to smile then, and to eat of his breakfast. his digestion had gone wrong, it appears. the _figaro_ had placed his name second on a certain list, _after_ a rival's! he alone must be great--there must not be another god of painting save him! he! he! that's fine, that's greatness--to lose one's appetite because another is praised, and to be ashamed of one's old mother!" madame le mois's face, for a moment, was terrible to look upon. even in her kindliest moments hers was a severe countenance, in spite of the true norman curves in mouth and nostril--the laughter-loving curves. presently, however, the fierceness of her severity melted; she had caught sight of her son. he was passing her, now, with the wine bottles for dinner piled up in his arms. "you see," croaked the mother, in an exultant whisper, "i've saved him from all that--he's happy, for he still works. in the winter he can amuse himself, when he likes, with his carving and paintbrushes. ah, _tiens, du monde qui arrive!_" and the old woman seated herself, with an air of great dignity, to receive the new-comers. the world that came in under the low archway was of an altogether different character from any we had as yet seen. in a satin-lined victoria, amid the cushions, lay a young and lovely-eyed anonyma. seated beside her was a weak-featured man, with a huge flower decorating his coat lappel. this latter individual divided the seat with an army of small dogs who leaped forth as the carriage stopped. madame le mois remained immovable on her bench. her face was as enigmatic as her voice, as it gave suzette the order to show the lady to the salon bleu. the high louis xv. slipper, as it picked its way carefully after suzette, never seemed more distinctly astray than when its fair wearer confided her safety to the insecure footing of the rough, uneven cobbles. in a brief half-hour the frou-frou of her silken skirts was once more sweeping the court-yard. she and her companion and the dogs chose the open air and a tent of sky for their banqueting-hall. soon all were seated at one of the many tables placed near the kitchen, beneath the rose-vines. madame gave the pair a keen, dissecting glance. her verdict was delivered more in the emphasis of her shrug and the humor of her broad wink than in the loud-whispered "_comme vous voyez, chère dame, de toutes sortes ici, chez nous--mais--toujours bon genre!_" the laughter of one who could not choose her world was stopped, suddenly, by the dipping of the thick fingers into an old snuff-box. that very afternoon the court-yard saw another arrival; this one was treated in quite a different spirit. a dog-cart was briskly driven into the yard by a gentleman who did not appear to be in the best of humor. he drew his horse up with a sudden fierceness; he as fiercely called out for the hostler. monsieur paul bit his lip; but he composedly confronted the disturbed countenance perched on the driver's seat. the gentleman wished. "i want indemnity--that is what i want. indemnity for my horse," cried out a thick, coarse voice, with insolent authority. "for your horse? i do not think i understand--" "o--h, i presume not," retorted the man, still more insolently; "people don't usually understand when they have to pay. i came here a week ago, and stayed two days; and you starved my horse--and he died--that is what happened--he died!" the whole court-yard now rang with the cries of the assembled household. the high, angry tones had called together the last serving-man and scullery-maid; the cooks had come out from their kitchens; they were brandishing their long-handled saucepans. the peasant-women were shrieking in concert with the hostlers, who were raising their arms to heaven in proof of their innocence. dogs, cats, cockatoes swinging on their perches, peacocks, parrots, pelicans, and every one of the cocks swarmed from the barnyards and garden and cellars, to add their shrill cries and shrieks to the universal babel. meanwhile, calm and unruffled as a hindoo goddess, and strikingly similar in general massiveness of structure and proportion to the common reproduction of such deities, sat madame le mois. she went on with her usual occupation; she was dipping fresh-cut salad leaves into great bowls of water as quietly as if only her own little family were assembled before her. once only she lifted her heavily-moulded, sagacious eyebrow at the irate dog-cart driver, as if to measure his pitiful strength. she allowed the fellow, however, to touch the point of abuse before she crushed him. her first sentence reduced him to the ignominy of silence. all her people were also silent. what, the deep sarcastic voice chanted on the still air--what, this gentleman's horse had died--and yet he had waited a whole week to tell them of the great news? he was, of a truth, altogether too considerate. his own memory, perhaps, was also a short one, since it told him nothing of the condition in which the poor beast had arrived, dropping with fatigue, wet with sweat, his mouth all blood, and an eye as of one who already was past the consciousness of his suffering? ah no, monsieur should go to those who also had short memories. "for we use our eyes--we do. we are used to deal with gentlemen--with christians" (the hebrew nose of the owner of the dead horse, even more plainly abused the privilege of its pedigree in proving its race, by turning downward, at this onslaught of the mère's satire), "as i said, with christians," continued the mere, pitilessly. "and do those gentlemen complain and put upon us the death of their horses? no, my fine sir, they return--_ils reviennent, et sont revenus depuis la conquête!_" with this fine climax madame announced the court as closed. she bowed disdainfully, with a grand and magisterial air, to the defeated claimant, who crept away, sulkily, through the low archway. "that is the way to deal with such vermin, paul; whip them, and they turn tail." and the mere shook out a great laugh from her broad bosom, as she regaled her wide nostrils with a fresh pinch of snuff. the assembled household echoed the laugh, seasoning it with the glee of scorn, as each went to his allotted place. chapter xvii. the world that came to dives. it was a world of many mixtures, of various ranks and habits of life that found its way under the old archway, and sat down at the table d'hôte breakfasts and dinners. madame and her gifted son were far too clever to attempt to play the mistaken part of providence; there was no pointed assortment made of the sheep and the goats; at least, not in a way to suggest the most remote intention of any such separation being premeditated. such separation as there was came about in the most natural and in the pleasantest possible fashion. when petitjean, the pedler, and his wife drove in under the gothic sign, the huge lumbering vehicle was as quickly surrounded as when any of the neighboring notabilities arrived in emblazoned chariots. madame was the first to waddle forward, nodding up toward the open hood as, with a short, brisk, business "_bonjour_," she welcomed the head of petitjean and his sharp-eyed spouse looking over the aprons. the pedler is always popular with his world and dives knew petitjean to be as honest as a pedler can ever hope to be in a world where small pence are only made large by some one being sacrificed on the altar of duplicity. therefore it was that petitjean's hearse-like cart was always a welcome visitor;--one could at least be as sure of a just return for one's money in trading with a pedler as from any other source in this thieving world. in the end, one always got something else besides the bargain to carry away with one. for petitjean knew all the gossip of the province; after dinner, when the stiff cider was working in his veins, he would be certain to tell all one wanted to know. even madame le mois, whose days were too busy in summer to include the daily reading of her newspaper, had grown dependent, in these her later years, on such sources of information as the peddler's garrulous tongue supplied. in the end she had found his talent for fiction quite as reliable as that of the journalists, besides being infinitely more entertaining, abounding in personalities which were the more racy, as the pedler felt himself to be exempt from that curse of responsibility, which, in french journalism, is so often a barrier to the full play of one's talent. therefore it was that petitjean and his bright-eyed spouse were always made welcome at dives. "it goes well, madame jean? ah, there you are. well, _hein_, also? it is long since we saw you." "ah, madame, centuries, it is centuries since we were here. but what will you have? with the bad season, the rains, the banks failing, the--but you, madame, are well? and monsieur paul?" "_ah, ça va tout doucement_ paul is well, the good god be praised, but i--i perish day by day" at which the entire court-yard was certain to burst into laughing protest. for the whole household of guillaume le conquérant was quite sure to be assembled about the great wheels of the pedler's wagon--only to look, not to buy, not yet. petitjean, and his wife had not dined yet, and a pedler's hunger is something to be respected--one made money by waiting for the hour of digestion. the little crowd of maids, hostlers, cooks, and scullery wenches, were only here to whet their appetite, and to greet petitjean. nitouche, the head _chef_, put a little extra garlic in his sauces that day. but in spite of this compliment to their palate, the pedler and his wife dined in the smaller room off the kitchen;--madame was desolated, but the _salle-à-manger_ was crowded just now. one was really suffocated in there these days! therefore it was that the two ate the herbaceous sauces with an extra relish, as those conscious of having a larger space for the play of vagrant elbows than their less fortunate brethren. the gossip and trading came later. on the edge of the fading daylight there was still time to see; the chosen articles could easily be taken into the brightly lit kitchen to be passed before the lamps. after the buying and bargaining came the talking. all the household could find time to spend the evening on the old benches; these latter lined the sidewalk just beneath the low kitchen casements. they had been here for many a long year. what a history of dives these old benches could have told! what troopers, and beggars, and cowled monks, and wayfarers had sat there!--each sitter helping to wear away the wood till it had come to have the depressions of a drinking-trough. night after night in the long centuries, as the darkness fell upon the hamlet--what tales and confidences, and what murmured anguish of remorse, what cries for help, what gay talk and light song must have welled up into the dome of sky! once, as we sat within the court-yard, under the stars, a young voice sang out. it was so still and quiet every word the youth phrased was as clear as his fresh young voice. "_tiens_--it is mathieu--he is singing _les oreillers!_" cried monsieur paul, with an accent of pride in his own tone. the young voice sang on: "_j'arrive en ce pays de basse normandie, vous dire une chanson, s'il plaît la compagnie!_" "it is an old norman bridal song," monsieur paul went on, lowering his voice. "one i taught a lot of young boys and lads last winter--for a wedding held here--in the inn." still the fresh notes filled the air: "_les amours sont partis dans un bateau de verre; le bateau a cassé a cassé-- les amours sont parterre._" "how the old women laughed--and cried--at once! it was years since they had heard it--the old song. and when these boys--their sons and grandsons--sang it, and i had trained them well--they wept for pure delight." again the song went on: "_ouvrez la porte, ouvrez! nouvelle mariée, car si vous ne l'ouvrez vous serez accusée_" "i dressed all the young girls in old costumes," our friend continued, still in a whisper. "i ransacked all the old chests and closets about here. i got the ladies of the chateaux near by to aid me; they were so interested that many came down from paris to see the wedding. it was a pretty sight, each in a different dress! every century since the thirteenth was represented." "_attendez à demain, la fraîche matinée, quand mon oiseau privé aura pris sa volée!_" clear, strong, free rang the young tenor's voice--and then it broke into "_comment--tu dis que claire est là?_" whereat monsieur paul smiled. "that will be the next wedding--what shall i devise for that? that will also be the ending of a long lawsuit. but he should have sung the last verse--the prettiest of all. mathieu!" paul lifted his voice, calling into the dark. _"oui, monsieur paul!"_ "sing us the last verse--" "_dans ce jardin du roi a pris sa reposée, cueillant le romarin la--vande--bouton--née--_" the last notes were but faint vibrations, coming from a lengthening distance. "ah!" and monsieur paul breathed a sigh. "they don't care about singing. they are doing it all the time they are so much in love. the fathers' lawsuit ended only last month. they've waited three years--happy claire--happy mathieu!" chapter xviii. the conversation of patriots. the world that found its way to the mayor's table at this early period of the summer season was largely composed of the class that travels chiefly to amuse others. the commercial gentlemen in france, however, have the outward bearing of those who travel to amuse themselves. the selling of other people's goods--it is surely as good an excuse as any other for seeing the world! such an occupation offers an orator, one gifted in conversational talents--talents it would be a pity to see buried in the domestic napkin--a fine arena for display. the french commercial traveller is indeed a genus apart; he makes a fetish of his trade; he preaches his propaganda. the fat and the lean, the tall and the little, the well or meanly dressed representatives of the great french houses who sat down to dine, as our neighbors or _vis-à-vis_, night after night, were, on the whole, a great credit to their country. their manners might have been mistaken for those of a higher rank; their gifts as talkers were of such an order as to make listening the better part of discretion. dining is always a serious act in france. at this inn the sauces of the _chef_, with their reputation behind them, and the proof of their real excellence before one, the dinner-hour was elevated to the importance of a ceremony. how the petty merchants and the commercial gentlemen ate, at first in silence, as if respecting the appeal imposed by a great hunger, and then warming into talk as the acid cider was passed again and again! what crunching of the sturdy, dark-colored bread between the great knuckles! what huge helps of the famous sauces! what insatiable appetites! what nice appreciation of the right touch of the tricksy garlic! what nodding of heads, clinking of glasses, and warmth of friendship established over the wine-cups! at dessert everyone talked at once. on one occasion the subject of gambetta's death was touched on; all the table, as one man, broke out into an effervescence of political babble. "what a loss! what a death-blow to france was his death!" exclaimed a heavy young man in a pink cravat. "if gambetta had lived, alsace and lorraine would be ours now, without the firing of a gun!" added an elderly merchant at the foot of the table. "ah--h! without the firing of a gun they will come to us yet. i tell you, without the firing of a gun--unless we insist on a battle," explosively rejoined a fiery-hued little man sitting next to monsieur paul; "but you will see--we shall insist. there is between us and germany an inextinguishable hate--and we must kill, kill, right and left!" "_allons--allons!_" protested the table, in chorus. "yes, yes, a general massacre, that is what we want; that is what we must have. men, women, and children--all must fall. i am a married man--but not a woman or a child shall escape--when the time comes," continued the fiery-eyed man, getting more and more ferocious as he warmed with the thought of his revenge. "what a monster!" broke in madame le mois, her deep base notes unruffled by the spectacle of her bloodthirsty neighbor's violence; "you--to bayonet a woman with a child in her arms!" "i would--i would--" "then you would be more cruel than they were. they treated our women with respect." there was a murmur of assenting applause, at this sentiment of justice, from the table. but the fiery-eyed man was not to be put down. "oh, yes, they were generous enough in ' , but i should remember their insults of !" "_ancienne histoire--çà_" said the mère, dismissing the subject, with a humorous wink at the table. "as you see," was monsieur paul's comment on the conversation, as we were taking our after-dinner stroll in the garden--"as you see, that sort of person is the bad element in our country--the dangerous element--unreasoning, revengeful, and ignorant. it is such men as he who still uphold hatreds and keep the flame alive. it is better to have no talent at all for politics--to be harmless like me, for instance, whose worst vice is to buy up old laces and carvings." "and roses--" "yes--that is another of my vices--to perpetuate the old varieties. they call me along our coast the millionnaire--of roses! will you have a 'marie louise,' mademoiselle?" the garden was as complete in its old time aspect as the rest of the inn belongings. only the older, rarer varieties of flowers and rose stalks had been chosen to bloom within the beautifully arranged inclosure. _citronnelle_, purple irises, fringed asters, sage, lavender, _rose-pêche_, bachelor's-button, _the d'horace_, and the wonderful electric fraxinelle, these and many other shrubs and plants of the older centuries were massed here with the taste of one difficult to please in horticultural arrangements. our after-dinner walks became an event in our day. at that hour the press of the day's work was over, and madame mère or monsieur paul were always ready to join us for a stroll. "for myself, i do not like large gardens," monsieur paul remarked, during one of these after-dinner saunters. "the monks, in the old days, knew just the right size a garden should be--small and sheltered, with walls--like a strong arm about a pretty woman--to protect the shrubs and flowers. one should enter the garden, also, by a gate which must click as it closes--the click tickles the imagination--it is the sound henceforth connected with silence, with perfumes and seclusion. how far away we seem now, do we not?--from the bustle of the inn court-yard--and yet i could throw a stone into it." the only saunterers besides ourselves were the flamingo, who, cautiously, timorously picked his way--as if he were conscious he was only a bunch of feathers hoisted on stilts; the white parrot, who was wabbling across the lawn to a favorite perch in the leaves of a tropical palm; and the peacock, whose train had been spread with a due regard to effect across a bed of purple irises, with a view to annihilating the brilliancy of their rival hues. the bit of sky framed by these four garden walls always seemed more delicate in tone than that which covered the open court-yard. the birds in the bushes had moments of melodious outbursts they did not, apparently, indulge in along the high-road. and what with the fading lights, the stars pricking their way among the palms, the scents of flowers, and the talk of a poet, it is little wonder that this twilight hour in the old garden was certain to be the most lyrical of the twenty-four. chapter xix. in la chambre des marmousets. "it is the winters, mesdames, that are hard to bear. they are long--they are dull. no one passes along the high-road. it is then, when sometimes the snow is piled knee-deep in the court-yard, it is then i try to amuse myself a little. last year i did the jumièges sculptures; they fit in well, do they not?" it was raining; and monsieur paul was paying us an evening call. a great fire was burning in the beautiful francois i. fireplace of our sitting-room, the famous chambre des marmousets. we had not consented that any of the lights should be lit, although the lovely little louis xiv. chandelier and the antique brass sconces were temptingly filled with fresh candles. the flames of the great logs would suffer no rival illuminations; if the trunks of full-grown trees could not suffice to light up an old room, with low-raftered ceilings, and a mass of bric-à-brac, what could a few thin waxen candles hope to do? on many other occasions we had thought our marvellous sitting-room had had exceptional moments of beauty. to turn in from the sunlit, open court-yard; to pass beneath, the vine-hung gallery; to lift the great latch of the low gothic door and to enter the rich and sumptuous interior, where the light came, as in cathedral aisles, only through the jewels of fourteenth-century glass; to close the door; to sit beneath the prismatic shower, ensconced in a nest of old tapestried cushions, and to let the eye wander over the wealth of carvings, of ceramics, of spanish and normandy trousseaux chests, on the collection of antique chairs, dutch porcelains, and priceless embroideries--all the riches of a museum in a living-room--such a moment in the marmousets we had tested again and again with delectable results. at twilight, also, when the garden was submerged in dew, this old seigneurial chamber was a retreat fit for a sybarite or a modern aesthete. the stillness, the soft luxurious cushions, the rich dusk thickening in the corners, the complete isolation of the old room from the noise and tumult of the inn life, its curious, its delightful unmodernness, made this marmouset room an ideal setting for any mediaeval picture. even a sentiment tinctured with modern cynicism would, i think, have borrowed a little antique fervor, if, like the photographic negative our nineteenth-century emotionalism somewhat too closely resembles, in its colorless indefiniteness, the sentiment were sufficiently exposed, in point of time and degree of sensitiveness, to the charm of these old surroundings. on this particular evening, however, the pattering of the rain without on the cobbles and the great blaze of the fire within, made the old room seem more beautiful than we had yet seen it. perhaps the capture of our host as a guest was the added treasure needed to complete our collection. monsieur paul himself was in a mood of prodigal liberality; he was, as he himself neatly termed the phrase, ripe for confession; not a secret should escape revelation; all the inn mysteries should yield up the fiction of their frauds; the full nakedness of fact should be given to us. "you see, _chères dames_, it is not so difficult to create the beautiful, if one has a little taste and great patience. my inn--it has become my hobby, my pride, my wife, my children. some men marry their art, i espoused my inn. i found her poor, tattered, broken-down, in health, if you will; verily, as your shakespeare says of some country wench: 'a poor thing but mine own.'" monsieur paul's possession of the english language was scarcely as complete as the storehouse of his memory. he would have been surprised, doubtless, to learn he had called poor audrey, "a pure ting, buttaire my noon!" "she was, however," he continued, securely, in his own richer norman, "though a wench, a beautiful one. and i vowed to make her glorious. 'she shall be famous,' i vowed, and--and--better than most men i have kept my vow. all france now has heard of guillaume le conquérant!" the pride monsieur paul took in his inn was indeed a fine thing to see. the years of toil he had spent on its walls and in its embellishment had brought him the recompense much giving always brings; it had enriched him quite as much as the wealth of his taste and talent had bequeathed to the inn. latterly, he said, he had travelled much, his collection of curios and antiquities having called him farther afield than many frenchmen care to wander. his love of delft had taken him to holland; his passion for spanish leather to the country of velasquez; he must have a virgin, a genuine fifteenth-century virgin, all his own; behold her there, in her stiff wooden skirts, a neapolitan captive. the brass braziers yonder, at which the courtiers of the henris had warmed their feet, stamping the night out in cold ante chambers, had been secured at blois; and his collection of tapestries, of stained glass, of normandy brasses, and breton carvings had made his own coast as familiar as the dives streets. "the priests who sold me these, madame," he went on, as he picked up a priest's chasuble, now doing duty as a table covering "would sell their fathers and their mothers. it is all a question of price." after a review of the curios came the history of the human collection of antiquities who had peopled the inn and this old room. many and various had been the visitors who had slept and dined here and gone forth on their travels along the high-road. the inn had had a noble origin; it had been built by no less a personage than the great william himself. he had deemed the spot a fitting one in which to build his boats to start forth for his modest project of conquering england. he could watch their construction in the waters of dives river--that flows still, out yonder, among the grasses of the sea-meadows. for some years the norman dukes held to the inn, in memory of the success of that clever boat-building. then for five centuries the inn became a manoir--the seigneurial residence of a certain sieur de sémilly. it was his arms we saw yonder, joined to those of savoy, in the door panel, one of the family having married into a branch of that great house. of the famous ones of the world who had travelled along this caen post-road and stopped the night here, humanly tired, like any other humble wayfarer, was a hurried visit from that king who loved his trade--louis xi. he and his suite crowded into the low rooms, grateful for a bed and a fire, after the weary pilgrimage to the heights of mont st. michel. louis's piety, however, was not as lasting in its physically exhaustive effects, as were the fleshly excesses of a certain other king--one henri iv., whose over-appreciation of the oysters served him here, caused a royal attack of colic, as you may read at your pleasure in the state archives in paris--since, quite rightly, the royal secretary must write the court physician every detail of so important an event. what with these kingly travellers and such modern uncrowned kings as puvis de chavannes, dumas, george sand, daubigny, and troyon, together with a goodly number of lesser great ones, the famous little inn has had no reason to feel itself slighted by the great of any century. of all this motley company of notabilities there were two whose visits seemed to have been indefinitely prolonged. there was nothing, in this present flowery, picturesque assemblage of buildings, to suggest a certain wild drama enacted here centuries ago. nothing either in yonder tender sky, nor in the silvery foliage on a fair day, which should conjure up the image of william as he must have stood again and again beside the little river; nor of the fury of his impatience as the boats were building all too slowly for his hot hopes; nor of the strange and motley crew he had summoned there from all corners of europe to cut the trees; to build and launch boats; to sail them, finally, across the strip of water to that england he was to meet at last, to grapple with, and overthrow, even as the english huscarles in their turn bore down on that gay minstrel taillefer, who rode so insolently forth to meet them, with a song in his throat, tossing his sword in english eyes, still chanting the song of roland as he fell. none of the inn features were in the least informed with this great, impressive picture of its past. yet does william seem by far the most realizable of all the personages who have inhabited the old house. there was another visitor whose presence monsieur paul declared was as entirely real as if she, also, had only just passed within the court-yard. "i know not why it is, but of all these great, _ces fameux_, madame de sévigné seems to me the nearest, in point of time. her visit appears to have happened only yesterday. i never enter her room but i seem to see her moving about, talking, laughing, speaking in epigrams. she mentions the inn, you know, in her letters. she gives the details of her journey in full." i, also, knew not why; but, later, after monsieur paul had left us, when he had shut himself out, along with the pattering raindrops, and had closed us in with the warmth and the flickering fire-light, there came, with astonishing clearness, a vision of that lady's visit here. she and her company of friends might have been stopping, that very instant, without, in the open court. i, also, seemed to hear the very tones of their voices; their talk was as audible as the wind rustling in the vines. in the growing stillness the vision grew and grew, till this was what i saw and heard: [illustration: chambre des marmousets--dives] two banquets at dives. chapter xx. a seventeenth-century revival. outside the inn, some two hundred years ago, there was a great noise and confusion; the cries of outriders, of mounted guardsmen and halberdiers, made the quiet village as noisy as a camp. an imposing cavalcade was being brought to a sharp stop; for the outriders had suddenly perceived the open inn entrance, with its raised portcullis, and they were shouting to the coachmen to turn in, beneath the archway, to the paved court-yard within. in an incredibly short space of time the open quadrangle presented a brilliant picture; the dashing guardsmen were dismounting; the maids and lackeys had quickly descended from their perches in the caleches and coaches; and the gentlemen of the household were dusting their wide hats and lace-trimmed coats. the halberdiers, ranging themselves in line, made a prismatic grouping beneath the low eaves of the picturesque old inn. in the very middle of the court-yard stood a coach, resplendent in painted panels and emblazoned with ducal arms. about this coach, as soon as the four horses which drew the vehicle were brought to a standstill, cavaliers, footmen, and maids swarmed with effusive zeal. one of the footmen made a rush for the door: another let down the steps; one cavalier was already presenting an outstretched, deferential hand, while still another held forth an arm, as rigid as a post, for the use of the occupants of the ducal carriage. three ladies were seated within. large and roomy as was the vehicle, their voluminous draperies and the paraphernalia of their belongings seemed completely to fill the wide, deep seats. the ladies were the duchesse de chaulnes, madame de kerman, and madame de sévigné. the faces of the duchesse and of madame de kerman were invisible, being still covered with their masks, which, both as a matter of habit and of precaution against the sun's rays, they had religiously worn during the long day's journey. but madame de sévigné had torn hers off; she was holding it in her hand, as if glad to be relieved from its confinement. all three ladies were in the highest possible spirits, madame de sévigné obviously being the leader of the jests and the laughter. they were in a mood to find everything amusing and delightful. even after they had left the coach and were carefully picking their way over the rough stones--walking on their high-heeled "mules" at best, was always a dangerous performance--their laughter and gayety continued in undiminished exuberance. madame de sévigné's keen sense of humor found so many things to ridicule. could anything, for example, be more comical than the spectacle they presented as they walked, in state, with their long trains and high-heeled slippers, up these absurd little turret steps, feeling their way as carefully as if they were each a pickpocket or an assassin? the long line behind of maids carrying their muffs, and of lackeys with the muff-dogs, and of pages holding their trains, and the grinning innkeeper, bursting with pride and courtesying as if he had st. vitus's dance, all this crowd coiling round the rude spiral stairway--it was enough to make one die of laughter. such state in such savage surroundings!--they and their patch-boxes, and towering head-gears and trains, and dogs and fans, all crowded into a place fit only for peasants! when they reached their bedchambers the ridicule was turned into a condescending admiration; they found their rooms unexpectedly clean and airy. the furniture was all antique, of interesting design, and though rude, really astonishingly comfortable. beds and dressing-tables, mostly of henry iii's time, were elaborately canopied in the hideous crude draperies of that primitive epoch. how different were the elegant shapes and brocades of their own time! fortunately their women had suitable hangings and draperies with them, as well, of course, as any amount of linen and any number of mattresses. the settees and benches would do very well, with the aid of their own hassocks and cushions, and, after all, it was only for a night, they reminded the other. the toilet, after the heat and exposure of the day, was necessarily a long one. the duchesse and madame de kerman had their faces to make up--all the paint had run, and not a patch was in its place. hair, also, of this later de maintenon period, with its elaborate artistic ranges of curls, to say nothing of the care that must be given to the coif and the "follette," these were matters that demanded the utmost nicety of arrangement. in an hour, however, the three ladies reassembled, in the panelled lower room--in "la chambre de la pucelle." in spite of the care her two companions had given to repairing the damages caused by their journey, of the three, madame de sévigné looked by far the freshest and youngest. she still wore her hair in the loosely flowing de montespan fashion; a style which, though now out of date, was one that exactly suited her fair skin, her candid brow, and her brilliant eyes. these latter, when one examined them closely, were found to be of different colors; but this peculiarity, which might have been a serious defect in any other countenance, in madame de sévigné's brilliant face was perhaps one cause of its extraordinarily luminous quality. not one feature was perfect in that fascinatingly mobile face: the chin was a trifle too long for a woman's chin; the lips, that broke into such delicious curves when she laughed, when at rest betrayed the firmness of her wit and the almost masculine quality of her reasoning judgment. even her arms and hands and her shoulders were "_mal taillés_" as her contemporaries would have told you. but what a charm in those irregular features! what a seductiveness in the ensemble of that not too-well-proportioned figure! what an indescribable radiance seemed to emanate from the entire personality of this most captivating of women! as she moved about the low room, dark with the trembling shadows of light that flowed from the bunches of candles in the sconces, madame de sévigné's clear complexion, and her unpowdered chestnut curls, seemed to spot the room with light. her companions, though dressed in the very height of the fashion, were yet not half as catching to the eye. neither their minute waists, nor their elaborate underskirts and trains, nor their tall coffered coifs (the duchesse's was not unlike a bishop's mitre, studded as it was with ruby-headed pins), nor the correctness of these ladies' carefully placed patches, nor yet their painted necks and tinted eyebrows, could charm as did the unmodish figure of madame de sévigné--a figure so indifferently clad, and yet one so replete with its distinction of innate elegance and the subtle charm of her individuality. with the entrance of these ladies dinner was served at once. the talk flowed on; it was, however, more or less restrained by the presence of the always too curious lackeys, of the bustling innkeeper, and the gentlemen of the household in attendance on the party. as a spectacle, the little room had never boasted before of such an assemblage of fashion and greatness. never before had the air under the rafters been so loaded with scents and perfumes--these ladies seeming, indeed, to breathe out odors. never before had there been grouped there such splendor of toilet, nor had such courtly accents been heard, nor such finished laughter. the fire and the candlelight were in competition which should best light up the tall transparent caps, the lace fichus, the brocade bodices, and the long trains. the little muff-dogs, released from their prisons, since the muffs were laid aside at dinner time, blinked at the fire, curling their minute bodies--clipped lion-fashion--about the huge andirons, as they snored to kill time, knowing their own dinner would come only when their mistresses had done. after the dessert had been served the ladies withdrew; they were preceded by the ever-bowing innkeeper, who assured them, in his most reverential tones, that they would find the room opening on the other court-yard even warmer and more comfortable than the one they were in. in spite of the walk across the paved court-yard and the enormous height of their heels, always a fact to be remembered, the ladies voted to make the change, since by that means they could be assured the more entire seclusion. mild as was the may air, madame de kerman's hand-glass hanging at her side was quickly lifted in the very middle of the open court-yard; she had scarcely passed the door when she had felt one of her patches blowing off. "i caught it just in time, dear duchesse," she cried, as she stood quite still, replacing it with a fresh one picked from her patch-box, as the others passed her. "the very best patch-maker i have found lives in the rue st. denis, at the sign of la perle des mouches; have you discovered him, dear friend?" said the duchesse, as they walked on toward the low door beneath the galleries. "no, dear duchesse, i fear i have not even looked for him--the science of patches i have always found so much harder than the science of living!" gayly answered madame de sévigné. madame de kerman had now re joined them, and all three passed into la chambre des marmousets. chapter xxi. the after-dinner talk of three great ladies. the three ladies grouped themselves about the fire, which they found already lighted. the duchesse chose a henry ii. carved aim chair, one, she laughingly remarked, quite large enough to have held both the king and diana. a lackey carrying the inevitable muff-dogs, their fans, and scent-bottles, had followed the ladies; he placed a hassock at the duchesse's feet, two beneath the slender feet of madame de kerman, and, after having been bidden to open one of the casements, since it was still so light without, withdrew, leaving the ladies alone. although madame de sévigné had comfortably ensconced herself in one of the deep window seats, piling the cushions behind her, no sooner was the window opened than with characteristic impetuosity she jumped up to look out into the country that lay beyond the leaded glass. in spite of the long day's drive in the open air, her appetite for blowing roses and sweet earth smells had not been sated. madame de sévigné all her life had been the victim of two loves and a passion; she adored society and she loved nature; these were her lesser delights, that gave way before the chief idolatry of her soul, her adoration for her daughter. [illustration: madame de sÉvignÉ] as she stood by the open window, her charming face, always a mirror of her emotions, was suffused with a glow and a bloom that made it seem young again. her eyes grew to twice their common size under the "wandering" eyelids, as her gaze roved over the meadows and across the tall grasses to the sea. a part of her youth was being, indeed, vividly brought back to her; the sight of this marine landscape recalled many memories; and with the recollection her whole face and figure seemed to irradiate something of the inward ardor that consumed her. she had passed this very road, through this same country before, long ago, in her youth, with her children. she half smiled at the remembrance of a description given of the impression produced by her appearance on the journey by her friend the abbé arnauld; he had ecstatically compared her to latona seated in an open coach, between a youthful apollo and a young diana. in spite of the abbe's poetical extravagance, madame de sévigné recognized, in this moment of retrospect, the truth of the picture. that, indeed, had been a radiant moment! her life at that time had been so full, and the rapture so complete--the rapture of possessing her children--that she could remember to have had the sense of fairly evaporating happiness. and now, the sigh came, how scattered was this gay group! her son in brittany, her daughter in provence, two hundred leagues away! and she, an elderly latona, mourning her apollo and her divine huntress, her incomparable diana. the inextinguishable name of youth was burning still, however, in madame de sévigné's rich nature. this adventure, this amazing adventure of three ladies of the court having to pass the night in a rude little normandy inn, she, for one, was finding richly seasoned with the spice of the unforeseen; it would be something to talk of and write about for a month hence at chaulnes and at paris. their entire journey, in point of fact, had been a series of the most delightful episodes. it was now nearly a month since they had started from picardy, from the castle of chaulnes, going into normandy _via_ rouen. they had been on a driving tour, their destination being rennes, which they would reach in a week or so. they had been travelling in great state, with the very best coach, the very best horses; and they had been guarded by a whole regiment of cavaliers and halberdiers. every possible precaution had been taken \against their being disagreeably surprised on their route. their chief fear on the journey had been, of course, the cry common in their day of "_au voleur!_" and the meeting of brigands and assassins; for, once outside of paris and the police reforms of that dear colbert, and one must be prepared to take one's life in one's hand. happily, no such misadventures had befallen them. the roads, it is true, they had found for the most part in a horrible condition; they had been pitched about from one end of their coach to the other they might easily have imagined themselves at sea. the dust also had nearly blinded them, in spite of their masks. the other nuisances most difficult to put up with had been the swarm of beggars that infested the roadsides; and worst of all had been the army of crippled, deformed, and mangy soldiers. these latter they had encountered everywhere; their whines and cries, their armless, legless bodies, their hideous filth, and their insolent importunities, they had found a veritable pest. another annoyance had been the over-zealous courtesy of some of the upper middle-class. only yesterday, in the very midst of the dust and under the burning noon sun, they had all been forced to alight, to receive the homage tendered the duchesse, of some thirty women and as many men. each one of the sixty must, of course, kiss the duchesse's hand. it was really an outrage to have exposed them to such a form of torture! poor madame de kerman, the delicate one of the party, had entirely collapsed after the ceremony. the duchesse also had been prostrated; it had wearied her more than all the rest of the journey. madame de sévigné alone had not suffered. she was possessed of a degree of physical fortitude which made her equal to any demand. the other two ladies, as well as she herself, were now experiencing the pleasant exhilaration which comes with the hour of rest after an excellent dinner. they were in a condition to remember nothing except the agreeable. madame de sévigné was the first to break the silence. she turned, with a brisk yet graceful abruptness, to the two ladies still seated before the low fire. with a charming outburst of enthusiasm she exclaimed aloud: "what a beauty, and youth, and tenderness this spring has, has it not?" "yes," answered the duchesse, smiling graciously into madame de sévigné's brilliantly lit face; "yes, the weather in truth has been perfect." "what an adorable journey we have had!" continued madame de sévigné, in the same tone, her ardor undampened by the cooler accent of her friend--she was used to having her enthusiasm greeted with consideration rather than response. "what a journey!--only meeting with the most agreeable of adventures; not the slightest inconvenience anywhere; eating the very best of everything; and driving through the heart of this enchanting springtime!" her listeners laughed quietly, with an accent of indulgence. it was the habit of her world to find everything madame de sévigné did or said charming. even her frankness was forgiven her, her tact was so perfect; and her spontaneity had always been accounted as her chief excellence; in the stifled air of the court and the _ruelles_ it had been frequently likened to the blowing in of a fresh may breeze. her present mood was one well known to both ladies. "always 'pretty pagan,' dear madame," smiled madame de kerman, indulgently. "how well named--and what a happy hit of our friend arnauld d'audilly! you are in truth a delicious--an adorable pagan! you have such a sense of the joy of living! why, even living in the country has, it appears, no terrors for you. we hear of your walking about in the moonlight-you make your very trees talk, they tell us, in italian--in latin; you actually pass whole hours alone with the hamadryads!" there was just a suspicion of irony in madame de kerman's tone, in spite of its caressing softness; it was so impossible to conceive of anyone really finding nature endurable, much less pretending to discover in trees and flowers anything amusing or suggestive of sentiment! but madame de sévigné was quite impervious to her friend's raillery. she responded, with perfect good humor: "why not?--why not try to discover beauties in nature? one can be so happy in a wood! what a charming thing to hear a leaf sing! i know few things more delightful than to watch the triumph of the month of may when the nightingale, the cuckoo, and the lark open the spring in our forests! and then, later, come those beautiful crystal days of autumn--days that are neither warm, nor yet are they really cold! and then the trees--how eloquent they can be made; with a little teaching they may be made to converse so charmingly. _bella cosa far aniente_, says one of my trees; and another answers, _amor odit inertes_. ah, when i had to bid farewell to all my leaves and trees; when my son had to dispose of the forest of buron, to pay for some of his follies, you remember how i wept! it seemed to me i could actually feel the grief of those dispossessed sylvans and of all those homeless dryads!" "it is this, dear friend--this life you lead at les rochers--and your enthusiasm, which keep you so young. yes, i am sure of it. how inconceivably young, for instance, you are looking this very evening! you and the glow out yonder make youth seem no longer a legend." the duchesse delivered her flattering little speech with a caressing tone. she moved gently forward in her chair, as if to gain a better view of the twilight and her friend. at the sound of the duchesse's voice madame de sévigné again turned, with the same charming smile and the quick impulsiveness of movement common to her. during her long monologue she had remained standing; but she left the window now to regain her seat amid the cushions of the window. there was something better than the twilight and the spring in the air; here, within, were two delightful friends-and listeners; there was before her, also, the prospect of one of those endless conversations that were the chief delight of her life. she laughed as she seated herself--a gay, frank, hearty little laugh--and she spread out her hands with the opening of her fan, as, with her usual vivacious spontaneity, her mood changed. "fancy, dear duchesse, the punishment that comes to one who commits the crime of looking young--younger than one ought! my son-in-law, m. de grignan, actually avows he is in daily terror lest i should give him a father-in-law!" all three ladies laughed gayly at this absurdity; the subject of madame de sévigné's remarrying had come to be a venerable joke now. it had been talked of at court and in society for nearly forty years; but such was the conquering power of her charms that these two friends, her listeners, saw nothing really extravagant in her son-in-law's fear; she was one of those rare women who, even at sixty, continue to suggest the altar rather than the grave. madame de kerman was the first to recover her breath after the laughter. "dear friend, you might assure him that after a youth and the golden meridian of your years passed in smiling indifference to the sighs of a prince de conti, of a turenne, of a fouquet, of a bussy de rabutin, at sixty it is scarcely likely that--" "ah, dear lady at sixty, when one has the complexion and the curls, to say nothing of the eyes of our dear enchantress, a woman is as dangerous as at thirty!" the duchesse's flattery was charmingly put, with just enough vivacity of tone to save it from the charge of insipidity. madame de sévigné bowed her curls to her waist. "ah, dear duchesse, it isn't age," she retorted, quickly, "that could make me commit follies. it is the fact that that son-in-law of mine actually surrounds me with spies--he keeps me in perpetual surveillance. such a state of captivity is capable of making me forget everything; i am beginning to develop a positive rage for follies. you know that has been my chief fault--always; discretion has been left out of my composition. but i say now, as i have always said, that if i could manage to live two hundred years, i should become the most delightful person in the world!" she herself was the first to lead in the laughter that followed her outburst; and then the duchesse broke in: "you talk of defects, dear friend; but reflect what a life yours has been. so surrounded and courted, and yet you were always so guarded; so free, and yet so wise! so gay, and yet so chaste!" "if you rubbed out all those flattering colors, dear duchesse, and wrote only, 'she worshipped her children, and preferred friends to lovers,' the portrait would be far nearer to the truth. it is easy to be chaste if one has only known one passion in one's life, and that the maternal one!" again a change passed over madame de sévigné's mobile face; the bantering tone was lost in a note of deep feeling. this gift of sensibility had always been accounted as one of madame de sévigné's chief charms; and now, at sixty, she was as completely the victim of her moods as in her earlier youth. "where is your daughter, and how is she?" sympathetically queried the duchesse. "oh, she is still at grignan, as usual; she is well, thank god. but, dear duchesse, after all these years of separation i suffer still, cruelly." the tears sprang to madame de sévigné's eyes, as she added, with passion and a force one would scarcely have expected in one whose manners were so finished, "the truth is, dear friends, i cannot live without her. i do not find i have made the least progress in that career. but, even now, believe me, these tears are sweeter than all else in life--more enrapturing than the most transporting joy!" madame de kerman smiled tenderly into the rapturous mother's face; but the duchesse moved, as if a little restless and uneasy under this shower of maternal feeling. for thirty years her friends had had to listen to madame de sévigné's rhapsodies over the perfections of her incomparable daughter. although sensibility was not the emotional fashion of the day, maternity, in the person of madame de sévigné, had been apotheosized into the queen of the passions, if only because of its rarity; still, even this lady's most intimate friends sometimes wearied of banqueting off the feast of madame de grignan's virtues. "have you heard from madame de la fayette recently?" asked the duchesse, allowing just time enough to elapse, before putting the question, for madame de sévigné's emotion to subside into composure. the duchesse was too exquisitely bred to allow her impatience to take the form of even the appearance of haste. "oh, yes," was madame de sévigné's quiet reply; the turn in the conversation had been instantly understood, in spite of the delicacy of the duchesse's methods. "oh, yes--i have had a line--only a line. you know how she detests writing, above all things. her letters are all the same--two lines to say that she has no time in which to say it!" "did she not once write you a pretty little series of epigrams about not writing?" "oh, yes--some time ago, when i was with my daughter. i've quoted them so often, they have become famous. 'you are in provence, my beauty; your hours are free, and your mind still more so. your love for corresponding with everyone still endures within you, it appears; as for me, the desire to write to any human being has long since passed away-forever; and if i had a lover who insisted on a letter every morning, i should certainly break with him!'" "what a curious compound she is! and how well her soubriquet becomes her!" "yes, it is perfect--'_le brouillard_'--the fog. it is indeed a fog that has always enveloped her, and what charming horizons are disclosed once it is lifted!" "and her sensibilities--of what an exquisite quality; and what a rare, precious type, indeed, is the whole of her nature! do you remember how alarmed she would become when listening to music?" "and yet, with all this sensibility and delicacy of organization there was another side to her nature." madame de kerman paused a moment before she went on; she was not quite sure how far she dared go in her criticism; madame de la fayette was such an intimate friend of madame de sévigné's. "you mean," that lady broke out, with unhesitating candor, "that she is also a very selfish person. you know that is my daughter's theory of her--she is always telling me how madame de la fayette is making use of me; that while her sensitiveness is such that she cannot sustain the tragedy of a farewell visit--if i am going to les rochers or to provence, when i go to pay my last visit i must pretend it is only an ordinary running-in; yet her delicacy does not prevent her from making very indelicate proposals, to suit her own convenience. you remember what one of her commands was, don't you?" "no," answered the duchesse, for both herself and her companion. "pray tell us." madame de sévigné went on to narrate that once, when at les rochers, madame de la fayette was quite certain that she, madame de sévigné, was losing her mind, for no one could live in the provinces and remain sane, poring over stupid books and sitting over fires. "she was certain i should sicken and die, besides losing the tone of my mind," laughed madame de sévigné, as she called up the picture of her dissolution and rapid disintegration; "and therefore it was necessary at once that i should come up to paris. this latter command was delivered in the tone of a judge of the supreme court. the penalty of my disobedience was to be her ceasing to love me. i was to come up to paris directly--on the minute; i was to live with you, dear duchesse; i was not to buy any horses until spring; and, best of all, i was to find on my arrival a purse of a thousand crowns which would be lent me without interest! what a proposition, _mon dieu_, what a proposition! to have no house of my own, to be dependent, to have no carriage, and to be in debt a thousand crowns!" as madame de sévigné lifted her hands the laces of her sleeves were fairly trembling with the force of her indignation. there were certain things that always put her in a passion, and madame de la fayette's peculiarities she had found at times unendurable. her listeners had followed her narration with the utmost intensity and absorption. when she stopped, their eyes met in a look of assenting comment. "it was perfectly characteristic, all of it! she judged you, doubtless, by herself. she always seems to me, even now, to keep one eye on her comfort and the other on her purse!" "ah, dear duchesse, how keen you are!" laughingly acquiesced madame de sévigné, as with a shrug she accepted the verdict--her indignation melting with the shrug. "and how right! no woman ever drives better bargains, without moving a finger. from her invalid's chair she can conduct a dozen lawsuits. she spends half her existence in courting death; she caresses her maladies; she positively hugs them; but she can always be miraculously resuscitated at the word money!" "yes," added with a certain relish madame de kerman. "and this is the same woman who must be forever running away from paris because she can no longer endure the exertion of talking, or of replying, or of listening; because she is wearied to extinction, as she herself admits, of saying good-morning and good-evening. she must hide herself in some pastoral retreat, where simply, as she says, 'to exist is enough;' where she can remain, as it were, miraculously suspended between heaven and earth!" a ripple of amused laughter went round the little group; there was nothing these ladies enjoyed so keenly as a delicate dish of gossip, seasoned with wit, and stuffed with epigrams. this talk was exactly to their taste. the silence and seclusion of their surroundings were an added stimulus to confidence and to a freer interchange of opinions about their world. paris and versailles seemed so very far away; it would appear safe to say almost anything about one's dearest friends. there was nothing to remind them of the restraints of levees, or the penalty indiscretion must pay for folly breathed in that whispering gallery--the _ruelle_. it was indeed a delightful hour; altogether an ideal situation. the fire had burned so low only a few embers were alive now, and the candles were beginning to flicker and droop in the sconces. but the three ladies refused to find the little room either cold or dark; their talk was not half done yet, and their muffs would keep them warm. the shadow of the deepening gloom they found delightfully provocative of confidences. after a short pause, while madame de kerman busied herself with the tongs and the fagots, trying to reinvigorate the dying flames, the duchesse asked, in a somewhat more intimate tone than she had used yet: "and the duke--do you really think she loved the duke de la rochefoucauld?" "she reformed him, dear duchesse; at least she always proclaims his reform as the justification of her love." "you--you esteemed him yourself very highly, did you not?" "oh, i loved him tenderly; how could one help it? he was the best as well as the most brilliant of men! i never knew a tenderer heart; domestic joys and sorrows affected him in a way to render him incomparable. i have seen him weep over the death of his mother, who only died eight years before him, you know, with a depth of sincerity that made me adore him." "he must in truth have been a very sincere person." "sincere!" cried madame de sévigné, her eyes flaming. "had you but seen his deathbed! his bearing was sublime! believe me, dear friend, it was not in vain that m. de la rochefoucauld had written philosophic reflections all his life; he had already anticipated his last moments in such a way that there was nothing either new or strange in death when it came to him." "madame de la fayette truly mourned him--don't you think so? you were with her a great deal, were you not, after his death?" "i never left her. it was the most pitiable sight to see her in her loneliness and her misery. you see, their common ill-health and their sedentary habits, had made them so necessary to each other! it was, as it were, two souls in a single body. nothing could exceed the confidence and charm of their friendship; it was incomparable. to madame de la fayette his loss came as her death-blow; life seems at an end for her; for where, indeed, can she find another such friend, or such intercourse, such sweetness and charm--such confidence and consideration?" there was a moment's silence after madame de sévigné's eloquent outburst. the eyes of the three friends were lost for a moment in the twinkling flames. the duchesse and madame de kerman exchanged meaning glances. "since the duke's death her thoughts are more and more turned toward religion. i hear she has been fortunate in her choice of directors, has she not? du guet is said to be an ideal confessor for the authoress of 'la princesse de clèves.'" there was just a suspicion of malice in the duchesse's tones. "oh, he was born to take her in hand. he knew just when to speak with authority, and when to make use of the arts of persuasion. he wrote to her once, you remember: 'you, who have passed your life in dreaming--cease to dream! you, who have taken such pride unto yourself for being so true in all things, were very far, indeed, from the truth--you were only half true--falsely true. your godless wisdom was in reality purely a matter of good taste!'" "what audacity! bossuet himself could not have put the truth more nakedly." the duchesse was one of those to whom truths were novelties, and unpleasant ones. "bossuet, if i remember rightly, was with the duke de la rochefoucauld at the last, was he not?" "yes," responded madame de sévigné; "he was with him; he administered the supreme unction. the duke was in a beautiful state of grace. m, vinet, you remember, said of him that he died with 'perfect decorum.'" "speaking of dying reminds me"--cried suddenly madame de sévigné--"how are the duke's hangings getting on?" "they begin, the duke writes me, to hang again to-morrow," answered the duchesse, with a certain air of disdain, the first appearance of this weapon of the great now coming to the _grande dame's_ aid. her husband, the duke de chaulnes' trouble with his revolutionary citizens at rennes was a subject that never failed to arouse a feeling of angry contempt in her. it was too preposterous, the idea of those insolent creatures rising against him, their rightful duke and master! the duchesse's feeling in the matter was fully shared by her friends. in all the court there was but one opinion in the matter--hanging was really far too good for the wretched creatures. "monsieur de chaulnes," the duchesse went on, with ironical contempt in her voice, "still goes on punishing rennes!" "this province and the duke's treatment of it will serve as a capital example to all others. it will teach those rascals," madame de kerman continued, in lower tones, "to respect their governors, and not to throw stones into their gardens!" "fancy that--the audacity of throwing stones into their duke's garden! why, did you know, they actually--those insolent creatures actually called him--called the duke--'_gros cochon?_'" all three ladies gasped in horror at this unparalleled instance of audacity; they threw up their hands, as they groaned over the picture, in low tones of finished elegance. "it is little wonder the duke hangs right and left! the dear duke--what a model governor! how i should like to have seen him sack that street at rennes, with all the ridiculous old men, and the women in childbirth, and the children, turned out pêle-mêle! and the hanging, too--why, hanging now seems to me a positively refreshing performance!" and madame de sévigné laughed with unstinted gayety as at an excellent joke. the picture of rennes and the cruelty dealt its inhabitants was a pleasant picture, in the contemplation of which these ladies evidently found much delectation. they were quiet for a longer period of time than usual; they continued silent, as they looked into the fire, smiling; the flames there made them think of other flames as forms of merited punishment. "a curious people those bas bretons," finally ejaculated madame de sévigné. "i never could understand how bertrand duguesclin made them the best soldiers of his day in france!" "you know lower brittany very well, do you not, dear friend?" "not so well as the coast. les rochers is in upper brittany, you know. i know the south better still. ah, what a charming journey i once took along the loire with my friend _bien-bon_, the abbé de coulanges. we found it the most enchanting country in the world--the country of feasts and of famine; feasts for us and famine for the people. i remember we had to cross the river; our coach was placed on the barge, and we were rowed along by stout peasants. through the glass windows of the coach we looked out at a series of changing pictures--the views were charming. we sat, of course, entirely at our ease, on our soft cushions. the country people, crowded together below, were--ugh!--like pigs in straw." "was bien-bon with you when you made that little excursion to st. germain?" queried the duchesse. "ah, that was a gay night," joyously responded madame de sévigné. "how well we amused ourselves on that little visit that we paid madame de maintenon--when she was only madame scarron." "was she so handsome then as they say she was--at that time?" "very handsome; she was good, too, and amiable, and easy to talk to; one talked well and readily with her. she was then only the governess of the king's bastards, you know--of the children he had had by madame de montespan. that was the first step toward governing the king. well, one night--the night to which you refer--i remember we were all supping with madame de la fayette. we had been talking endlessly! suddenly it occurred to us it would be a most amusing adventure to take madame scarron home, to the very last end of the faubourg saint germain, far beyond where madame de la fayette lived--near vaugirard, out into the bois, in the country. the abbé came too. it was midnight when we started. the house, when at last we reached it, we found large and beautiful, with large and fine rooms and a beautiful garden; for madame scarron, as governess of the king's children, had a coach and a lot of servants and horses. she herself dressed then modestly and yet magnificently, as a woman should, who spent her life among people of the highest rank. we had a merry outing, returning in high spirits, blessed in having no end of lanterns, and thus assured against robbers." "she and madame de la fayette were very close friends, i remember, during that time," mused the duchesse, "when they were such near neighbors." "yes," madame de sévigné went on, as unwearied now, although it was nearly midnight, as in the beginning of the long evening. "yes; i always thought madame de maintenon's satirical little joke about madame de la fayette's bed festooned with gold--'i might have fifty thousand pounds income, and never should i live in the style of a great lady; never should i have a bed festooned with gold like madame de la fayette'--was the beginning of their rupture." "all the same, madame de la fayette, lying on that bed, beneath the gold hangings, was a much more simple person than ever was madame de maintenon!" "your speaking of bed reminds me, dear ladies ours must be quite cold by this time. how we have chatted! what a delightful gossip! but we must not forget that our journey to-morrow is to be a long one!" the duchesse rose, the other two ladies rising instantly, observing, in spite of the intimate relations in which they stood toward the duchesse, the deference due to her more exalted rank. the latter clapped her hands; outside the door a shuffling and a low groan were heard--the groan came from the sleepy lackey, roused from his deep slumber, as he uncoiled himself from the close knot into which his legs and body were knit in the curve of the narrow stairs. the ladies, a few seconds later, were wending their way up the steep turret steps. they were preceded by torches and followed by quite a long train of maids and lackeys. for a long hour, at least, the little inn resounded with the sound of hurrying feet, of doors closing and shutting; with the echo of voices giving commands and of others purring in sleepy accents of obedience. then one by one the sounds died away; the lights went out in the bedchambers; faint flickerings stole through the chinks of doors and windows. the watchman cried out the hour, and the gleam of a lantern flashed here and there, illuminating the open court-yard. the cocks crowed shrilly into the night air. a halberdier turned in his sleep where he lay, on some straw beneath the coach-shed, his halberd rattling as it struck the cobbles. and over the whole--over the gentle slumber of the great ladies and the sleep of beast and man--there fell the peace and the stillness of the midnight--of that midnight of long ago. [illustration: chambre de la pucelle--dives] chapter xxii. a nineteenth-century breakfast. the very next morning, after the rain, and the vision i had had of madame de sévigné, conjured up by my surroundings and the reading of her letters, monsieur paul paid us an early call. he came to beg the loan of our sitting-room, he said. he had had a despatch from a coaching-party from trouville; they were to arrive for breakfast. the whip and owner of the coach was a great friend of his, he proffered by way of explanation--a certain count who had a genius for friendship--one who also had an artist's talent for admiring the beautiful. he was among those who were in a state of perpetual adoration before the inn's perfections. he made yearly pilgrimages from his chateau above rouen to eat a noon breakfast in the chambre des marmousets. now, a breakfast served elsewhere than in this chamber would be, from his point of view, to have journeyed to a shrine to find the niche empty. the gift that was begged of us, therefore, was the loan for a few hours of the famous little room. in less than a half hour we were watching the entrance of the coach by the side of madame le mois. we were all three seated on the green bench. faintly at first, and presently gaining in distinctness, came the fall of horses' hoofs and the rumble of wheels along the highway. a little cavalcade was soon passing beneath the archway. first there dashed in two horsemen, who had sprung to the ground almost as soon as their steeds' hoofs struck the paved court-yard. then there swept by a jaunty dog cart, driven by a mannish figure radiantly robed in white. swiftly following came the dash and jingle of four coach-horses, bathed in sweat, rolling the vehicle into the court as if its weight were a thing of air. all save one among the gay party seated on the high seats, were too busy with themselves and their chatter, to take heed of their surroundings. a lady beneath her deep parasol was busily engaged in a gay traffic of talk with the groups of men peopling the back seats of the coach. one of the men, however, was craning his neck beyond the heads of his companions; he was running his eye rapidly up and down the long inn facade. finally his glance rested on us; and then, with a rush, a deep red mounted the man's cheek, as he tore off his derby to wave it, as if in a triumph of discovery. renard had been true to his promise. he had come to see his friends and to test the famous sauterne. he flung himself down from his lofty perch to take his seat, entirely as a matter of course, beside us on the green bench. "what luck, hey?--greatest luck in the world, finding you in, like this. i've been in no end of a tremble, fearing you'd gone to caen, or falaise, or somewhere, and that i shouldn't see you after all. well, how are you? how goes it? what do you think of old dives and monsieur paul, and the rest of it? i see you're settled; you took the palace chamber. trust american women--they know the best, and get it." "but these people, who are they, and how did you--?" we were unfeignedly glad to see him, but curiosity is a passion not to be trifled with--after a month in the provinces. "oh--the de troisacs? old friends of mine--known them years. jolly lot. charming fellow, de troisac--only good frenchman i've ever known. they're just off their yacht; saw them all yesterday at the trouville casino. said they were running down here for breakfast to-day, asked me, and i came, of course." he laughed as he added: "i said i should come, you remember, to get some of that sauterne. a man will go any distance for a good bottle of wine, you know." meanwhile, in the court-yard, the party on the coach, by means of ladders and the helping of the grooms, were scrambling down from their seats. renard's friend, the comte de troisac, was easily picked out from the group of men. he was the elder of the party--stoutish, with frank eyes and a smiling mouth; he was bustling about from the gaunt grooms to the ladder, and from ladder to the coach-seat, giving his commands right and left, and executing most of them himself. a tall, slim woman, with drooping eyelids, and an air of extreme elegance and of cultivated fatigue, was also easily recognizable as the countess. it took two grooms, two of the gentlemen guests, and her husband to assist her to the ground. her passage down the steps of the ladder had been long enough, however, to enable her to display a series of pretty poses, each one more effective than the others. when one has an instep of ideal elevation, what is the use of being born a frenchwoman, unless one knows how to make use of opportunity? from the dog-cart, that had rattled in across the cobbles with a dash and a spurt, there came quite a different accent and pose. the whitish personage, whom we had mistakenly supposed to be a man, wore petticoats; the male attire only held as far as the waist of the lady. the stiff white shirt-front, the knotted tie--a faultless male knot--the loose driving-jacket, with its sprig of white geranium, and the round straw-hat worn in mannish fashion, close to the level brows, was a costume that would have deceived either sex. below the jacket flowed the straight lines of a straight skirt, that no further conjectures should be rendered necessary. this lady had a highbred air of singular distinction, accentuated by a tremendously knowing look. she was at once elegant and rakish; the _gamin_ in her was obviously the touch of _caviare_ to season the woman of fashion. the mixture made an extraordinarily attractive ensemble. as she jumped to the ground, throwing her reins to a groom, her jump was a master-stroke; it landed her squarely on her feet; even as she struck the ground her hands were thrust deeply into her pockets. the man seated beside her, who now leaped out after her, seemed timid and awkward by contrast with her alert precision. this couple moved at once toward the bench on which madame was seated. with the coming in of the coach and the cart she had risen, waddling forward to meet the party. monsieur paul was at the coach-wheels before the grooms had shot themselves down; de troisac, with eager friendliness, stretched forth a hand from the top of his seat, exclaiming, with gay heartiness, "ah, mon bon--comment ça va?" the mere was as eagerly greeted. even the countess dismissed her indifference for the moment, as she held out her hand to madame le mois. "dear madame le mois--and it goes well with you? and the gout and the rheumatism, they have ceased to torment you? quelle bonne nouvelle! and here are the dear old cocks and the wounded bantam. the cockatoos--ah, there they are, still swinging in the air! comme c'est joli--et frais--et que ça sent bon!" madame and monsieur paul were equally effusive in their inquiries and exclamations--it was clearly a meeting of old friends. madame le mois' face was meanwhile a study. the huge surface was glistening with pleasure; she was unfeignedly glad to see these parisians:--but there was no elation at this meeting on such easy terms with greatness. her shrewdness was as alive as ever; she was about to make money out of the visit--they were to have of her best, but they must pay for it. between her rapid fire of questionings as to the countess's health and the history of her travels, there was as rapid a shower of commands, sometimes shouted out, above all the hubbub, to the cooks standing gaping in the kitchen doorway, or whispered hoarsely to ernestine and marianne, who were flying about like wild pigeons, a little drunk with the novelty of this first breakfast of the season. "_allons, mon enfant--cours--cours_--get thy linen, my child, and the silver candélabres. it is to be laid in the marmousets, thou knowest. paul will come presently. and the salads, pluck them and bring them in to me--_cours--cours_." the great world was all very well, and it was well to be on friendly, even intimate terms, with it; but, _dieu!_ one's own bread is of importance too! and the countess, for all her delicacy, was a _bonne fourchette_. the countess and her friend, after a moment of standing in the court-yard, of patting the pelican, of trying their blandishments on the flamingo, of catching up the bantam, and filling the air with their purring, and caressing, and incessant chatter, passed beneath the low door to the inner sanctum of madame. the two ladies were clearly bent on a few moments of unreserved gossip and that repairing of the toilet which is a religious act to women of fashion the world over. in the court-yard the scene was still a brilliant one. the gayly painted coach was now deserted. it stood, a chariot of state, as it were, awaiting royalty; its yellow sides gleamed like topaz in the sun. the grooms were unharnessing the leaders, that were still bathed in the white of their sweat. the count's dove-colored flannels were a soft mass against the snow of the _chef's_ apron and cap; the two were in deep consultation at the kitchen door. monsieur paul was showing, with all the absorption of the artist, his latest jumièges carvings to the taller, more awkward of the gentlemen, to the one driven in by the mannish beauty. the cockatoos had not ceased shrieking from the very beginning of the hubbub; nor had the squirrels stopped running along the bars of their cage, a-flutter with excitement. the peacocks trailed their trains between the coach-wheels, announcing, squawkingly, their delight at the advent of a larger audience. above the cries of the fowls and the shrieks of the cocks, the chatter of human tongues, the subdued murmur of the ladies' voices coming through the open lattice, and the stamp of horses' hoofs, there swept above it all the light june breeze, rustling in the vines, shaking the thick branches against the wooden facades. the two ladies soon made their appearance in the sunlit court-yard. the murmur of their talk and their laughter reached us, along with the froufrou of their silken petticoats. "you were not bored, _chère enfant_, driving monsieur d'agreste all that long distance?" the countess was smiling tenderly into her companion's face. she had stopped her to readjust the geranium sprig that was drooping in her friend's cover-coat. the smile was the smile of a sympathizing angel, but what a touch of hidden malice there was in the notes of her caressing voice! as she repinned the _boutonnière_, she gave the dancing eyes, that were brimming with the mirth of the coming retort, the searching inquest of her glance. "bored! _dieu, que non!_" the black little beauty threw back her throat, laughing, as she rolled her great eyes. "bored--with all the tricks i was playing? fernande! pity me, there was such a little time, and so much to do!" "so little time--only fourteen kilos!" the countess compressed her lips; they were smiling no longer. "ah, but you see, i had so much to combat. you had a whole season, last summer, in which to play your game, your solemn game." here the gay young widow rippled forth a pearly scale of treble laughter. "and i have had only a week, thus far!" "yes, but what time you make!" and this time both ladies laughed, although, still, only one laughed well. "ah! those women--how they love each other," commented renard, as he sat on the bench, swinging his legs, with his eyes following the two vanishing figures. "only women who are intimate--parisian intimates--can cut to the bone like that, with a surgeon's dexterity." he explained then that the handsome brunette was a widow, a certain baronne d'autun, noted for her hunting and her conquests; the last on the latter list was monsieur d'agreste, a former admirer of the countess; he was somewhat famous as a scientist and socialist, so good a socialist as to refuse to wear his title of duke. the other two gentlemen of the party, who had joined them now, the two horsemen, were the comtes de mirant and de fonbriant. these latter were two typical young swells of the jockey club model; their vacant, well-bred faces wore the correct degree of fashionable pallor, and their manners appeared to be also as perfect as their glances were insolent. into these vacant faces the languid countess was breathing the inspiration of her smile. enigmatic as was the latter, it was as simple as an infant's compared to the occult character of her glance. a wealth of complexities lay enfolded in the deep eyes, rimmed with their mystic darkened circlet--that circle in which the parisienne frames her experience, and through which she pleads to have it enlarged! a frenchwoman and cosmetics! is there any other combination on this round earth more suggestive of the comedy of high life, of its elegance and of its perfidy, of its finish and of its emptiness? the men of the party wore costumes perilously suggestive of opera bouffe models. their fingers were richly begemmed; their watch-chains were laden with seals and charms. any one of the costumes was such as might have been chosen by a tenor in which to warble effectively to a _soubrette_ on the boards of a provincial theatre; and it was worn by these fops of the jockey club with the air of its being the last word in nautical fashions. better than their costumes were their voices; for what speech from human lips pearls itself off with such crispness and finish as the delicate french idiom from a parisian tongue? i never quite knew how it came about that we were added to this gay party of breakfasters. we found ourselves, however, after a high skirmish of preliminary presentations, among the number to take our places at the table. in the chambre des marmousets, monsieur paul, we found, had set the feast with the taste of an artist and the science of an archaeologist. the table itself was long and narrow, a genuine fifteenth century table. down the centre ran a strip of antique altar-lace; the sides were left bare, that the lustre of the dark wood might be seen. in the centre was a deep old caen bowl, with grapes and fuchsias to make a mound of soft color. a pair of seventeenth-century candélabres twisted and coiled their silver branches about their rich _repoussé_ columns; here and there on the yellow strip of lace were laid bunches of june roses, those only of the rarer and older varieties having been chosen, and each was tied with a louis xv love-knot. monsieur paul was himself an omniscient figure at the feast; he was by turns officiating as butler, carving, or serving from the side-tables; or he was crossing the court-yard with his careful, catlike tread, a bottle under each arm. he was also constantly appealed to by monsieur d'agreste or the count, to settle a dispute about the age of the china, or the original home of the various old chests scattered about the room. "paul, your stained glass shows up well in this light," the count called out, wiping his mustache over his soup-plate. "yes," answered monsieur paul, as he went on serving the sherry, pausing for a moment at the count's glass. "they always look well in full sunlight. it was a piece of pure luck, getting them. one can always count on getting hold of tapestries and carvings, but old glass is as rare as--" "a pretty woman," interpolated the gay young widow, with the air of a connoisseur. "outside of paris--you should have added," gallantly contributed the count. everyone went on eating after the light laughter had died away. the countess had not assisted at this brief conversation; she was devoting her attention to receiving the devotion of the two young counts; one was on either side of her, and both gave every outward and visible sign of wearing her chains, and of wearing them with insistance. the real contest between them appeared to be, not so much which should make the conquest of the languid countess, as which should outflank the other in his compromising demeanor. the countess, beneath her drooping lids, watched them with the indulgent indolence of a lioness, too luxuriously lazy to spring. the countess, clearly, was not made for sunlight. in the courtyard her face had seemed chiefly remarkable as a triumph of cosmetic treatment; here, under this rich glow, the purity and delicacy of the features easily placed her among the beauties of the parisian world. her eyes, now that the languor of the lids was disappearing with the advent of the wines, were magnificent; her use of them was an open avowal of her own knowledge of their splendor. the young widow across the table was also using her eyes, but in a very different fashion. she had now taken off her straw hat; the curly crop of a brown mane gave the brilliant face an added accent of vigor. the _chien de race_ was the dominant note now in the muscular, supple body, the keen-edged nostrils, and the intent gaze of the liquid eyes. these latter were fixed with the fixity of a savage on charm. she was giving, in a sweet sibilant murmur, the man seated next her--monsieur d'agreste, the man who refused to bear his title--her views of the girl. "those americans, the americans of the best type, are a race apart, i tell you; we have nothing like them; we condemn them because we don't understand them. they understand us--they read us--" "oh, they read our books--the worst of them." "yes, but they read the best too; and the worst don't seem to hurt them. i'll warrant that mees gay--that is her name, is it not?--has read zola, for instance; and yet, see how simple and innocent--yes--innocent, she looks." "yes, the innocence of experience--which knows how to hide," said monsieur d'agreste, with a slight shrug. "mees gay!" the countess cried out across the table, suddenly waking from her somnolence; she had overheard the baroness in spite of the low tone in which the dialogue had been carried on; her voice was so mellifluously sweet, one instinctively scented a touch of hidden poison in it--"mees gay, there is a question being put at this side of the table you alone can answer. pray pardon the impertinence of a personal question--but we hear that american young ladies read zola; is it true?" "i am afraid that we do read him," was charm's frank answer. "i have read him--but my reading is all in the past tense now." "ah--you found him too highly seasoned?" one of the young counts asked, eagerly, with his nose in the air, as if scenting an indiscretion. "no, i did not go far enough to get a taste of his horrors; i stopped at his first period." "and what do you call his first period, dear mademoiselle?" the countess's voice was still freighted with honey. her husband coughed and gave her a warning glance, and renard was moving uneasily in his chair. "oh," charm answered lightly, "his best period--when he didn't sell." everyone laughed. the little widow cried beneath her breath: "_elle a de l'esprit, celle-là_---" "_elle en a de trop_," retorted the countess. "did you ever read zola's 'quatre saisons?'" renard asked, turning to the count, at the other end of the table. no, the count had not read it--but he could read the story of a beautiful nature when he encountered one, and presently he allowed charm to see how absorbing he found its perusal. "_ah, bien--et tout de même_--zola, yes, he writes terrible books; but he is a good man--a model husband and father," continued monsieur d'agreste, addressing the table. "and daudet--he adores his wife and children," added the count, as if with a determination to find only goodness in the world. "i wonder how posterity will treat them? they'll judge their lives by their books, i presume." "yes, as we judge rabelais or voltaire--" "or the english shakespeare by his 'hamlet.'" "ah! what would not voltaire have done with hamlet!" the countess was beginning to wake again. "and molière? what of _his_ 'misanthrope?' there is a finished, a human, a possible hamlet! a hamlet with flesh and blood," cried out the younger count on her right. "even mounet-sully could do nothing with the english hamlet." "ah, well, mounet-sully did all that was possible with the part. he made hamlet at least a lover!" "ah, love! as if, even on the stage, one believed in that absurdity any longer!" was the countess's malicious comment. "then, if you have ceased to believe in love, why did you go so religiously to monsieur caro's lectures?" cried the baroness. "oh, that dear caro! he treated the passions so delicately, he handled them as if they were curiosities. one went to hear his lecture on love as one might go to hear a treatise on the peculiarities of an extinct species," was the countess's quiet rejoinder. "one should believe in love, if only to prove one's unbelief in it," murmured the young count on her left. "ah, my dear comte, love, nowadays, like nature, should only be used for decoration, as a bit of stage setting, or as stage scenery." "a moonlight night can be made endurable, sometimes," whispered the count. "a _clair de lune_ that ends in _lune de miel_, that is the true use to which to put the charms of diana." it was monsieur d'agreste's turn now to murmur in the baroness's ear. "oh, honey, it becomes so cloying in time," interpolated the countess, who had overheard; she overheard everything. she gave a wearied glance at her husband, who was still talking vigorously to charm and renard. she went on softly: "it's like trying to do good. all goodness, even one's own, bores one in the end. at basniège, for example, lovely as it is, ideally feudal, and with all its towers as erect as you please, i find this modern virtue, this craze for charity, as tiresome as all the rest of it. once you've seen that all the old women have woollen stockings, and that each cottage has fagots enough for the winter, and your _role_ of benefactress is at an end. in paris, at least, charity is sometimes picturesque; poverty there is tainted with vice. if one believed in anything, it might be worth while to begin a mission; but as it is--" "the gospel of life, according to you, dear comtesse, is that in modern life there is no real excitement except in studying the very best way to be rid of it," cried out renard, from the bottom of the table. "true; but suicide is such a coarse weapon," the lady answered, quite seriously; "so vulgar now, since the common people have begun to use it. besides, it puts your adversary, the world, in possession of your secret of discontent. no, no. suicide, the invention of the nineteenth century, goes out with it. the only refined form of suicide is to bore one's self to death," and she smiled sweetly into the young man's eyes nearest her. "ah, comtesse, you should not have parted so early in life with all your illusions," was monsieur d'agreste's protest across the table. "and, monsieur d'agreste, it isn't given to us all to go to the ends of the earth, as you do, in search of new ones! this friction of living doesn't wear on you as it does on the rest of us." "ah, the ends of the earth, they are very much like the middle and the beginning of things. man is not so very different, wherever you find him. the only real difference lies in the manner of approaching him. the scientist, for example, finds him eternally fresh, novel, inspiring; he is a mine only as yet half-worked." monsieur d'agreste was beginning to wake up; his eyes, hitherto, alone had been alive; his hands had been busy, crunching his bread; but his tongue had been silent. "ah--h science! science is only another anaesthetic--it merely helps to kill time. it is a hobby, like any other," was the countess's rejoinder. "perhaps," courteously returned monsieur d'agreste, with perfect sweetness of temper. "but at least, it is a hobby that kills no one else. and if of a hobby you can make a principle--" "a principle?" the countess contracted her brows, as if she had heard a word that did not please her. "yes, dear lady; the wise man lays out his life as a gardener does a garden, on the principle of selection, of order, and with a view to the succession of the seasons. you all bemoan the dulness of life; you, in paris, the torpor of ennui stifles you, you cry. on the contrary, i would wish the days were weeks, and the weeks months. and why? simply because i have discovered the philosopher's stone. i have grasped the secret of my era. the comedy of rank is played out; the life of the trifler is at an end; all that went out with the bourbons. individualism is the new order. to-day a man exists simply by virtue of his own effort--he stands on his own feet. it is the era of the republican, of the individual--science is the true republic. for us who are displaced from the elevation our rank gave us, work is the watchword, and it is the only battle-cry left us now. he only is strong, and therefore happy, who perceives this truth, and who marches in step with the modern movement." the serious turn given to the conversation had silenced all save the baroness. she had listened even more intently than the others to her friend's eloquence, nodding her head assentingly to all that he said. his philosophic reflections produced as much effect on her vivacious excitability as they might on a restless skye-terrier. "yes, yes--he's entirely right, is monsieur d'agreste; he has got to the bottom of things. one must keep in step with modernity--one must be _fin de siècle_. comtesse, you should hunt; there is nothing like a fox or a boar to make life worth living. it's better, infinitely better, than a pursuit of hearts; a boar's more troublesome than a man." "unless you marry him," the countess interrupted, ending with a thrush-like laugh. when she laughed she seemed to have a bird in her throat. "oh, a man's heart, it's like the flag of a defenceless country--anyone may capture it." the countess smiled with ineffable grace into the vacant, amorous-eyed faces on either side of her, rising as she smiled. we had reached dessert now; the coffee was being handed round. everyone rose; but the countess made no move to pass out from the room. both she and the baroness took from their pockets dainty cigarette-cases. "_vous permettez?_" asked the baroness, leaning over coquettishly to monsieur d'agreste's cigar. she accompanied her action with a charming glance, one in which all the woman in her was uppermost, and one which made monsieur d'agreste's pale cheeks flush like a boy's. he was a philosopher and a scientist; but all his science and philosophy had not saved him from the barbed shafts of a certain mischievous little god. he, also, was visibly hugging his chains. the party had settled themselves in the low divans and in the henri iv arm-chairs; a few here and there remained, still grouped about the table, with the freedom of pose and in the comfort of attitude smoking and coffee bring with them. it was destined, however, that the hour was to be a short one. one of the grooms obsequiously knocked at the door; he whispered in the count's ear, who advanced quickly toward him, the news that the coach was waiting; one of the leaders. "desolated, my dear ladies--but my man tells me the coach is in readiness, and i have an impertinent leader who refuses to stand, when he is waiting, on anything more solid than his hind legs. fernande, my dear, we must be on the move. desolated, dear ladies--desolated--but it's only _au revoir_. we must arrange a meeting later, in paris--" the scene in the court-yard was once again gay with life and bristling with color. the coach and the dog-cart shone resplendent in the slanting sun's rays. in the brighter sunlight, the added glow in the eyes and the cheeks of the brilliantly costumed group, made both men and women seem younger and fresher than when they had appeared, two hours since. all were in high good humor--the wines and the talk had warmed the quick french blood. there was a merry scramble for the top coach-seats; the two young counts exchanged their seat in their saddles for the privilege of holding, one the countess's vinaigrette, and the other, her long-handled parasol. renard was beside his friend de troisac; the horn rang out, the horses started as if stung, dashing at their bits, and in another moment the great coach was being whirled beneath the archway. "_au revoir--au revoir!_" was cried down to us from the throne-like elevation. there was a pretty waving of hands--for even the countess's dislike melted into sweetness as she bade us farewell. there were answering cries from the shrieking cockatoos, from the peacocks who trailed their tails sadly in the dust, from the cooks and the peasant serving-women who had assembled to bid the distinguished guests adieu. there was also a sweeping bow from monsieur paul, and a grunt of contented dismissal from madame le mois. a moment after the departure of the coach the court yard was as still as a convent cloister. it was still enough to hear the click of madame's fingers, as she tapped her snuff-box. "the count doesn't see any better than he did--_toujours myope, lui_" the old woman murmured to her son, with a pregnant wink, as she took her snuff. "_c'est sa façon de tout voir, au contraire, ma mère_," significantly returned monsieur paul, with his knowing smile. the mother's shrug answered the smile, as both mother and son walked in different directions--across the sunlit court. a little journey along the coast. caen, bayeux, st. lo, coutances. chapter xxiii. a night in a caen attic. i have always found the act of going away contagious. who really enjoys being left behind, to mope in a corner of the world others have abandoned? the gay company atop of the coach, as they were whirled beneath the old archway, had left discontent behind; the music of the horn, like that played by the pied piper, had the magic of making the feet ache to follow after. monsieur paul was so used to see his world go and come--to greeting it with civility, and to assist at its departure with smiling indifference that the announcement of our own intention to desert the inn within a day or so, was received with unflattering impassivity. we had decided to take a flight along the coast--the month and the weather were at their best as aids to such adventure. we hoped to see the fête dieu at caen. why not push on to coutances, where the fête was still celebrated with a mediaeval splendor? from thence to the great mont, the mont st. michel, it was but the distance of a good steed's galloping--we could cover the stretch of country between in a day's driving, and catch, who knows?--perhaps the june pilgrims climbing the mont. "ah, mesdames! there are duller things in the world to endure than a glimpse of the normandy coast and the scent of june roses! _idylliquement belle, la côte à ce moment-ci!_" this was all the regret that seasoned monsieur paul's otherwise gracious and most graceful of farewells. why cannot we all attain to an innkeeper's altitude, as a point of view from which to look out upon the world? why not emulate his calm, when people who have done with us turn their backs and stalk away? why not, like him, count the pennies as not all the payment received when a pleasure has come which cannot be footed up in the bill? the entire company of the inn household was assembled to see us start. not a white mouse but was on duty. the cockatoos performed the most perilous of their trapeze accomplishments as a last tribute; the doves cooed mournfully; the monkeys ran like frenzied spirits along their gratings to see the very last of us. madame le mois considerately carried the bantam to the archway, that the lost joy of strutting might be replaced by the pride of preferment above its fellows. "_adieu_, mesdames." "_au revoir_--you will return--_tout le monde revient_--guillaume le conquérant, like caesar, conquers once to hold forever--remember--" [illustration: chateau fontaine le henri, near caen] from monsieur paul, in quieter, richer tones, came his true farewell, the one we had looked for: "the evenings in the marmousets will seem lonely when it rains--you must give us the hope of a quick return. hope is the food of those who remain behind, as we normans say!" the archway darkened the sod for an instant; the next we had passed out into the broad highway. jean, in his blouse, with suzette beside him, both jolting along in the lumbering _char-à-banc_, stared out at us with a vacant-eyed curiosity. we were only two travellers like themselves, along a dusty roadway, on our way to caen; we were of no particular importance in the landscape, we and our rickety little phaeton. yet only a moment before, in the inn court-yard, we had felt ourselves to be the pivotal centre of a world wholly peopled with friends! this is what comes to all men who live under the modern curse--the double curse of restlessness and that itching for novelty, which made the old greek longing for the unknown deity--which is also the only honest prayer of so many _fin de siècle_ souls! besides the dust, there were other things abroad on the high-road. what a lot of june had got into the air! the meadows and the orchards were exuding perfumes; the hedge-rows were so many yards of roses and wild grape-vines in blossom. the sea-smells, aromatic, pungent, floated inland to be married, in hot haste, to a perfect harem of clover and locust scents. the charm of the coast was enriched by the homely, familiar scenes of farm-house life. all the country between dives and caen seemed one vast farm, beautifully tilled, with its meadow-lands dipping seaward. for several miles, perhaps, the agricultural note alone would be the dominant one, with the fields full of the old, the eternal surprise--the dawn of young summer rising over them. down the sides of the low hills, the polychrome grain waved beneath the touch of the breeze like a moving sea. many and vast were the flat-lands; they were wide vistas of color: there were fields that were scarlet with the pomp of poppies, others tinged to the yellow of a celestial by the feathery mustard; and still others blue as a sapphire's heart from the dye of millions of bluets. a dozen small rivers--or perhaps it was only one--coiled and twisted like a cobra in sinuous action, in and out among the pasture and sea meadows. as we passed the low, bushy banks, we heard the babel of the washerwomen's voices as they gossiped and beat their clothes on the stones. a fisherman or two gave one a hint that idling was understood here, as elsewhere, as being a fine art for those who possess the talent of never being pressed for time. a peasant had brought his horse to the bank; the river, to both peasant and percheron, was evidently considered as a personal possession--as are all rivers to those who live near them. there was a naturalness in all the life abroad in the fields that gave this normandy highroad an incomparable charm. an arcadian calm, a certain patriarchal simplicity reigned beneath the trees. children trudged to the river bank with pails and pitchers to be filled; women, with rakes and scythes in hand, crept down from the upper fields to season their mid-day meal with the cooling whiff of the river and sea air. children tugged at their skirts. in two feet of human life, with kerchief tied under chin, the small hands carrying a huge bunch of cornflowers, how much of great gravity there may be! one such rustic sketch of the future peasant was seriously carrying its bouquet to another small edition seated in a grove of poppies; it might have been a votive offering. both the children seated themselves, a very earnest conversation ensuing. on the hill-top, near by, the father and mother were also conversing, as they bent over their scythes. another picture was wheeling itself along the river bank; it was a farmer behind a huge load of green grass; atop of the grasses two moon-faced children had laps and hands crowded with field flowers. behind them the mother walked, with a rake slung over her shoulder, her short skirts and scant draperies giving to her step a noble freedom. the brush of vollon or of breton would have seized upon her to embody the type of one of their rustic beauties, that type whose mingled fierceness and grace make their peasants the rude goddesses of the plough. even a rustic river wearies at last of wandering, as an occupation. miles back we had left the sea; even the hills had stopped a full hour ago, as if they had no taste for the rivalry of cathedral spires. behold the river now, coursing as sedately as the high-road, between two interminable lines of poplars. far as the eye could reach stretched a wide, great plain. it was flat as an old woman's palm; it was also as fertile as the city sitting in the midst of its luxuriance has been rich in history. "_ce pays est très beau, et caen la plus jolie ville, la plus avenante, la plus gaie, la mieux située, les plus belles rues, les plus beaux bâtiments, les plus belles églises_--" there was no doubt, charm added, as she repeated the lady's verdict, of the opinion madame de sévigné had formed of the town. as we drove, some two hundred years later, through the caen streets, the charm we found had been perpetuated, but alas! not all of the beauty. at first we were entirely certain that caen had retained its old loveliness; the outskirts were tricked out with the bloom of gardens and with old houses brave in their armor of vines. the meadows and the great trees of the plain were partly to blame for this illusion; they yielded their place grudgingly to the cobble-stoned streets and the height of dormer windows. to come back to the world, even to a provincial world, after having lived for a time in a corner, is certain to evoke a pleasurable feeling of elation. the streets of caen were by no means the liveliest we had driven into; nor did the inhabitants, as at villerville, turn out _en masse_ to welcome us. the streets, to be quite truthful, were as sedately quiet as any thoroughfares could well be, and proudly call themselves boulevards. the stony-faced gray houses presented a singularly chill front, considering their nationality. but neither the pallor of the streets nor their aspect of provincial calm had power to dampen the sense of our having returned to the world of cities. a girl issuing from a doorway with a netted veil drawn tightly over her rosy cheeks, and the curve of a parisian bodice, immediately invested caen with a metropolitan importance. the most courteous of innkeepers was bending over our carriage-door. he was desolated, but his inn was already full; it was crowded to repletion with people; surely these ladies knew it was the week of the races? caen was as crowded as the inn; at night many made of the open street their bed; his own court-yard was as filled with men as with farm-wagons. it was altogether hopeless as a situation; as a welcome into a strange city, i have experienced none more arctic. i had, however, forgotten that i was travelling with a conqueror; that when charm smiled she did as she pleased with her world. the innkeeper was only a man; and since adam, when has any member of that sex been known to say "no" to a pretty woman? this french adam, when charm parted her lips, showing the snow of her teeth, found himself suddenly, miraculously, endowed with a fragment of memory. _tiens_, he had forgotten! that very morning a corner of the attic--_un bout du toit_--had been vacated. if these ladies did not mind mounting to a _grenier_--an attic, comfortable, although still only an attic! the one dormer window was on a level with the roof-tops. we had a whole company of "belles voisines," a trick of neighborliness in windows the quick french wit, years ago, was swift to name. these "neighbors" were of every order and pattern. all the world and his mother-in-law were gone to the races;--and yet every window was playing a different scene in the comedy of this life in the sky. who does not know and love a french window, the higher up in the world of air the better? there are certain to be plants, rows of them in pots, along the wide sill; one can count on a bullfinch or a parrot, as one can on the bébés that appear to be born on purpose to poke their fingers in the cages; there is certain also to be another cage hanging above the flowers--one filled with a fresh lettuce or a cabbage leaf. there is usually a snowy curtain, fringed; just at the parting of the draperies an old woman is always seated, with chin and nose-tip meeting, her bent figure rounding over the square of her knitting-needles. it was such a window as this that made us feel, before our bonnets were laid aside, that caen was glad to see us. the window directly opposite was wide open. instead of one there were half a dozen songsters aloft; we were so near their cages that the cat-bird whistled, to call his master and mistress to witness the intrusion of these strangers. the master brought a hot iron along--he was a tailor and was just in the act of pressing a seam. his wife was scraping carrots, and she tucked her bowl between her knees as she came to stand and gaze across. a cry rose up within the low room. some one else wished to see the newcomers. the tailor laid aside his iron to lift proudly, far out beyond the cages, the fattest, rosiest offspring that ever was born in an attic. the babe smote its hands for pure joy. we were better than a broken doll--we were alive. the family as a family accepted us as one among them. the man smiled, and so did his wife. presently both nodded graciously, as if, understanding the cause of our intrusion on their aerial privacy, they wished to present us with the compliment of their welcome. the manners among these garret-windows, we murmured, were really uncommonly good. "bonjour, mesdames!" it was the third time the woman had passed, and we were still at the window. her husband left his seam to join her. "ces dames are not accustomed to such heights--_à ces hauteurs peut-être?_" the ladies in truth were not, unhappily, always so well lodged; from this height at least one could hope to see a city. "_ah! ha! c'est gai par ici, n'est-ce pas?_ one has the sun all to one's self, and air! ah! for freshness one must climb to an attic in these days, it appears." it was impossible to be more contented on a height than was this family of tailors; for when not cooking, or washing, or tossing the "bébé" to the birds, the wife stitched and stitched all her husband cut, besides taking a turn at the family socks. part of this contentment came, no doubt, from the variety of shows and amusements with which the family, as a family, were perpetually supplied. for workers, there were really too many social distractions abroad in the streets; it was almost impossible for the two to meet all the demands on their time. now it was the jingle of a horse's bell-collar; the tailor, between two snips at a collar, must see who was stopping at the hotel door. later a horn sounded; this was only the fish vender, the wife merely bent her head over the flowers to be quite sure. next a trumpet, clear and strong, rang its notes up into the roof eaves; this was something _bébé_ must see and hear--all three were bending at the first throbbing touch of that music on the still air, to see whence it came. thus you see, even in the provinces, in a french street, something is quite certain to happen; it all depends on the choice one makes in life of a window--of being rightly placed--whether or not one finds life dull or amusing. this tailor had the talent of knowing where to stand, at life's corner--for him there was a ceaseless procession of excitements. it may be that our neighbor's talent for seeing was catching. it is certain that no city we had ever before looked out upon had seemed as crowded with sights. the whole history of caen was writ in stone against the blue of the sky. here, below us, sat the lovely old town, seated in the grasses of her plain. yonder was her canal, as an artery to keep her pulse bounding in response to the sea; the ship-masts and the drooping sails seemed strange companions for the great trees and the old garden walls. those other walls william built to cincture the city, froissart found three centuries later so amazingly "strong, full of drapery and merchandise, rich citizens, noble dames, damsels, and fine churches," for this girdle of the conqueror's great bastions the eye looks in vain. but william's vow still proclaims its fulfilment; the spire of l'abbaye aux hommes, and the romanesque towers of its twin, l'abbaye aux dames, face each other, as did william and mathilde at the altar--that union that had to be expiated by the penance of building these stones in the air. commend me to an attic window to put one in sympathetic relations with cathedral spires! at this height we and they, for a part of their flight upward, at least, were on a common level--and we all know what confidences come about from the accident of propinquity. they seemed to assure us as never before when sitting at their feet, the difficulties they had overcome in climbing heavenward. every stone that looked down upon the city wore this look of triumph. in the end it was this caen in the air--it was this aerial city of finials, of towers, of peaked spires, of carved chimneys, of tree-tops over which the clouds rode; of a plain, melting--like a sea--into the mists of the horizon; this high, bright region peopled with birds and pigeons; of a sky tender, translucent, and as variable as human emotions; of an air that was rapture to breathe, and of nights in which the stars were so close they might almost be handled; it was this free, hilly city of the roofs that is still the caen i remember best. there were other features of caen that were good to see, i also remember. her street expression, on the whole, was very pleasing. it was singularly calm and composed, even for a city in a plain. but the quiet came, doubtless, from its population being away at the races. the few townspeople who, for obvious reasons, were stay-at-homes, were uncommonly civil; caen had evidently preserved the tradition of good manners. an army of cripples was in waiting to point the way to the church doors; a regiment of beggars was within them, with nets cast already for the catching of the small fry of our pennies. in the gay, geranium-lit garden circling the side walls of st. pierre there were many legless soldiers; the old houses we went to see later on in the high street seemed, by contrast, to have survived other wars, those of the directory and the mountain, with a really scandalous degree of good fortune. on our way to a still greater church than st. pierre, to the abbaye aux dames, that, like the queen who built her, sits on the throne of a hill--on our way thither we passed innumerable other ancient mansions. none of these were down in the guide books; they were, therefore, invested with the deeper charm of personal discovery. once away from the little city of the shops, the real caen came out to greet us. it was now a gray, sad, walled town; behind the walls, level-browed francis i. windows looked gravely over the tufts of verdure; here was an old gateway; there what might once have been a portcullis, now only an arched wreath of vines; still beyond, a group of severe-looking mansions with great iron bound windows presented the front of miniature fortresses. and everywhere gardens and gardens. turn where you would, you would only turn to face verdure, foliage, and masses of flowers. the high walls could neither keep back the odors nor hide the luxuriance of these caen gardens. these must have been the streets that bewitched madame de sévigné. through just such a maze of foliage charlotte corday has also walked, again and again, with her wonderful face aflame with her great purpose, before the purpose ripened into the dagger thrust at marat's bared breast--that avenging angel of beauty stabbing the beast in his bath. auber, with his anacreontic ballads in his young head, would seem more fittingly framed in this old caen that runs up a hill-side. but women as beautiful as marie stuart and the corday can deal safely in the business of assassination, the world will always continue to aureole their pictures with a garland of roses. the abbaye on its hill was reached at last. all caen lay below us; from the hillside it flowed as a sea rolls away from a great ship's sides. down below, far below, as if buttressing the town that seemed rushing away recklessly to the waste of the plains, stands the abbaye's twin-brother, the aux hommes. plains, houses, roof-tops, spires, all were swimming in a sea of golden light; nothing seemed quite real or solid, so vast was the prospect and so ethereal was the medium through which we saw it. perhaps it was the great contrast between that shimmering, unstable city below, that reeked and balanced itself like some human creature whose dazzled vision had made its footing insecure--it may be that it was this note of contrast which invested this vast structure bestriding the hill, with such astonishing grandeur. i have known few, if any, other churches produce so instantaneous an effect of a beauty that was one with austerity. this great norman is more puritan than french: it is norman gothic with a puritan severity. the sound of a deep sonorous music took us quickly within. it was as mysterious a music as ever haunted a church aisle. the vast and snowy interior was as deserted as a presbyterian church on a week-day. yet the sound of the rich, strong voices filled all the place. there was no sound of tingling accompaniment: there was no organ pipe, even, to add its sensuous note of color. there was only the sound of the voices, as they swelled, and broke, and began afresh. the singing went on. it was a slow "plain chant." into the great arches the sonorous chanting beat upon the ear with a rhythmic perfection that, even without the lovely flavor of its sweetness, would have made a beauty of its own. in this still and holy place, with the company of the stately norman arches soaring aloft--beneath the sombre glory of the giant aisle--the austere simplicity of this chant made the heart beat, one knew not why, and the eyes moisten, one also knew not why. we had followed the voices. they came, we found, from within the choir. a pattering of steps proclaimed we were to go no farther. "not there, my ladies--step this way, one only enters the choir by going into the hospital." the voice was low and sweet; the smile, a spark of divinity set in a woman's face; and the whole was clothed in a nun's garb. we followed the fluttering robes; we passed out once more into the sunlit parvis. we spoke to the smile and it answered: yes, the choir was reserved for the sisters--they must be able to approach it from the convent and the hospital; it had always, since the time of mathilde, been reserved for the nuns; would we pass this way? the way took us into an open vaulted passage, past a grating where sat a white-capped sister, past a group of girls and boys carrying wreaths and garlands--they were making ready for the _fête-dieu_, our nun explained--past, at the last, a series of corridors through which, faintly at first, and then sweeter and fuller, there struck once more upon our ears the sounds of the deep and resonant chanting. the black gown stopped all at once. the nun was standing in front of a green curtain. she lifted it. this was what we saw. the semicircle of a wide apse. behind, rows upon rows of round arches. below the arches, in the choir stalls, a long half-circle of stately figures. the figures were draped from head to foot. when they bent their heads not an inch of flesh was visible, except a few hands here and there that had escaped the long, wide sleeves. all these figures were motionless; they were as immobile as statues; occasionally, at the end of a "gloria," all turned to face the high altar. at the end of the "amen" a cloud of black veils swept the ground. then for several measures of the chant the figures were again as marble. in each of the low, round arches, a stately woman, tall and nobly planned, draped like a goddess turned saint, stood and chanted to her lord. had the norman builders carved these women, ages ago, standing about mathilde's tomb, those ancient sculptures could not have embodied, in more ideal image, the type of womanly renunciation and of a saint's fervor of exaltation. we left them, with the rich chant still full upon their lips, with heads bent low, calm as graven images. it was only the bloom on a cheek, here and there, that made one certain of the youth entombed within these nuns' garb. "happy, _mesdames? oh, mais très heureuses, toutes_--there are no women so happy as we. see how they come to us, from all the country around. _en voilà une_--did you remark the pretty one, with the book, seated, all in white? she is to be a full sister in a month. she comes from a noble family in the south. she was here one day, she saw the life of the sisters, of us all working here, among the poor soldiers--_elle a vu ça, et pour tout de bon, s'est donnée à dieu!_" the smile of our nun was rapturous. she was proving its source. once more we saw the young countess who had given herself to her god. an hour later, when we had reached the hospital wards, her novice's robes were trailing the ground. she was on her knees in the very middle of the great bare room. she was repeating the office of the hour, aloud, with clasped hands and uplifted head. on her lovely young face there was the glow of a divine ecstasy. all the white faces from the long rows of the white beds were bending toward her; to one even in all fulness of strength and health that girlish figure, praying beside the great vase of the snowy daisies, with the glow that irradiated the sweet, pure face, might easily enough have seemed an angel's. as companions for our tour of the grounds we had two young englishmen. both eyed the nuns in the distance of the corridors and the gardens with the sharpened glances all men level at the women who have renounced them. it is a mystery no man ever satisfactorily fathoms. "queer notion, this, a lot of women shutting themselves up," remarked the younger of the two. "in england, now, they'd all go in for being old maids, drinking tea and coddling cats, you know." "i wonder which are the happier, your countrywomen or these sisters, who, in renouncing the world devote their lives to serving it. see, over yonder" and i nodded to a scene beneath the wide avenue of the limes. two tall augustines were supporting a crippled old man; they were showing him some fresh garden-beds. beyond was a gayer group. some of the lay sisters were tugging at a huge basket of clothes, fresh from the laundry. running across the grass, with flying draperies, two nuns, laughing as they ran, each striving to outfoot the other, were hastening to their rescue. "they keep their bloom, running about like that; only healthy nuns i ever saw." "that's because they have something better than cats to coddle." "ah, ha! that's not bad. it's a slow suicide, all the same. but here we are, at the top; it's a fine outlook, is it not?" the young man panted as he reached the top of the maze, one of the chief glories of the old abbaye grounds. he had a fair and sensitive face; a weak product on the whole, he seemed, compared with the nobly-built, vigorous-bodied nuns crowding the choir-stalls yonder. instead of that long, slow suicide, surely these women should be doing their greater work of reproducing a race. even an open-air cell seems to me out of place in our century. it will be entirely out of fashion in time, doubtless, as the mediaeval cell has gone along with the old castle life, whose princely mode of doing things made a nunnery the only respectable hiding-place for the undowered daughters. as we crept down into caen, it was to find it thick with the dust of twilight. the streets were dense with other things besides the thickened light. the caen world was crowding homeward; all the boulevards and side streets were alive with a moving throng of dusty, noisy, weary holidaymakers. the town was abroad in the streets to hear the news of the horses, and to learn the history of the betting. although we had gone to church instead of doing the races, many of those who had peopled the gay race-track came back to us. the table d'hôte, at our inn that night, was as noisy as a parisian cafe. it was scarcely as discreet, i should say. on our way to our attic that night, the little corridors made us a really amazing number of confidences. it was strange, but all the shoes appeared to have come in pairs of twos. never was there such a collection of boots in couples. strange it was, also, to see how many little secrets these rows of candid shoe-leather disclosed. here a pert, coquettish pair of ties were having as little in common as possible with the stout, somewhat clumsy walking-boots next them. in the two just beyond, at the next door, how the delicate, slender buttoned kids leaned over, floppingly, to rest on the coarse, yet strong, hobnailed clumpers! shabbier and shabbier grew the shoes, as we climbed upward. with each pair of stairs we seemed to have left a rung in the ladder of fortune behind. but even the very poorest in pocket had brought his little extravagance with him to the races. the only genuine family party had taken refuge, like ourselves, in the attic. at the very next door to our own, monsieur, madame, et bébé proclaimed, by the casting of their dusty shoes, that they also, like the rest of the world, had come to caen to see the horses run. chapter xxiv. a day at bayeux and st. lo. caen seated in its plain, wearing its crown of steeples--this was our last glimpse of the beautiful city. our way to bayeux was strewn thick with these normandy jewels; with towns smaller than caen; with gothic belfries; with ruined priories, and with castles, stately even when tottering in decay. when the last castle was lost in a thicket, we discovered that our iron horse was stopping in the very middle of a field. if the guard had shouted out the name of any american city, built overnight, on a western prairie, we should have felt entirely at home in this meadow; we should have known any clearing, with grass and daisies, was a very finished evidence of civilization at high pressure. but a lane as the beginning of a cathedral town! evidently bayeux has had a ruskinian dread of steam-whistles, for this ancient seat of bishops has succeeded in retaining the charms of its old rustic approaches, whatever else it may have sacrificed on the altar of modernness. an harangue, at the door of the quaint old normandy omnibus, by the driver of the same, was proof that the lesson of good oratory, administered by generations of bishops, had not been lost on the bayeux inhabitants. two rebellious english tourists furnished the text for the driver's sermon; they were showing, with all the naive pride of pedestrians, their intention of footing the distance between the station and the cathedral. this was an independence of spirit no norman could endure to see. what? these gentlemen proposed to walk, in the sun, through clouds of dust, when here was a carriage, with ladies for companions, at their command? the coach had come down the hill on purpose to conduct _messieurs les voyageurs;_ how did these gentlemen suppose _a père de famille_ was to make his living if the fashion of walking came in? and the rusty red vest was thumbed by the gnarled hand of the father, who was also an orator; and a high-peaked hat swept the ground before the hard-hearted gentlemen. all the tragedy of the situation had come about from the fact that the tourists, also, had gotten themselves up in costume. when two fine youths have risen early in the day to put on checked stockings, leggings, russet walking-shoes, and a plaited coat with a belt, such attire is one to be lived up to. once in knickerbockers and a man's getting into an omnibus is really too ignominious! with such a road before two sets of such well-shaped calves--a road all shaped and graded--this, indeed, would be flying in the face of a veritable providence of bishop-builders intent on maintaining pastoral effects. the knickerbockers relentlessly strode onward; the driver had addressed himself to hearts of stone. but he had not yet exhausted his quiver of appeal. englishmen walk, well! there's no accounting for the taste of britons who are also still half savages; but even a barbarian must eat. half-way up the hill, the rattle of the loose-jointed vehicle came to a dead stop. with great gravity the guard descended from his seat; this latter he lifted to take from the entrails of the old vehicle a handful of hand-bills. he, the horse, the omnibus, and we, all waited for, what do you suppose? to besprinkle the walking englishmen as they came within range with a shower of circulars announcing that at "_midi, chez nigaud, il y aura un dejeuner chaud_." the driver turned to look in at the window--and to nod as he turned--he felt so certain of our sympathy; had he not made sure of them at last? a group of gossamer caps beneath a row of sad, gray-faced houses was our bayeux welcome. the faces beneath the caps watched our approach with the same sobriety as did the old houses--they had the antique norman seriousness of aspect. the noise we made with the clatter and rattle of our broken-down vehicle seemed an impertinence, in the face of such severe countenances. we might have been entering a deserted city, except for the presence of these motionless normandy figures. the cathedral met us at the threshold of the city: magnificent, majestic, a huge gray mountain of stone, but severe in outline, as if the norman builders had carved on the vast surface of its facade an imprint of their own grave earnestness. we were somewhat early for the hot breakfast at nigaud's. there was, however, the appetizing smell of soup, with a flourishing pervasiveness of onion in the pot, to sustain the vigor of an appetite whetted by a start at dawn. the knickerbockers came in with the omelette. but one is not a briton on his travels for nothing; one does not leave one's own island to be the dupe of french inn-keepers. the smell of the soup had not departed with our empty plates, and the voice of the walkers was not of the softest when they demanded their rights to be as odorous as we. there is always a curiously agreeable sensation, to an american, in seeing an englishman angry; to get angry in public is one thing we do badly; and in his cup of wrath our british brother is sublime--he is so superbly unconscious--and so contemptuous--of the fact that the world sometimes finds anger ridiculous. at the other end of the long and narrow table two other travellers were seated, a man and a woman. but food, to them, it was made manifestly evident, was a matter of the most supreme indifference. they were at that radiant moment of life when eating is altogether too gross a form of indulgence. for these two were at the most interesting period of french courtship--just _after_ the wedding ceremony, when, with the priest's blessing, had come the consent of their world and of tradition to their making the other's acquaintance. this provincial bride and her husband of a day were beginning, as all rustic courting begins, by a furtive holding of hands; this particular couple, in view of our proximity and their own mutual embarrassment, had recourse to the subterfuge of desperate lunges at the other's fingers, beneath the table-cloth. the screen, as a screen, did not work. it deceived no one--as the bride's pale-gray dress and her flowery bonnet also deceived no one--save herself. this latter, in certain ranks of life, is the bride's travelling costume, the world over. and the world over, it is worn by the recently wedded with the profound conviction that in donning it they have discovered the most complete of all disguises. this bride and groom were obviously in the first rapture of mutual discovery. the honey in their moon was not fresher than their views of the other's tastes and predilections. "ah--ah--you like to travel quickly--to see everything, to take it all in a gulp--so do i, and then to digest at one's leisure." the bride was entirely of this mind. only, she murmured, there were other things one must not do too quickly--one must go slow in matters of the heart--to make quite sure of all the stages. but her husband was at her throat, that is, his eyes and lips were, as he answered, so that all the table might partake of his emotion--"no, no, the quicker the heart feels the quicker love comes. _tiens, voyons, mon amie, toi-même, tu m'as confié_"--and the rest was lost in the bride's ear. apparently we were to have them, these brides, for the rest of our journey, in all stages and of all ages! thus far none others had appeared as determined as were these two honey-mooners, that all the world should share their bliss. they were cracking filberts with their disengaged fingers, the other two being closely interlocked, in quite scandalous openness, when we left them. that was the only form of excitement that greeted us in the quiet bayeux streets. the very street urchins invited repose; the few we saw were seated sedately on the threshold of their own door-steps, frequent sallies abroad into this quiet city having doubtless convinced them of the futility of all sorties. the old houses were their carved facades as old ladies wear rich lace--they had reached the age when the vanity of personal adornment had ceased to inflate. the great cathedral, towering above the tranquil town, wore a more conscious air; its significance was too great a contrast to the quiet city asleep at its feet. in these long, slow centuries the towers had grown to have the air of protectors. the famous tapestries we went to see later, might easily enough have been worked yesterday, in any one of the old mediaeval houses; mathilde and her hand-maidens would find no more--not so much--to distract and disturb them now in this still and tranquil town, with its sad gray streets and its moss-grown door-steps, as they must in those earlier bustling centuries of the conqueror. even then, when normandy was only beginning its career of importance among the great french provinces, bayeux was already old. she was far more norse then than norman; she was scandinavian to the core; even her nobles spoke in harsh norse syllables; they were as little french as it was possible to be, and yet govern a people. mathilde, when she toiled over her frame, like all great writers, was doubtless quite unconscious she was producing a masterpiece. she was, however, in point of fact, the very first among the great french realists. no other french writer has written as graphically as she did with her needle, of the life and customs of their day. that long scroll of tapestry, for truth and a naive perfection of sincerity--where will you find it equalled or even approached? it is a rude homeric epic; and i am not quite certain that it ought not to rank higher than even some of the more famous epics of the world--since mathilde had to create the mould of art into which she poured her story. for who had thought before her of making women's stitches write or paint a great historical event, crowded with homely details which now are dubbed archaeological veracities? bayeux and its tapestry; its grave company of antique houses; its glorious cathedral dominating the whole--what a lovely old background against which poses the eternal modernness of the young noon sun! the history of bayeux is commonly given in a paragraph. our morning's walk had proved to us it was the kind of town that does more to re-create the historic past than all the pages of a guizot or a challamel. the bells that were ringing out the hour of high-noon from the cathedral towers at bayeux were making the heights of st. lo, two hours later, as noisy as a village fair. the bells, for rivals, had the clatter of women's tongues. i think i never, before or since, have beheld so lively a company of washerwomen as were beating their clothes in vire river. the river bends prettily just below the st. lo heights, as if it had gone out of its way to courtesy to a hill. but even the waters, in their haste to be polite, could not course beneath the great bridge as swiftly as ran those women's tongues. there were a good hundred of them at work beneath the washing-sheds. now, these sheds, anywhere in france, are really the open-air club room of the french peasant woman; the whole dish of the village gossip is hung out to dry, having previously been well soused and aired, along with the blouses and the coarse chemises. the town of st. lo had evidently furnished these club members of the washing-stones with some fat dish of gossip--the heads were as close as currants on a stem, as they bent in groups over the bright waters. they had told it all to the stream; and the stream rolled the volume of the talk along as it carried along also the gay, sparkling reflections of the life and the toil that bent over it--of the myriad reflections of those moving, bare-armed figures, of the brilliant kerchiefs, of the wet blue and gray jerseys, and of the long prismatic line of the damp, motley-hued clothes that were fluttering in the wind. the bells' clangor was an assurance that something was happening on top of the hill. just what happened was as altogether pleasing a spectacle, after a long and arduous climb up a hillside, as it has often been my good fortune to encounter. the portals of the church of notre dame were wide open. within, as we looked over the shoulders of the townspeople who, like us, had come to see what the bells meant by their ringing, within the church there was a rich and sombre dusk; out of this dusk, indistinctly at first, lit by the tremulous flicker of a myriad of candles, came a line of white-veiled heads; then another of young boys, with faces as pale as the nosegays adorning their brand-new black coats; next the scarlet-robed choristers, singing, and behind them still others swinging incense that thickened the dusk. suddenly, like a vision, the white veils passed out into the sunlight, and we saw that the faces beneath the veils were young and comely. the faces were still alternately lighted by the flare of the burning tapers and the glare of the noon sun. the long procession ended at last in a straggling group of old peasants with fine tremulous mouths, a-tremble with pride and with feeling; for here they were walking in full sight of their town, in their holiday coats, with their knees treacherously unsteady from the thrill of the organ's thunder and the sweetness of the choir-boys' singing. whether it was a pardon, or a _fête_, or a first communion, we never knew. but the town of st. lo is ever gloriously lighted, for us, with a nimbus of young heads, such as encircled the earlier madonnas. after such a goodly spectacle, the rest of the town was a tame morsel. we took a parting sniff of the incense still left in the eastern end of the church's nave; there was a bit of good glass in a window to reward us. outside the church, on the west from the petite place, was a wide outlook over the lovely vale of the vire, with st. lo itself twisting and turning in graceful postures down the hillside. on the same prospect two kings have looked, and before the kings a saint. st. lo or st. laudus himself, who gave his name to the town, must, in the sixth century, have gazed on virgin forests stretching away from the hill far as the eye could reach. charlemagne, three hundred years later, in his turn, found the site a goodly one, one to tempt men to worship the creator of such beauty, for here he founded the great abbey of st. croix, long since gone with the monks who peopled it. louis xi, that mystic wearing the warrior's helmet, set his seal of approval on the hill, by sending the famous glass yonder in the cathedral, when the hill and the st. lo people beat the bretons who had come to capture both. like saint, and kings, and monks, and warriors, we in our turn crept down the hill. for we also were done with the town. chapter xxv. a dinner at coutances. the way from st. lo to coutances is a pleasant way. there is no map of the country that will give you even a hint of its true character, any more than from a photograph you can hope to gain an insight into the moral qualities of a pretty woman. here, at last, was the ideal normandy landscape. it was a country with a savage look--a savage that had been trained to follow the plough. even in its color it had retained the true barbarians' instinct for a good primary. here were no melting-yellow mustard-fields, nor flame-lit poppied meadows, nor blue-bells lifting their baby-blue eyes out of the grain. all the land was green. fields, meadows, forests, plains--all were green, green, green. the features of the landscape had changed with this change in coloring. the slim, fragile grace of slim trees and fragile cliffs had been replaced by trees of heroic proportions, and by outlines nobly rounded and full--like the breasts of a mother. the whole country had an astonishing look of vigor--of the vigor which comes with rude strength; and it had that charm which goes with all untamed beauty--the power to sting one into a sense of agitated enjoyment. even the farm-houses had been suddenly transformed into fortresses. each one of the groups of the farm enclosures had its outer walls, its miniature turrets, and here and there its rounded bastions. each farm, apparently, in the olden days had been a citadel unto itself. the breton had been a very troublesome neighbor for many a long century; every ploughman, until a few hundred years ago, was quite likely to turn soldier at a second's notice--every true norman must look to his own sword to defend his hearth-stone. such is the story those stone turrets that cap the farm walls tell you--each one of these turrets was an open lid through which the farmer could keep his eye on brittany. meanwhile, along the roads as we rushed swiftly by, a quieter life was passing. the farm wagons were jogging peacefully along on a high-road as smooth as a fine lady's palm--and as white. the horses were harnessed one before the other, in interminable length of line. sometimes six, sometimes eight, even so many as ten, marched with great gravity, and with that majestic dignity only possible to full-blooded percherons, one after the other. they each wore a saddle-cloth of blue sheepskin. on their mottled haunches this bit of color made their polished coats to gleam like unto a lizards' skin. meanwhile, also, we were nearing coutances. the farm-houses were fortresses no longer; the thatched roofs were one once more with the green of the high roads; for even in the old days there was a great walled city set up on a hill, to which refuge all the people about for miles could turn for protection. a city that is set on a hill! that for me is commonly recommendation enough. such a city, so set, promises at the very least the dual distinction of looking up as well as looking down; it is the nearer heaven, and just so much the farther removed from earth. coutances, for a city with its head in the air, was surprisingly friendly. it went out of its way to make us at home. at the very station, down below in the plain, it had sent the most loquacious of coach-drivers to put us in immediate touch with its present interests. all the city, as the coarse blue blouse, flourishing its whip, took pains to explain, was abroad in the fields; the forests, _tiens_, down yonder through the trees, we could see for ourselves how the young people were making the woods as crowded as a ball-room. the city, as a city, was stripping the land and the trees bare--it would be as bald as a new-born babe by the morrow. but then, of a certainty, we also had come for the _fête_--or, and here a puzzled look of doubt beclouded the provincial's eyes--might we, perchance, instead, have come for the trial? _mais non, pas çà_, these ladies had never come for that, since they did not even know the court was sitting, now, this very instant, at coutances. and--_sapristi!_ but there was a trial going on--one to make the blood curdle; he himself had not slept, the rustic coachman added, as he shivered beneath his blouse, all the night before--the blood had run so cold in his veins. the horse and the road were all the while going up the hill. the road was easily one that might have been the path of warriors; the walls, still lofty on the side nearest the town, bristled with a turret or a bastion to remind us coutances had not been set on a hill for mere purposes of beauty. the ramparts of the old fortifications had been turned into a broad promenade. even as we jolted past, beneath the great breadth of the trees' verdure we could see how gloriously the prospect widened--the country below reaching out to the horizon like the waters of a sea that end only in indefiniteness. the city itself seemed to grow out of the walls and the trees. here and there a few scattered houses grouped themselves as if meaning to start a street; but a maze of foliage made a straight line impossible. finally a large group of buildings, with severe stone faces, took a more serious plunge away from the vines; they had shaken themselves free and were soon soberly ranging themselves into the parallel lines of narrow city streets. it was a pleasant surprise to find that, for once, a norman blouse had told the truth; for here were the people of coutances coming up from the fields to prove it. in all these narrow streets a great multitude of people were passing us; some were laden with vines, others with young forest trees, and still others with rude garlands of flowers. the peasant women's faces, as the bent figures staggered beneath a young fir-tree, were purple, but their smiles were as gay as the wild flowers with which the stones were thickly strewn. their words also were as rough: "_diantre--mais c'e lourd!_" "_e-ben, e toi, tu n' bougeons point, toi!_" and the nearest fir-tree carrier to our carriage wheels cracked a swift blow over the head of a vine-bearer, who being but an infant of two, could not make time with the swift foot of its mother. the smell of the flowers was everywhere. fir-trees perfumed the air. every doorstep was a garden. the courtyards were alive with the squat figures of capped maidens, wreathing and twisting greens and garlands. and in the streets there was such a noise as was never before heard in a city on a hill-top. for coutances was to hold its great _fête_ on the morrow. it was a relief to turn in from the noise and hubbub to the bright courtyard of our inn. the brightness thereof, and of the entire establishment, indeed, appeared to find its central source in the brilliant eyes of our hostess. never was an inn-keeper gifted with a vision at once so omniscient and so effulgent. those eyes were everywhere; on us, on our bags, our bonnets, our boots; they divined our wants, and answered beforehand our unuttered longings. we had come far? the eyes asked, burning a hole through our gossamer evasions; from paris, perhaps--a glance at our bonnets proclaimed the eyes knew all; we were here for the _fête_, to see the bishop on the morrow; that was well; we were going on to the mont; and the eyes scented the shortness of our stay by a swift glance at our luggage. "_numéro quatre, au troisième!_" there was no appeal possible. the eyes had penetrated the disguise of our courtesy; we were but travellers of a night; the top story was built for such as we. but such a top story, and such a chamber therein! a great, wide, low room; beams deep and black, with here and there a brass bit hanging; waxed floors, polished to mirrory perfection; a great bed clad in snowy draperies, with a snow-white _duvet_ of gigantic proportions. the walls were gray with lovely bunches of faded rosebuds flung abroad on the soft surface; and to give a quaint and antique note to the whole, over the chimney was a bit of worn tapestry with formidable dungeon, a norman keep in the background, and well up in front, a stalwart young master of the hounds, with dogs in leash, of the heavy norman type of bulging muscle and high cheekbones. altogether, there were worse fates in the world than to be travellers of a night, with the destiny of such a room as part of the fate. when we descended the steep, narrow spiral of steps to the dining-room, it was to find the eyes of our hostess brighter than ever. the noise in the streets had subsided. it was long after dusk, and coutances was evidently a good provincial. but in the gay little dining-room there was an astonishing bustle and excitement. the _fête_ and the court had brought a crowd of diners to the inn-table; when we were all seated we made quite a company at the long, narrow board. the candles and lamps lit up any number of vandyke pointed beards, of bald heads, of loosely-tied cravats, and a few matronly bosoms straining at the buttons of silk holiday gowns. for the _fête-dieu_ had brought visitors besides ourselves from all the country round; and then "a first communion is like a marriage, all the relatives must come, as doubtless we knew," was a baldhead's friendly beginning of his soup and his talk, as we took our seats beside him. with the appearance of the _potage_ conversation, like a battle between foes eager for contest, had immediately engaged itself. the setting of the table and the air of companionship pervading the establishment were aiders and abettors to immediate intercourse. nothing could be prettier than the caen bowls with their bunches of purple phlox and spiked blossoms. even a metropolitan table might have taken a lesson from the perfection of the lighting of the long board. in order that her guests should feel the more entirely at home, our brilliant-eyed hostess came in with the soup; she took her place behind it at the head of the table. it was evident the merchants from cherbourg who had come as witnesses to the trial, had had many a conversational bout before now with madame's ready wit. so had two of the town lawyers. even the commercial gentlemen, for once, were experiencing a brief moment of armed suspense, before they flung themselves into the arena of talk. at first, or it would never have been in the provinces, this talk at the long table, everyone broke into speech at once. there was a flood of words; one's sense of hearing was stunned by the noise. gradually, as the cider and the thin red wine were passed, our neighbors gave digestion a chance; the din became less thick with words; each listened when the other talked. but, as the volume of speech lessened, the interest thickened. it finally became concentrated, this interest, into true french fervor when the question of the trial was touched on. "they say d'alençon is very clever. he pleads for filon, the culprit, to-night, does he not?" "yes, poor filon--it will go hard with him. his crime is a black one." "i should think it was--implicating _le petit_!" "dame! the judge doesn't seem to be of your mind." "ah--h!" cried a florid vandyke-bearded man, the dynamite bomb of the table, exploding with a roar of rage. "_ah--h, cré nom de dieu!--messieurs les presidents_ are all like that; they are always on the side of the innocent--" "till they prove them guilty." "guilty! guilty!" the bomb exploded in earnest now. "how many times in the annals of crime is a man guilty--really guilty? they should search for the cause--and punish that. that is true justice. the instigator, the instigator--he is the true culprit. inheritances--_voilà les vrais coupables_. but when are such things investigated? it is ever the innocent who are punished. i know something of that--i do." "_allons--allons!_" cried the table, laughing at the beard's vehemence. "when were you ever under sentence?" "when i was doing my duty," the beard hurled back with both arms in the air; "when i was doing my three years--i and my comrade; we were convicted--punished--for an act of insubordination we never committed. without a trial, without a chance of defending ourselves, we were put on two crumbs of bread and a glass of water for two months. and we were innocent--as innocent as babes, i tell you." the table was as still as death. the beard had proved himself worthy of this compliment; his voice was the voice of drama, and his gestures such as every frenchman delights in beholding and executing. every ear was his, now. "i have no rancor. i am, by nature, what god made me, a peaceable man, but"--here the voice made a wild _crescendo_--"if i ever meet my colonel--_gare à lui_! i told him so. i waited two years, two long years, till i was released; then i walked up to him" (the beard rose here, putting his hand to his forehead), "i saluted" (the hand made the salute), "and i said to him, 'mon colonel, you convicted me, on false evidence, of a crime i never committed. you punished me. it is two years since then. but i have never forgotten. pray to god we may never meet in civil life, for then yours would end!" "_allons, allons!_ a man after all must do his duty. a colonel--he can't go into details!" remonstrated the hostess, with her knife in the air. "i would stick him, i tell you, as i would a pig--or a prussian! i live but for that!" "_monstre!_" cried the table in chorus, with a laugh, as it took its wine. and each turned to his neighbor to prove the beard in the wrong. "of what crime is the defendant guilty--he who is to be tried to-night?" charm asked of a silent man, with sweet serious eyes and a rough gray beard, seated next her. of all the beards at the table, this one alone had been content with listening. "of fraud--mademoiselle--of fraud and forgery." the man had a voice as sweet as a church bell, and as deep. every word he said rang out slowly, sonorously. the attention of the table was fixed in an instant. "it is the case of a monsieur filon, of cherbourg. he is a cider merchant. he has cheated the state, making false entries, etc. but his worst crime is that he has used as his accomplice _un tout petit jeune homme_--a lad of barely fifteen--" "it is that that will make it go hard for him with the jury--" "hard!" cried the ex-soldier, getting red at once with the passion of his protest--"hard--it ought to condemn him, to guillotine him. what are juries for if they don't kill such rascals as he?" "_doucement, doucement, monsieur,_" interrupted the bell-note of the merchant. "one doesn't condemn people without hearing both sides. there may be extenuating circumstances!" "yes--there are. he is a merchant. all merchants are thieves. he does as all others do--_only_ he was found out." a protesting murmur now rose from the table, above which rang once more, in clear vibrations, the deep notes of the merchant. "_ah--h, mais--tous voleurs--non_, not all are thieves. commerce conducted on such principles as that could not exist. credit is not founded on fraud, but on trust." "_très bien, très bien,_" assented the table. some knives were thumped to emphasize the assent. "as for stealing"--the rich voice continued, with calm judicial slowness--"i can understand a man's cheating the state once, perhaps--yielding to an impulse of cupidity. but to do as _ce_ monsieur filon has done--he must be a consummate master of his art--for his processes are organized robbery." "ah--h, but robbery against the state isn't the same thing as robbing an individual," cried the explosive, driven into a corner. "it is quite the same--morally, only worse. for a man who robs the state robs everyone--including himself." "that's true--perfectly true--and very well put." all the heads about the table nodded admiringly; their hostess had expressed the views of them all. the company was looking now at the gray beard with glistening eyes; he had proved himself master of the argument, and all were desirous of proving their homage. not one of the nice ethical points touched on had been missed; even the women had been eagerly listening, following, criticising. here was a little company of people gathered together from rustic france, meeting, perhaps, for the first time at this board. and the conversation had, from the very beginning, been such as one commonly expects to hear only among the upper ranks of metropolitan circles. who would have looked to see a company of norman provincials talking morality, and handling ethics with the skill of rhetoricians? most of our fellow-diners, meanwhile, were taking their coffee in the street. little tables were ranged close to the house-wall. there was just room for a bench beside the table, and then the sidewalk ended. "shall you be going to the trial to-night?" courteously asked the merchant who had proven himself a master in debate, of charm. he had lifted his hat before he sat down, bowing to her as if he had been in a ball-room. "it will be fine to-night--it is the opening of the defence," he added, as he placed carefully two lumps of sugar in his cup. "it's always finer at night--what with the lights and the people," interpolated the landlady, from her perch on the door-sill. "if _ces dames_ wish to go, i can show them the way to the galleries. only," she added, with a warning tone, her growing excitement obvious at the sense of the coming pleasure, "it is like the theatre. the earlier we get there the better the seat. i go to get my hat." and the door swallowed her up. "she is right--it is like a theatre," soliloquized the merchant--"and so is life. poor filon!" we should have been very content to remain where we were. the night had fallen; the streets, as they lost themselves in dim turnings, in mysterious alleyways, and arches that seemed grotesquely high in the vague blur of things, were filled for us with the charm of a new and lovely beauty. at one end the street ended in a towering mass of stone; that doubtless was the cathedral. at the right, the narrow houses dipped suddenly; their roof-lines were lost in vagueness. between the slit made by the street a deep, vast chasm opened; it was the night filling the great width of sky, and the mists that shrouded the hill, rising out of the sleeping earth. there was only one single line of light; a long deep glow was banding the horizon; it was a bit of flame the dusk held up, like a fading torch, to show where the sun had reigned. in and out of this dusk the townspeople came and went. away from the mellow lights, streaming past the open inn doors, the shapes were only a part of the blur; they were vague, phantasmal masses, clad in coarse draperies. as they passed into the circle of light, the faces showed features we had grown to know--the high cheekbones, the ruddy tones, the deep-set, serious eyes, and firm mouths, with lips close together. the air on this hill-top must be of excellent quality; the life up here could scarcely be so hard as in the field villages. for the women looked less worn, and less hideously old, and in the men's eyes there was not so hard and miserly a glittering. almost all, young or old, were bearing strange burdens. some of the men were carrying huge floral crosses; the women were laden with every conceivable variety of object--with candlesticks, vases, urns, linen sheets, rugs, with chairs even. "they are helping to dress the reposoirs, they must all be in readiness for the morning," answered our friend, still beside us, when we asked the cause of this astonishing spectacle. everywhere garlands and firs, leaves, flowers, and wreaths; people moving rapidly; the carriers of the crosses stopping to chat for an instant with groups working at some mysterious scaffolding--all shapes in darkness. everywhere, also, there was the sweet, aromatic scent of the greens and the pines abroad in the still, clear air of the summer night. this was the perfume and these the dim pictures that were our company along the narrow coutances streets. chapter xxvi. a scene in a norman court. the court-room was brightly lighted; the yellow radiance on the white walls made the eyes blink. we had turned, following our guide, from the gloom of the dim streets into the roomy corridors of the prefecture. even the gardens about the building were swarming with townspeople and peasants waiting for the court to open. when we entered it was to find the hallways and stairs blocked with a struggling mass of people, all eager to get seats. a voice that was softened to a purring note, the voice that goes with the pursuit of the five franc piece, spoke to our landlady. "the seats to be reserved in the tribune were for these ladies?" no time had been lost, you perceive. we were strangers; the courtesies of the town were to be extended to us. we were to have of their best, here in coutances; and their best, just now, was this _mise en scène_ in their court room. the stage was well set. the frenchman's instinctive sense of fitness was obvious in the arrangements. long lines of blue drapery from the tall windows brought the groups below into high relief; the scarlet of the judges' robes was doubly impressive against this background. the lawyers, in their flowing black gowns and white ties, gained added dignity from the marine note behind them. the bluish pallor of the walls made the accused and the group about him pathetically sombre. each one of this little group was in black. the accused himself, a sharp, shrewd, too keen-eyed man of thirty or so, might have been following a corpse--so black was his raiment. even the youth beside him, a dull, sodden-eyed lad, with an air of being here not on his own account, but because he had been forced to come, was clad in deepest mourning. by the side of the culprit sat the one really tragic figure in all the court--the culprit's wife. she also was in black. in happier times she must have been a fair, fresh-colored blonde. now all the color was gone from her cheek. she was as pale as death, and in her sweet downcast eyes there were the tell-tale vigils of long nights of weeping. beside her sat an elderly man who bent over her, talking, whispering, commenting as the trial went on. every eye in the tribune was fixed on the slim young figure. a passing glance sufficed, as a rule, for the culprit and his accomplice; but it was on the wife that all the quick french sympathy, that volubly spoke itself out, was lavished. the blouses and peasants' caps, the tradesmen and their wives crowded close about the railing to pass their comment. "she looks far more guilty than he," muttered a wizened old man next to us, very crooked on his three-legged stool. "yes," warmly added a stout capped peasant, with a basket once on her arm, now serving as a pedestal to raise the higher above the others her own curiosity. "yes--she has her modesty--too--to speak for her--" "bah--all put on--to soften the jury." it was our fiery one of the table d'hôte who had wedged his way toward us. "and why not? a woman must make use of what weapons she has at hand--" _"silence! silence! messieurs!"_ the _huissier_ brought down his staff of office with a ring. the clatter of sabots over the wooden floor of the tribune and the loud talking were disturbing the court. this french court, as a court, sat in strange fashion, it seemed to us. the bench was on wonderfully friendly terms with the table about which the clerks sat, with the lawyers, with the foreman of the jury, with even the _huissiers_. monsieur le president was in his robes, but he wore them as negligently as he did the dignity of his office. he and the lawyer for the defence, a noted coutances orator, openly wrangled; the latter, indeed, took little or no pains to show him respect; now they joked together, next a retort flashed forth which began a quarrel, and the court and the trial looked on as both struggled for a mastery in the art of personal abuse. the lawyer made nothing of raising his finger, to shake it in open menace in the very teeth of the scarlet robes. and the robes clad a purple-faced figure that retorted angrily, like a fighting school-boy. but to coutances, this, it appears, was a proper way for a court to sit. "_ah, d'alençon--il est fort, lui. c'est lui qui agace toujours monsieur le président_--" "he'll win--he'll make a great speech--he is never really fine unless it's a question of life or death--" such were the criticisms that were poured out from the quick-speaking lips about us. presently a simultaneous movement on the part of the jury brought the proceedings to confusion. a witness in the act of giving evidence stopped short in his sentence; he twisted his head; looking upward, he asked a question of the foreman, and the latter nodded, as if assenting. the judge then looked up. all the court looked up. all the heads were twisted. something obviously was wrong. then, presently the _concierge_ appeared with a huge bunch of keys. and all the court waited in perfect stillness while the windows were being closed! "_il y avait un courant d'air_--there was a draught,"--gravely announced the crooked man, as he rose to let the _concierge_ pass. this latter had her views of a court so susceptible to whiffs of night air. "_ces messieurs_ are delicate--pity they have to be out at night!"--whereat the tribune snickered. all went on bravely for a good half-hour. more witnesses were called; each answered with wonderful aptness, ease, and clearness; none were confused or timid; these were not men to be the playthings of others who made tortuous cross-questionings their trade. they, also, were frenchmen; they knew how to speak. the judge and the coutances lawyer continued their jokes and their squabblings. and still only the poor wife hung her head. then all at once the judge began to mop his brow. the jury, to a man, mopped theirs. the witnesses and lawyers each brought forth their big silk handkerchiefs. all the court was wiping its brow. "it's the heat," cried the judge. "_huissier_, call the _concierge_; tell her to open the windows." the _concierge_ reappeared. flushed this time, and with anger in her eye. she pushed her way through the crowd; she took not the least pains in the world to conceal her opinion of a court as variable as this one. "_ah mais_, this is too much! if the jury doesn't know its mind better than this!"--and in the fury of her wrath she well-nigh upset the crooked little old gentleman and his three-legged stool. "that's right--that's right. i'm not a fine lady, tip me over. you open and shut me as if i were a bureau drawer; _continuez_--_continuez_--" the _concierge_ had reached the windows now. she was opening and slamming them in the face of the judge, the jury, and _messieurs les huissiers_, with unabashed violence. the court, except for that one figure in sombre draperies, being men, suffered this violence as only men bear with a woman in a temper. with the letting in of the fresh air, fresh energy in the prosecution manifested itself. the witnesses were being subjected to inquisitorial torture; their answers were still glib, but the faces were studies of the passions held in the leash of self-control. not twenty minutes had ticked their beat of time when once more the jury, to a man, showed signs of shivering. half a dozen gravely took out their pocket-handkerchiefs, and as gravely covered their heads. others knotted the square of linen, thus making a closer head-gear. the judge turned uneasily in his own chair; he gave a furtive glance at the still open windows; as he did so he caught sight of his jury thus patiently suffering. the spectacle went to his heart; these gentlemen were again in a draught? where was the _concierge_? then the _huissier_ whispered in the judge's ear; no one heard, but everyone divined the whisper. it was to remind monsieur le president that the _concierge_ was in a temper; would it not be better for him, the _huissier_, to close the windows? without a smile the judge bent his head, assenting. and once more all proceedings were at a standstill; the court was patiently waiting, once more, for the windows to be closed. now, in all this, no one, not even the wizened old man who was obviously the humorist of the tribune, had seen anything farcical. to be too hot--to be too cold! this is a serious matter in france. a jury surely has a right to protect itself against cold, against _la migraine_, and the devils of rheumatism and pleurisy. there is nothing ridiculous in twelve men sitting in judgment on a fellow-man, with their handkerchiefs covering their bare heads. nor of a judge who gallantly remembers the temper of a _concierge_. nor of a whole court sitting in silence, while the windows are opened and closed. there was nothing in all this to tickle the play of french humor. but then, we remembered, france is not the land of humorists, but of wits. monsieur d'alençon down yonder, as he rises from his chair to address the judge and jury, will prove to you and me, in the next two hours, how great an orator a frenchman can be, without trenching an inch on the humorist's ground. the court-room was so still now that you could have heard the fall of a pin. at last the great moment had come-the moment and the man. there is nothing in life frenchmen love better than a good speech--_un discours_; and to have the same pitched in the dramatic key, with a tragic result hanging on the effects of the pleading, this is the very climax of enjoyment. to a norman, oratory is not second, but first, nature; all the men of this province have inherited the gift of a facile eloquence. but this monsieur d'alençon, the crooked man whispered, in hurried explanation, he was _un fameux_--even the paris courts had to send for him when they wanted a great orator. the famous lawyer understood the alphabet of his calling. he knew the value of effect. he threw himself at once into the orator's pose. his gown took sculptural lines; his arms were waved majestically, as arms that were conscious of having great sleeves to accentuate the lines of gesture. then he began to speak. the voice was soft; at first one was chiefly conscious of the music in its cadences. but as it warmed and grew with the ardor of the words, the room was filled with such vibrations as usually come only with the sounding of rich wind-instruments. with such a voice a man could do anything. d'alençon played with it as a man plays with a power he has both trained and conquered. it was firmly modulated, with no accent of sympathy when he opened his plea for his client. it warmed slightly when he indignantly repelled the charges brought against the latter. it took the cadence of a lover when he pointed to the young wife's figure and asked if it were likely a husband could be guilty of such crimes, year after year, with such a woman as that beside him? it was tenderly explanatory as he went on enlarging on the young wife's perfections, on her character, so well known to them all here in coutances, on the influence she had given the home-life yonder in cherbourg. even the children were not forgotten, as an aid to incidental testimony. was it even conceivable a father of a young family would lead an innocent lad into error, fraud, and theft? "it is he who knows how to touch the heart!" "_quel beau moment!_" cried the wizened man, in a transport. "see--the jury weep!" all the court was in tears, even monsieur le president sniffled, and yet there was no draught. as for the peasant women and the shop keepers, they could not have been more moved if the culprit had been a blood relation. how they enjoyed their tears! what a delight it was to thus thrill and shiver! the wife was sobbing now, with her head on her uncle's shoulder. and the culprit was acting his part, also, to perfection. he had been firmly stoical until now. but at this parade of his wife's virtues he broke down, his head was bowed at last. it was all the tribune could do to keep its applause from breaking forth. it was such a perfect performance! it was as good as the theatre--far better--for this was real--this play-with a man's whole future at stake! until midnight the lawyer held all in the town in a trance. he ended at last with a ciceronian, declamatory outburst. a great buzz of applause welled up from the court. the tribune was in transports; such a magnificent harangue he had not given them in years. it was one of his greatest victories. "and his victories, madame, they are the victories of all coutances." the crooked man almost stood upright in the excitement of his enthusiasm. great drops of sweat were on his wrinkled old brow. the evening had been a great event in his life, as his twisted frame, all a-tremble with pleasurable elation, exultingly proved. the women's caps were closer together than ever; they were pressing in a solid mass close to the railing of the tribune to gain one last look at the figure of the wife. "it is she who will not sleep--" "poor soul, are her children with her?" "no--and no women either. there is only the uncle." "he is a good man, he will comfort her!" "_faut prier le bon dieu!_" at the court-room door there was a last glimpse of the stricken figure. she disappeared into the blackness of the night, bent and feeble, leaning with pitiful attempt at dignity on the uncle's arm. with the dawn she would learn her husband's fate. the jury would be out all night. "you see, madame, it is she who must really suffer in the end." we were also walking into the night, through the bushes of the garden, to the dark of the streets. our landlady was guiding us, and talking volubly. she was still under the influence of the past hour's excitement. her voice trembled audibly, and she was walking with brisk strides through the dim streets. "if filon is condemned, what would happen to them?" "oh, he would pass a few years in prison--not many. the jury is always easy on the rich. but his future is ruined. they--the family--would have to go away. but even then, rumor would follow them. it travels far nowadays--it has a thousand legs, as they say here. wherever they go they will be known. but monsieur d'alençon, what did you think of him, _hein_? there's a great man--what an orator! one must go as far as paris--to the theatre; one must hear a great play--and even there, when does an actor make you weep as he did? henri, he was superb. i tell you, superb! _d'une éloquence!_" and to her husband, when we reached the inn door, our vivacious landlady was still narrating the chief points of the speech as we crawled wearily up to our beds. it was early the next morning when we descended into the inn dining-room. the lawyer's eloquence had interfered with our rest. coffee and a bite of fresh air were best taken together, we agreed. before the coffee came the news of the culprit's fate. most of the inn establishment had been sent to court to learn the jury's verdict. madame confessed to a sleepless night. the thought of that poor wife had haunted her pillow. she had deemed it best--but just to us all, in a word, to despatch auguste--the one inn waiter, to hear the verdict. _tiens_, there he was now, turning the street corner. "_il est acquitté!_" rang through the streets. "he is acquitted--he is acquitted! _le bon dieu soit loué!_ henri--ernest--monsieur terier, he is acquitted--he is acquitted! i tell you!" the cry rang through the house. our landlady was shouting the news out of doors, through windows, to the passers-by, to the very dogs as they ran. but the townspeople needed no summoning. the windows were crowded full of eager heads, all asking the same question at once. a company of peasants coming up from the fields for breakfast stopped to hear the glad tidings. the shop-keepers all the length of the street gathered to join them. everyone was talking at once. every shade of opinion was aired in the morning sun. on one subject alone there was a universal agreement. "what good news for the poor wife!" "and what a night she must have passed!" all this sympathy and interest, be it remembered, was for one they barely knew. to be the niece of a coutances uncle--this was enough, it appears, for the good people of this cathedral city, to insure the flow of their tears and the gift of their prayers. chapter xxvii. the fete-dieu--a june christmas. when we stepped forth into the streets, it was to find a flower strewn city. the paving stones were covered with the needles of pines, with fir boughs, with rose leaves, lily stocks, and with the petals of flock and clematis. one's feet sank into the odorous carpet as in the thick wool of an oriental prayer rug. to tread upon this verdure was to crush out perfume. yet the fragrance had a solemn flavor. there was a touch of consecration in the very aroma of the fir sap. never was there a town so given over to its festival. everything else--all trade, commerce, occupation, work, or pleasure even, was at a dead standstill. in all the city there was but one thought, one object, one end in view. this was the great day of the _fête-dieu_. to this blessed feast of the sacrament the townspeople had been looking forward for weeks. it is their june christmas. the great day brings families together. [illustration: an exciting moment--a coutances interior] from all the country round the farm wagons had been climbing the hill for hours. the peasants were in holiday dress. gold crosses and amber beads encircled leathery old necks; the gossamer caps, real normandy caps at last, crowned heads held erect today, with the pride of those who had come to town clad in their best. even the younger women were in true peasant garb; there was a touch of a ribbon, brilliant red and blue stockings, and the sparkle of silver shoe-buckles and gold necklaces to prove they had donned their finery in honor of the _fête_. the men wore their blue and purple blouses over their holiday suits; but almost all had pinned a sprig of bright geranium or honeysuckle to brighten up the shiny cotton of the preservative blouse. even the children carried bouquets; and thus many of the farm wagons were as gay as the streets. no, gay is not the word. neither the city nor the streets were really gay. the city, as a city, was too dead in earnest, too absorbed, too intent, to indulge in gayety. it was the greatest of all the days of the year in coutances. in the climaxic moments of life, one is solemn, not gay. it was not only the greatest, but the busiest, day of the year for this cathedral town. here was a whole city to deck; every street, every alleyway must be as beautiful as a church on a feast-day. the city, in truth, must be changed from a bustling, trading, commercial entrepôt into an altar. and this altar must be beautiful--as beautiful, as ingeniously picturesque as only the french instinct for beauty could make it. think you, with such a task on hand, this city-ful of artists had time for frivolous idling? since dawn these artists had been scrubbing their doors, washing windows, and sluicing the gutters. one is not a provincial for nothing; one is honest in the provinces; one does not drape finery over a filthy frame. the city was washed first, before it was adorned. opposite, across from our inn door-sill, where we lingered a moment before we began our journey through the streets, we could see for ourselves how thorough was this cleansing. a shopkeeper and his wife were each mounted on a step-ladder. one washed the inside and the other the outside of the low shop-windows. they were in the greatest possible haste, for they were late in their preparations. in two hours the procession was to pass. their neighbors stopped to cry up to them: "_tendez vous, aujourd'hui?_" it is the universal question, heard everywhere. "_mais oui_," croaked out the man, his voice sounding like the croak of a rook, from the height from which he spoke. "only we are late, you see." it was his wife who was taking the question to heart. she saw in it just cause for affront. "ah, those espergnons, they're always on time, they are; they had their hangings out a week ago, and now they are as filthy as wash-rags. no wonder they have time to walk the streets!" and the indignant dame gave her window-pane an extra polish. "here, leon, catch hold, i'm ready now!" the woman was holding out one end of a long, snowy sheet. leon meekly took his end; both hooked the stuff to some rings ready to secure the hanging; the facade of the little house was soon hidden behind the white fall of the family linen; and presently leon and his wife began very gravely to pin tiny sprigs of purple clematis across the white surface. this latter decoration was performed with the sure touch of artists. no mediaeval designer of tapestry could have chosen, with more secure selection, the precise points of distance at which to place the bouquets; nor could the tones and tints of the greens and purples, and the velvet of the occasional heartsease, sparsely used, have been more correctly combined. when the task was ended, the commonplace house was a palace wall, hung with the sheen of fine linen, on which bloomed geometric figures beautifully spaced. all the city was thus draped. one walked through long walls of snow, in which flowers grew. sometimes the floral decorations expanded from the more common sprig into wreaths and garlands. here and there the coutances fancy worked itself out in _fleur-de-lis_ emblems or in armorial bearings. but everywhere an astonishing, instinctive sense of beauty, a knowledge of proportion, and a natural sense for color were obvious. there was not, in all the town, a single offence committed against taste. is it any wonder, with such an heredity at their fingers' ends, that the provinces feed paris, and that paris sets the fashions in beauty for the rest of the world? come with us, and look upon this open-air chapel. it stands in the open street, in front of an old house of imposing aspect. the two commonplace-looking women who are putting--the finishing--touches to this beautiful creation tell us it is the reposoir of madame la baronne. they have been working on it since the day before. in the night the miracle was finished--nearly--they were so weary they had gone to bed at dawn. they do not tell you it is a miracle. they think it fine, oh, yes--"c'est beau--madame la baronne always has the most beautiful of all the reposoirs," but then they have decked these altars since they were born; their grandmothers built them before ever they saw the light. for always in coutances "on la fête beaucoup;" this feast of the sacrament has been a great day in coutances for centuries past. but although they are so used to it, these natural architects love the day. "it's so fine to see--_si beau à voir_ all the reposoirs, and the children and the fine ladies walking--through the streets, and then, all kneeling--when monseigneur l'archevêque prays. ah yes, it is a fine sight." they nod, and smile, and then they turn to light a taper, and to consult about the placing of a certain vase from out of which an easter lily towers. at the foot of these miniature altars trees had been planted. gardens had also been laid out; the parterres were as gravely watered as if they were to remain in the middle of a bustling high street in perpetuity. steps lead up to the altar. these were covered with rugs and carpets; for the feet of the bishop must tread only on velvet and flowers. candelabra, vases, banners, crosses, crucifixes, flowers, and tall thin tapers--all the altars were crowded with such adornments. human vanity and the love of surpassing one's neighbors, these also figured conspicuously among the things the fitfully shining sun looks down upon. but what a charm there is in such a contest! surely the desire to beautify the spot on which the blessed sacrament rests this is only another way of professing one's adoration. as we passed through the streets a multitude of pictures crowded upon the eyes. in an archway groups of young first communicants were forming; they were on their way to the cathedral. their white veils against the gloom of the recessed archways were like sunlit clouds caught in an abyss. priests in gorgeous vestments were walking quickly through the streets. all the peasants were going also toward the cathedral. a group stopped, as did we, to turn into a side-street. for there was a picture we should not see later on. between some lovely old turrets, down from convent walls a group of nuns fluttered tremulously; they were putting the last touches to the reposoir of their own sacré coeur. some were carrying huge gilt crosses, staggering as they walked; others were on tiptoe filling the tall vases; others were on their knees, patting into perfect smoothness the turf laid about the altar steps. there was an old curé among them and a young carpenter whom the curé was directing. everyone of the nuns had her black skirts tucked up; their stout shoes must be free to fly over the ground with the swiftness of hounds. how pretty the faces were, under the great caps, in that moment of unwonted excitement! the cheeks, even of the older nuns, were pink; it was a pink that made their habitual pallor have a dazzling beauty. the eyes were lighted into a fresh flame of life, and the lips were temptingly crimson; they were only women, after all, these nuns, and once a year at least this feast of the sacrament brings all their feminine activities into play. still we moved on, for within the cathedral the procession had not yet formed. there was still time to make a tour of the town. to plunge into the side-streets away from the wide cathedral parvis, was to be confronted with a strange calm. these narrow thoroughfares had the stillness which broods over all ancient cities' by-ways. here was no festival bustle; all was grave and sad. the only dwellers left in the antique fifteenth century houses were those who must remain at home till a still smaller house holds them. we passed several aged coutançais couples. by twos they were seated at the low windows; they had been dressed and then left; they were sitting here, in the pathetic patience of old age; they were hoping something of the _fête_ might come their way. two women, in one of the low interiors, were more philosophic than their neighbors; if their stiffened knees would not carry them to the _fête_, at least their gnarled old hands could hold a pack of cards. they were seated close to the open casement, facing each other across a small round table; along the window-sill there were rows of flower-pots; a pewter tankard was set between them; and out of the shadowy interior came the topaz gleam of the normandy brasses, the huge bed, with its snowy draperies, the great chests, and the flowery chintz-frill defining the width of the yawning fireplace. the two old faces, with the strong features, deep wrinkles, sunken mouths, and bald heads tied up in dazzling white coifs, were in full relief against the dim background. they were as motionless as statues; neither looked up as our footfall struck along the cobbles; it was an exciting moment in the game. [illustration: a street in coutances--eglise saint-pierre] below these old houses stretched the public gardens. here also there was a great stillness. for us alone the rose gardens bloomed, the tropical trees were shivering, and the palms were making a night of shade for wide acres of turf. rarely does a city boast of such a garden. it was no surprise to learn, later, that these lovely paths and noble terraces had been the slow achievement of a lover of landscape gardening, one who, dying, had given this, his master-piece, to his native town. there is no better place from which to view the beautiful city. from the horizontal lines of the broad terraces flows the great sweep of the hillside; it takes a swift precipitous plunge, and rests below in wide stretches of meadow. the garden itself seemed, by virtue of this encompassing circle of green, to be only a more exquisitely cultivated portion of the lovely outlying hills and wooded depths. the cows, grazing below in the valleys, were whisking their tails, and from the farm-yards came the crow of the chanticleer. one turned to look upward--to follow heavenward the soaring glory of the cathedral towers. from the plane of the streets their geometric perfection had made their lines seem cold. through this aerial perspective the eye followed, enraptured, the perfect gothic of the spires and the lower central tower. the great nave roof and the choir lifted themselves above the turrets and the tiled house-tops of the city, as gray mountains of stone rise above the huts of pygmies. coutances does well to be proud of its cathedral. the sound of a footstep, crunching the gravel of the garden-walk, caused us to turn. it was to find, face to face, the hero of the night before; the celebrated coutances lawyer was also taking his constitutional. but not alone, some friends were with him, come up to town doubtless for the _fête_ or the trial. he was showing them his city. he stretched a hand forth, with the same magisterial gesture of the night before, to point out the glory of the prospect lying below the terrace. he faced the cathedral towers, explaining the points of their perfection. and then, for he was a frenchman, he perceived the presence of two ladies. in an instant his hat was raised, and as quickly his eyes told us he had seen us before, in the courtroom. the bow was the lower because of this recognition, and the salute was accompanied by a grave smile. manners in the provinces are still good, you perceive--if only you are far enough away from paris. someone else also bestowed on us the courtesy of a passing greeting. it was a curé who was saying his ave, as he paced slowly, in the sun, up and down the yew path. he was old; one leg was already tired of life--it must be dragged painfully along, when one walked in the sun. the curé himself was not in the least tired of life. his smile was as warm as the sun as he lifted his _calotte_. "surely, mesdames, you will not miss the _fête_? it must be forming now." he had taken an old man's, and a priest's, privilege. we were all three looking down into the valley, which lay below, a pool of freshness. he had spoken, first of the beauty of the prospect, and then of the great day. to be young and still strong, to be able to follow the procession from street to street, and yet to be lingering here among the roses!--this passed the simple curé's comprehension. the reproach in his mild old eyes was quickly changed to approval, however; for upon the announcement that the procession was already in motion we started, bidding him a hurried adieu. the huge cathedral portals yawned at the top of the hill; they were like a gaping chasm. the great place of the cathedral square was half filled; a part of the procession had passed already beyond the gloom of the vast aisles into the frank openness of day. winding in and out of the white-hung streets a long line of figures was marching; part of the line had reached the first reposoir and gradually the swaying of the heads was slackening, as, by twos and twos, the figures stopped. still, from between the cathedral doors an unending multitude of people kept pouring forth upon the cathedral square. now it was an interminable line of young girls, first communicants, in their white veils and gowns; against the grays and browns of the cathedral facade this mass of snow was of startling purity--a great white rose of light. closely following the dazzling line marched a grave company of nuns; with their black robes sweeping the flower-strewn streets, the pallor of their faces, and the white wings of their huge coifs, they might have been so many marble statues moving with slow, automatic step, repeating in life the statues in stone above their heads, incarnations of meek renunciation. with the free and joyous step of a vigorous youth not yet tamed to complete self-obliteration, next there stepped forth into the sun a group of seminarists. in the lace and scarlet of their bright robes they were like unto so many young kings. high in the summer air they swung their golden censers; from huge baskets, heaped with flowers, they scattered flowers as they swayed, in the grace of their youth, from side to side, with priestly rhythmic motion. in the days of greece, under the attic tent of sky, it was jove that was thus worshipped; here in coutances, under the paler, less ardent blue of france, it was the christian god these youths were honoring. so men have continued to scatter flowers; to swing incense; to bend the knee; surely in all ages the long homage of men, like the procession here before us, has been but this--the longing to worship the invisible, and to make the act one with beauty. is it greek, is it christian, this festival? if it be catholic, it is also pagan. it is as composite a union of religious ceremonials as man is himself an aggregate of lost types, for there is a subtle law of repetition which governs both men and ceremonials. how pagan was the color! how greek the sense of beauty that lies in contrasts! how jewish the splendor of the priestly vestments as the gold and silver tissues gleamed in the sun! how mediaeval this survival of an old miracle play! see this group of children, half-frightened, half-proud, wandering from side to side as children unused to walking soberly ever march. they were following the leadership of a huge suisse. this latter was magnificently apparelled. he carried a great mace, and this he swung high in the air. the children, little john the baptist, christ, mary the mother, and magdalen, were magnetized by his mighty skill. they were looking at the golden stick; they were thinking only of how high he, this splendid giant who terrified them so, would throw it the next time, and if he would always surely catch it. the small virgin, in her long brown robes, tripped as she walked. the cherubic john the baptist, with only his sheepskin and his cross, shivered as he stumbled after her. "at least they might have covered his arms, _le pauvre petit_," one stout peasant among the bystanders was christian enough to mutter, "poor little john!" even in summer the sun is none too hot on this hill-top; and a sheepskin is a garment one must be used to, it appears. christ, himself, was no better off. he was wearing his crown of thorns, but he had only his night-dress, bound with a girdle, to keep his naked little body warm. an angel, in gossamer wings and a huge rose-wreath, being of the other sex, had her innate woman's love of finery to make her oblivious to the light sting of the wind, as it passed through her draperies. as this group in the procession moved slowly along, the city took on a curiously antique aspect. in every lattice window a head was framed. the lines of the townspeople pressed closer and closer; they made a serried mass of blouses and caps, of shiny coats and bared heads. the very houses seemed to recognize that a part of their own youth was passing them by; these were the figures they had looked out upon, time after time, in the old fourteenth and fifteenth century days, when the great miracle plays drew the country around, for miles and miles, to this coutances square. across the square, in the long gray distance of the streets, the archbishop's canopy was motionless. a sweet groaning murmur rippled from lip to lip. then a swift and mighty rustling filled the air, for the bones of thousands of knees were striking the stones of the street;--even heretic knees were bent when the host was lifted. it was the moment of silent prayer. it was also, perhaps, the most beautiful, it was assuredly the most consummately picturesque moment of the day. the bent heads; the long vistas of kneeling figures; the lovely contrasts of the flowing draperies; the trailing splendor of the priests' robes dying into the black note made by the nuns' sombre skirts; the gossamer brilliance of the hundreds of white veils, through which the young rapture of religious awe on lips and brow made even commonplace features beautiful; the choristers' scarlet petticoats; the culminating note of splendor, the archbishop, throned like some antique scriptural king under the feathers and velvets of his crimson canopy; then the long lines of the townspeople with the groups of peasants beside them, whose well-sunned skins made even their complexion seem pale by the side of cheeks that brought the burn of noon-suns in the valleys to mind; and behind this wall of kneeling figures, those other walls, the long white-hung house facades, with their pendent sprigs and wreaths and garlands above which hung the frieze of human heads beneath the carved cornices; surely this was indeed the culminating moment, both in point of beauty and in impressiveness, of the great day's festival. thus was reposoir after reposoir visited. again and again the multitude was on its knees. again and again the host was lifted. and still we followed. sometimes all the line was in full light, a long perspective of color and of prismatic radiance. and then the line would be lost; some part of it was still in a side-street; and the rest were singing along the edges of the city's ramparts, under the great branches of the trees. here, in the gray of the narrow streets, the choristers' gowns were startling in their richness. yonder, in full sunlight, the brightness on the maidens' robes made the shadows in their white skirts as blue as light caught in a grotto's depth. still they sang. in the dim streets or under the trees, where the gay banners were still fluttering, and the white veils, like airy sails, were bulging in the wind, the hymn went on. it was thin and pathetically weak in the mouths of the babes that walked. it was clear, as fresh and pure as a brooklet's ripple, from the mouths of the young communicants. it was of firm contralto strength from the throats of the grave nuns. the notes gained and gained in richness; the hymn was almost a chant with the priests; and in the mouths of the people it was as a ringing chorus. together with the swelling music swung the incense into high air; and to the host the rose-leaves were flung. still we followed. still the long line moved on from altar to altar. then, when the noon was long past, wearily we climbed upward to our inn. in the high streets there was much going to and fro. the shop-keepers already were taking down their linen. pouffe! pouffe! there was much blowing through mouths and a great standing on tiptoes to reach the tall tapers on the reposoirs. coutances was pious. coutances was proud of its fête. but coutances was also a thrifty city. once the cortege had passed, it was high time to snuff out the tapers. who could stand by and see good candles blowing uselessly in the wind, and one's money going along with the dripping? chapter xxviii. by land to mont st. michel. two hours later the usual collection of forces was assembled in our inn courtyard; for a question of importance was to be decided. madame was there--chief of the council; her husband was also present, because he might be useful in case any dispute as to madame's word came up; auguste, the one inn waiter, was an important figure of the group; for he, of them all, was the really travelled one; he had seen the world--he was to be counted on as to distances and routes; and above, from the upper windows, the two ladies of the bed-chamber looked down, to act as chorus to the brisk dialogue going on between madame and the owner of a certain victoria for which we were in treaty. "_ces dames,_" madame said, with a shrug which was meant for the coachman, and a smile which was her gift to us--"these ladies wish to go to mont st. michel, to drive there. have you your little victoria and poulette?" now, by the shrug madame had conveyed to the man and the assembled household generally, her own great scorn of us, and of our plans. what a whim this, of driving, forsooth, to the mont! _dieu sait_--french people were not given to any such follies; they were serious-minded, _always_, in matters of travel. to travel at all, was no light thing; one made one's will and took an honest and tearful farewell of one's family, when one went on a journey. but these english, these americans, there's no foretelling to what point their folly will make them tempt fate! however, madame was one who knew on which side her bread was buttered, if ever a woman did, and the continuance of these mad follies helped to butter her own french roll. and so her shrug and wink conveyed to the tall norman just how much these particular lunatics before them would be willing to pay for this their whim. "have you poulette?" "yes--yes--poulette is at home. i have made her repose herself all day--hearing these ladies had spoken of driving to the mont--" chorus from the upper window-sills. "the poor beast! it is _joliment longue--la distance_." "as these ladies observe," continued the owner of the doomed animal, not raising his head, but quickly acting on the hint, "it is long, the distance--one does not go for nothing." and though the man kept his mouth from betraying him, his keen eyes glittered with avarice. "and then--_ces dames_ must descend at genets, to cross the _grève, tu sais_" interpolated the waiter, excitedly changing his napkin, his wand of office, from one armpit to the other. the thought of travel stirred his blood. it was fine--to start off thus, without having to make the necessary arrangements for a winter's service or a summer's season. and to drive, that would be new--yes that would be a change indeed from the stuffy third-class compartments. for auguste, you see, approved of us and of the foolishness of our plans. his sympathy being gratis, was allied to the protective instinct--he would see the cheating was at least as honestly done as was compatible with french methods. "another carriage--and why?" we meekly queried, warned by this friendly hint. a chorus now arose from the entire audience. "_mais, madame!_--it is as much as five or six kilos over the sands to the mont from genets!" was cried out in a tone of universal reproach. "through rivers, madame, through rivers as high as that!" and auguste, striking in after the chorus, measured himself off at the breast. "yes--the water comes to there, on the horse," added the driver, sweeping an imaginary horse's head, with a fine gesture, in the air. "dame, that must be fine to see," cried down léontine and marie, gasping with little sighs of envy. "and so it is!" cried back auguste, nodding upward with dramatic gesture. "one can get as wet as a duck splashing through those rivers. _dieu! que c'est beau!_" and he clasped his hands as his eye, rolling heavenward, caught the blue and the velvet of the four feminine orbs on its upward way. seeing which ecstasy, the courtyard visibly relented; auguste's rapture and his envy had worked the common human miracle of turning contempt for a folly into belief in it. this quick firing of french people to a pleasurable elation in others' adventure is, i think we must all agree, one of the great charms of this excitable race: anything will serve as a pretext for setting this sympathetic vibration in motion. what they all crave as a nation is a daily, hourly diet of the unusual, the unforeseen. it is this passion for incident which makes a frenchman's life not unlike his soups, since in the case of both, how often does he make something out of nothing! an hour later we were picking our way through the city's streets. sweeter than the crushed flowers was the free air of the valley. there is no way of looking back so agreeable, on the whole, i think, as to look back upon a city. from the near distance of the first turn in the road, coutances and its cathedral were at their very best. the hill on which both stood was only one of the many hills we now saw growing out of the green valley; among the dozen hill tops, this one we were leaving was only more crowded than the others, and more gloriously crowned. in giant height uprose, above the city's roofs and the lesser towers, the spires and the lovely lantern tower. this vast mass of stone, pricked into lacy apertures and with its mighty lines of grace-for how many a long century has it been in the eye of the valley? tancrède de hauteville saw it before william was born--before he, the conqueror, rode in his turn through the green lanes to consecrate the church to one greater than he. from tancrède to boileau, what a succession of bishops, each in their turn, have had their eye on the great cathedral. there was a sort of viking bishop, one geoffrey de montbray, of the conqueror's day, who, having a greater taste for men's blood than their purification, found coutances a dull city; there was more war of the kind his stout arm rejoiced in across the channel; and so he travelled a bit to do a little pleasant killing. from geoffrey to boileau and the latter's lacy ruffles--how many a rude norman epic was acted out, here in the valley, beneath the soaring spires, before the homeric combat was turned into the verse of a _chanso de geste_, a _roman de rou_, or a _latrin!_ as poulette rolled the wheels along, instead of visored bishop, or mail rustling on strong breasts, there was the open face of the landscape, and the tremble of the grasses beneath the touch of the wind. coming down the hill was a very peaceable company; doubtless, between wars in those hot fighting centuries, just such travellers went up and down the hill-road as unconcernedly as did these peasants. there was quite a variety among the present groups: some were strictly family parties; these talked little, giving their mind to stiff walking--the smell of the soup in the farmyard kitchen was in their nostrils. the women's ages were more legibly read in their caps than in their faces--the older the women the prettier the caps. among these groups, queens of the party, were some first communicants. their white kid slippers were brown now, from the long walk in the city streets and the dust of the highway. they held their veils with a maiden's awkwardness; with bent heads they leaned gravely on their fathers' arms. in this, their first supreme experience of self-consciousness, they had the self-absorption of young brides. the trail of their muslin gowns and the light cloud of their veils made dazzling spots of brightness in the delicate frame of the june landscape. each of these white-clad figures was followed by a long train of friends and relatives. "_c'est joli à voir_--it's a pretty sight, _hein_, my ladies? these young girls are beautiful like that!" our coachman took his eye off poulette to turn in his seat, looking backward at the groups as they followed in our wake. "ah--it was hard to leave my own--i had two like that, myself, in the procession to-day." and the full norman eye filled with a sudden moisture. this was a more attractive glitter than the avarice of a moment before. "you see, mesdames," he went on, as if wishing to excuse the moistened eyelids, "you see--it's a great day in the family when our children take their first communion. it is the day the child dies and the man, the woman is born. when our children kneel at our feet, before the priest, before their comrades, and beg us to forgive them all the sin they have done since they were born--it is too much--the heart grows so big it is near to bursting. ah--it is then we all weep!" charm settled herself in her seat with a satisfied smile. "we are in luck--an emotional coachman who weeps and talks! the five hours will fly," she murmured. then aloud, to jacques--as we learned the now sniffling father was called--she presently asked, with the oil of encouragement in her tone: "you say your two were in the procession?" "two! there were five in all. even the babies walked. did you see jésu and the magdalen? they were mine--_c'était à moi, çà!_ for the priests will have them--as many as they can get." "they are right. if the children didn't walk, how could the procession be so fine?" "fine--_beau--ca?_" and there was a deep scorn in jacques's voice. "you should have seen the _fête_ twenty years ago! now, its glory is as nothing. it's the priests themselves who are to blame. they've spoiled it all. years ago, the whole town walked. _dieu_--what a spectacle! the mayor, the mairie, all the firemen, municipal officers--yes, even the soldiers walked. and as for the singing--_dame_, all the young men were choristers then--we were trained for months. when we walked and sang in the open streets the singing filled all the town. it was like a great thunder." "and the change--why has it come?" persisted charm. "oh," jacques replied, caressing poulette's haunches with his whip-lash. "it's the priests; they were too grasping. they are avaricious, that's what they are. they want everything for themselves. and a _fête--ça coule, vous savez_. besides, the spirit of the times has changed. people aren't so devout now. _libres penseurs_--that's the fashion now. _holà_, poulette!" poulette responded. she dashed into the valley, below us now, as if this rolling along of a heavy victoria, a lot of luggage, and three travellers, was an agreeable episode in her career of toil. but on the mind of her owner, the spectre of the free-thinkers was still hovering like an evil spirit. during the next hour he gave us a long and exhaustive exposition of the changes wrought by _ces messieurs qui nient le bon dieu._ among their crimes was to be numbered that of having disintegrated the morale of the peasantry. they--the peasants--no longer believed in miracles, and as for sorcery, for the good old superstitions, bah: they were looked upon as old wives' tales. even here, in the heart of this rural country, you would have to walk far before you could find _vne vraie sorcière_, one who, by looking into a glass of water, for instance, could read the future as in a book, or one who, if your cow dried up, could name the evil spirit, the demon, who, among the peasants was exercising the curse. all this science was lost. a peasant would now be ashamed to bring his cow to a fortune-teller; all the village would laugh. even the shepherds had lost the power of communing with the planets at night; and all the valley read the _petit journal_ instead of consulting the _vieilles mères_. one must go as far as brittany to see a real peasant with the superstitions of a peasant. as for normandy, it went in step with the rest of the world, _que diable!_ and again the whip lash descended. poulette must suffer for jacques's disgust. if the norman peasant was a modern, his country, at least, had retained the charm of its ancient beauty. the road was as norman a highway as one could wish to see. it had the most capricious of natures, turning and perversely twisting among the farms and uplands. the land was ribboned with growing grain, and the june grass was being cut. the farms stood close upon the roadway, as if longing for its companionship; and then, having done so much toward the establishment of neighborly gossip, promptly turned their backs upon it--true normans, all of them, with this their appearance of frankness and their real reserves of secrecy. for a last time we caught a distant glimpse of the great cathedral. as we looked back across the bright-roofed villages, we saw the stately pile, gray, glorious, superb, dominating the scene, the hills, river, and fields, as in the old days the great city walls and the cathedral towers had dominated all the human life that played helplessly about them. we were out once more among the green and yellow broadlands; between our carriage-wheels and the horizon there was now spread a wide amphitheatre of wooded hills. the windings of the poplar-lined road serpentined in sinuous grace in and out of forests, meadows, hills, and islands. the afternoon lights were deepening; the shadows on the grain-fields cast by the oaks and beeches were a part of our company. the blue bloom of the distant hills was strengthening into purple. as the light was intensifying in color, the human life in the fields was relaxing its tension; the bent backs were straightening, the ploughmen were whipping their steeds toward the open road; for although it was sunday, and a _fête_ day, the farmer must work. the women were gathering up some of the grasses, tying them into bundles, and tossing them on their heads as they moved slowly across the blackening earth. one field near us was peopled with a group of girls resting on their scythes. one or two among them were mopping their faces with their coarse blue aprons; the faces of all were aflame with the red of rude health. as we came upon them, some had flung away their scythes, the tallest among the group grasping a near companion, playfully, in the pose of a wrestler. in an instant the company was turned into a group of wrestlers. there was a great shout of laughter, as maiden after maiden was tumbled over on her back or face amid the grasses. sabots, short skirts, kerchiefs, scarlet arms rose and fell to earth in the mad whirl of their gayety. "stop, jacques, i must see the end," cried charm. "will they fight or dance, i wonder!" "oh, it is a pure georgic--they'll dance." they were dancing already. the line, with dishevelled hair, aprons and kerchiefs askew, had formed into the square of a quadrille. a rude measure was tripped; a snatch of song, shouted amid the laughter, gave rhythm to the measure, and then the whole band, singing in chorus, linked arms and swept with a furious dash beneath the thatched roof of a low farm-house. "as you see, my ladies, sometimes the fields are gay--even now," was jacques's comment. "but they should be getting their grasses in--for it'll rain before night. it's time to sing when the scythe sleeps--as we say here." to our eyes there were no signs of rain. the clouds rolling in the blue sea above us were only gloriously lighted. but the birds and the peasants knew their sky; there was a great fluttering of wings among the branches; and the peasants, as we rattled in and out of the hamlets, were pulling the _reposoirs_ to pieces in the haste that predicts bad weather. they had been "celebrating" all along the road; and besides the piety, the norman thrift was abroad upon the highway. women were tearing sheets off the house facades; the lads and girls were bearing crosses, china vases, and highly-colored virgins from the wooden altars into the low houses. presently the great drops fell; they beat upon the smooth roadway like so many hard bits of coin. in less than two ticks of the clock, the world was a wet world; there were masses of soft gray clouds that were like so much cotton, dripping with moisture. the earth was as drenched as if, half an hour ago, it had not been a jewel gleaming in the sun; and the very farm-houses had quickly assumed an air of having been caught out in the rain without an umbrella. the farm gardens alone seemed to rejoice in the suddenness of the shower. flowers have a way of shining, when it rains, that proves flower-petals have a woman's love of solitaires. there were other dashes of color that made the gray landscape astonishingly brilliant. some of the peasants on their way to the village _fêtes_ were also caught in the passing shower. they had opened their wide blue and purple umbrellas; these latter made huge disks of color reflected in the glass of the wet macadam. the women had turned their black alpaca and cashmere skirts inside out, tucking the edges about their stout hips; beneath the wide vivid circles of the dripping umbrellas these brilliantly colored under-petticoats showed a liberal revelation of scarlet hose and thick ankles sunk in the freshly polished black sabots. the men's cobalt-blue blouses and their peaked felt hats spotted the landscape with contrasting notes and outlines. after the last peaked hat had disappeared into the farm enclosures, we and the wet landscape had the rain to ourselves. the trees now were spectral shapes; they could not be relied on as companions. even the gardens and grain lands were mysteriously veiled, so close rolled the mists to our carriage-wheels. beyond, at the farthest end of the road, these mists had formed themselves into a solid, compact mass. the clouds out yonder, far ahead, seemed to be enwrapping some part of earth that had lanced itself into the sky. after a little the eyes unconsciously watched those distant woolly masses. there was a something beyond, faint, vague, impalpable as yet, which the rolling mists begirt as sometimes they cincture an alpine needle. even as the thought came, a sudden lifting--of the gray mass showed the point of a high uplifted pinnacle. the point thereof pricked the sky. then the wind, like a strong hand, swept the clouds into a mantle, and we saw the strange spectacle no more. for several miles our way led us through a dim, phantasmal landscape. all the outlines were blurred. even the rain was a veil; it fell between us and the nearest hedgerows as if it had been a curtain. the jingling of poulette's bell-collar and the gurgle of the water rushing in the gulleys--these were the only sounds that fell upon the ear. still the clouds about that distant mass curled and rolled; they were now breaking, now re-forming--as if some strange and wondrous thing were hanging there--between heaven and earth. it was still far out, the mass; even the lower mists were not resting on any plain of earth. they also were moved by something that moved beneath them, as a thick cloak takes the shape and motion of the body it covers. still we advanced, and still the great mountain of cloud grew and grew. and then there came a little lisping, hissing sound. it was the kiss of the sea as it met some unseen shore. and on our cheeks the sea-wind blew, soft and salty to the lips. the mass was taking shape and outline. the mists rolled along some wide, broad base that rested beneath the sea, and skyward they clasped the apexal point of a pyramid. this pyramid in the sky was mont st. michel. with its feet in the sea, and its head vanishing into infinity--here, at last, was this rock of rocks, caught, phantom-like, up into the very heavens above. it loomed out of the spectral landscape--itself the superlative spectre; it took its flight upward as might some genius of beauty enrobed in a shroud of mystery. such has it been to generations of men. beautiful, remote, mysterious! with its altars and its shrines, its miracle of stone carved by man on those other stones hewn by the wind and the tempest, mont st. michel has ever been far more a part of heaven than a thing of earth. then, for us, the clouds suddenly lifted, as, for modern generations of men, the mists of superstition have also rolled themselves away. mont st. michel: an inn on a rock. [illustration: mont saint michel] chapter xxix. by sea to the poulard inn. we were being tossed in the air like so many balls. a normandy _char a banc_ was proving itself no respecter of nice distinctions in conditions in life. it phlipped, dashed, and rolled us about with no more concern than if it were taking us to market to be sold by the pound. for we were on the _grève_. the promised rivers were before us. so was the mont, spectral no longer, but nearing with every plunge forward of our sturdy young percheron. locomotion through any new or untried medium is certain to bring with the experiment a dash of elation. now, driving through water appears to be no longer the fashion in our fastidious century; someone might get a wetting, possibly, has been the conclusion of the prudent. and thus a very innocent and exciting bit of fun has been gradually relegated among the lost arts of pleasure. we were taking water as we had never taken it before, and liking the method. we were as wet as ducks, but what cared we? we were being deluged with spray; the spume of the sea was spurting in our faces with the force of a strong wet breeze, and still we liked it. besides, driving thus into the white foam of the waters, over the sand ridges, across the downs, into the wide plains of wet mud, this was the old classical way of going up to the mont. surely, what had been found good enough as a pathway for kings and saints and pilgrims should be good enough for two lovers of old-time methods. the dike yonder was built for those who believe in the devil of haste, and for those who also serve him faithfully. someone else besides ourselves was enjoying our drive through the waves. our gay young normandy driver seemed to find an exquisite relish in the spectacle of our wet faces and unstable figures. he could not keep his eyes off us; they fairly glistened with the dew of his enjoyment. two ladies pitched and rolled about, exactly as if they were peasants, and laughing as if they were children--this was a spectacle and a keen appreciation of a joke that brought joy to a rustic blouse. "ah--ah! mesdames!" he cried, exultingly, between the gasps of his own laughter, as he tossed his own fine head in the air, sitting on his rude bench, covered with sheepskin, as if it had been an armchair. "ah, ah! mesdames, you didn't expect this, _hein_? you hoped for a landau, and feathers and cushions, perhaps? but soft feathers and springs are not for the _grève_." "is it dangerous? are there deep holes?" "oh, the holes, they are as nothing. it is the quicksands we fear. but it is only a little danger, and danger makes the charm of travel, is it not so, my ladies? adventure, that is what one travels for! _hui!_ fend l'air!" it had occurred to us before that we had been uncommonly lucky in our coachmen, as well as in the names of the horses, that had brightened our journey. in spite of juliet, whose disdain of the virtue or the charm that lies in a name is no more worthy of respect than is any lover's opinion when in the full-orbed foolishness of his lunacy, i believe names to be a very effective adjunct to life's scenic setting. most of the horses we had had along these normandy high-roads, had answered to names that had helped to italicize the features of the country. could poulette, the sturdy little mare, with whom only an hour ago we had parted forever, have been given a better sobriquet by which to have identified for us the fat landscape? and now here was fend l'air proving good his talent for cleaving through space, whatever of land or sea lay in his path. "and he merits his name, my lady," his driver announced with grave pride, as he looked at the huge haunches with a loving eye. "he can go, oh, but as the wind! it is he who makes of the crossing but as if it were nothing!" the crossing! that was the key-note of the way the coast spoke of the mont. the rock out yonder was a country apart, a bit of land or stone the shore claimed not, had no part in, felt to be as remote as if it were a foreign province. at genets the village spoke of the mont as one talks of a distant land. even the journey over the sands was looked upon with a certain seriousness. a starting forth was the signal for the village to assemble about the _char-à-banc's_ wheels. quite a large company for a small village to muster was grouped about our own vehicle, to look on gravely as we mounted to the rude seat within. the villagers gave us their "_bonjours_" with as much fervor as if we were starting forth on a sea voyage. "you will have a good crossing!" cackled one of the old men, nodding toward the peak in the sky. "the sands may be wet, but they are firm already!" added a huge peasant--the fattest man in all the canton, whisperingly confided the landlady, as one proud of possessing a village curiosity. "_hui_, fend l'air! _attention, toi!_" fend l'air tossed his fine mane, and struck out with a will over the cobbles. but his driver was only posing for the assembled village. he was in no real haste; there was a fresh voice singing yonder in his mother's tavern; the sentimentalist in him was on edge to hear the end of the song. "do you hear that, mesdames? there's no such singing as that out of paris. one must go to a café--" "_allons, toi!_" shrieked his mother's voice, as her face darkened. "do you think these ladies want to spend the night on the _grève_? _depêches-toi, vaurien!_" and she gave the wheels a shove with her strong hand, whereat all the village laughed. but the good-for-nothing son made no haste as the song went on-- "_le bon vin me fait dormir, l'amour me réveil--_" he continued to cock his head on one side and to let his eyes dream a bit. within, a group of peasants was gathered about the inn table. there were some young girls seated among the blouses; one of them, for the hour that we had sat waiting for fend l'air to be captured and harnessed, had been singing songs of questionable taste in a voice of such contralto sweetness as to have touched the heart of a bishop. "some young girls from the factories at avranches, mesdames, who come here sundays to get a bit of fresh air; _dieu soit si elles en ont besoin, pauvres enfants!_" was the landlady's charitable explanation. it appeared to us that the young ladies from avranches were more in need of a moral than a climatic change. but then, we also charitably reflected, it makes all the difference in the world, in these nice questions of taste and morality, whether one has had as an inheritance a past of francis i. and a rabelais, or of calvin and a puritan conscience. the geese on the green downs, just below the village, had clearly never even heard of calvin; they were luxuriating in a series of plunges into the deep pools in a way to prove complete ignorance of nice sabbatarian laws. with our first toss upon the downs, a world of new and fresh experiences began. genets was quite right; the mont over yonder was another country; even at the very beginning of the journey we learned so much. this breeze blowing in from the sea, that had swept the ramparts of the famous rock, was a double extract of the sea essence; it had all the salt of the sea and the aroma of firs and wild flowers; its lips had not kissed a garden in high air without the perfume lingering, if only to betray them. even this strip of meadow marsh had a character peculiar to itself; half of it belonged to earth and half to the sea. you might have thought it an inland pasture, with its herds of cattle, its flocks of sheep, and its colonies of geese--patrolled by ragged urchins. but behold, somewhere out yonder the pasture was lost in high sea-waves; ships with bulging sails replaced the curve of the cattle's sides, and instead of bending necks of sheep, there were seagulls swooping down upon the foamy waves. as the incarnation of this dual life of sea and land, the rock stands. it also is both of the sea and the land. its feet are of the waters--rocks and stones the sea-waves have used as playthings these millions of years. but earth regains possession as the rocks pile themselves into a mountain. even from this distance, one can see the moving arms of great trees, the masses of yellow flower-tips that dye the sides of the stony hill, and the strips of green grass here and there. so much has nature done for this wonderful pyramid in the sea. then man came and fashioned it to his liking. he piled the stones at its base into titanic walls; he carved about its sides the rounded breasts of bastions; he piled higher and higher up the dizzy heights a medley of palaces, convents, abbeys, cloisters, to lay at the very top the fitting crown of all, a jewelled norman-gothic cathedral. earth and man have thrown their gauntlet down to the sea--this rock is theirs, they cry to the waves and the might of oceans. and the sea laughs--as strong men laugh when boys are angry or insistent. she has let them build and toil, and pray and fight; it is all one to her what is done on the rock--whether men carve its stones into lace, or rot and die in its dungeons; it is all the same to her whether each spring the daffodils creep up within the crevices and the irises nod to them from the gardens. it is all one to her. for twice a day she recaptures the mont. she encircles it with the strong arm of her tides; with the might of her waters she makes it once more a thing of the sea. the tide was rising now. the fringe of the downs had dabbled in the shoals till they had become one. we had left behind the last of the shepherd lads, come out to the edge of the land to search for a wandering kid. we were all at once plunging into high water. our road was sunk out of sight; we were driving through waves as high as our cart-wheels. fend l'air was shivering; he was as a-tremble as a woman. the height of the rivers was not to his liking. "_sacré fainéant!_" yelled his owner, treating the tremor to a mighty crack of the whip. "is he afraid?" "yes--when the water is as high as that, he is always afraid. ah, there he is--_diantre_, but he took his time!" he growled, but the growl was set in the key of relief. he was pointing toward a figure that was leaping toward us through the water. "it is the guide!" he added, in explanation. the guide was at fend l'air's shoulder. very little of him was above water, but that little was as brown as an egyptian. he was puffing and blowing like unto a porpoise. in one hand he held a huge pitchfork--the trident of this watery mercury. "shall i conduct you?" he asked, dipping the trident as if in salute, into the water, as he still puffed and gasped. "if you please," as gravely responded our driver. for though up to our cart-wheels and breasts in deep water, the formalities were not to be dispensed with, you understand. the guide placed himself at once in front of fend l'air, whose shivers as quickly disappeared. "you see, mesdames--the guide gives him courage--and he now knows no fear," cried out with pride our whip on the outer bench. "and what news, victor--is there any?" it was of the mont he was asking. and the guide replied, taking an extra plunge into deep water: "oh, not much. there's to be a wedding tomorrow and a pilgrimage the next day. madame poulard has only a handful as yet. _ces dames_ descend doubtless at madame poulard's--_celle qui fait les omelettes?_" the ladies were ignorant as yet of the accomplishments of the said landlady; they had only heard of her beauty. "_c'est elle_," gravely chorussed the guide and the driver, both nodding their heads as their eyes met. "_fameuse, sa beauté, comme son omelette_," as gravely added our driver. the beauty of this lady and the fame of her omelette were very sobering, apparently, in their effects on the mind; for neither guide nor driver had another word to say. still the guide plunged into the rivers, and fend l'air followed him. our cart still pitched and tossed--we were still rocked about in our rough cradle. but the sun, now freed from the banks of clouds, was lighting our way with a great and sudden glory. and for the rest of our watery journey we were conscious only of that lighting. behind the mont, lay a vast sea of saffron. but it was in the sky; against it the great rock was as black as if the night were upon it. here and there, through the curve of a flying buttress, or the apertures of a pierced parapet, gay bits of this yellow world were caught and framed. the sea lay beneath like a quiet carpet; and over this carpet ships and sloops swam with easy gliding motion, with sails and cordage dipped in gold. the smaller craft, moored close to shore, seemed transfigured as in a fog of gold. and nearer still were the brown walls of the mont making a great shadow, and in the shadow the waters were as black as the skin of an african. in the shoals there were lovely masses of turquoise and palest green; for here and there a cloudlet passed, to mirror their complexions in the translucent pools. but fend l'air's hoofs had struck a familiar note. his iron shoes were clicking along the macadam of the dike. there was a rapid dashing beneath the great walls; a sudden night of darkness as we plunged through an open archway into a narrow village street; a confused impression of houses built into side-walls; of machicolated gateways; of rocks and roof-tops tumbling about our ears; and within the street was sounding the babel of a shrieking troop of men and women. porters, peasants, lads, and children were clamoring about our cart-wheels like unto so many jackals. the bedlam did not cease as we stopped before a wide, brightly-lit open doorway. then through the doorway there came a tall, finely-featured brunette. she made her way through the yelling crowd as a duchess might cleave a path through a rabble. she was at the side of the cart in an instant. she gave us a bow and smile that were both a welcome and an act of appropriation. she held out a firm, soft, brown hand. when it closed on our own, we knew it to be the grasp of a friend, and the clasp of one who knew how to hold her world. but when she spoke the words were all of velvet, and her voice had the cadence of a caress. "i have been watching you, _chères dames_--crossing the _grève_--but how wet and weary you must be! come in by the fire, it is ablaze now--i have been feeding it for you!" and once more the beautifully curved lips parted over the fine teeth, and the exceeding brightness of the dark eyes smiled and glittered in our own. the caressing voice still led us forward, into the great gay kitchen; the touch of skilful, discreet fingers undid wet cloaks and wraps; the soft charm of a lovely and gracious woman made even the penetrating warmth of the huge fire-logs a secondary feature of our welcome. to those who have never crossed a _grève_; who have had no jolting in a normandy _char-à-banc_; who, for hours, have not known the mixed pleasures and discomfort of being a part of sea-rivers; and who have not been met at the threshold of an inn on a rock by the smiling welcome of madame poulard--all such have yet a pleasant page to read in the book of travelled experience. meanwhile somewhere, in an inner room, things sweet to the nostrils were cooking. maids were tripping up and down stairs with covered dishes; there was the pleasant clicking in the ear of the lids of things; dishes or pans or jars were being lifted. and more delicious to the ear than even the promise to starving mouths of food, and of red wine to the lip, was the continuing music of madame's voice, as she stood over us purring with content at seeing her travellers drying and being thoroughly warmed. "the dinner-bell must soon be rung, dear ladies; i delayed it as long as i dared--i gauged your progress across from the terrace--i have kept all my people waiting; for your first dinner here must be hot! but now it rings! shall i conduct you to your rooms?" i have no doubt that, even without this brunette beauty, with her olive cheek and her comely figure as guides, we should have gone the way she took us in a sort of daze. one cannot pass under machicolated gateways; rustle between the walls of fourteenth century fortifications; climb a stone stairway that begins in a watch-tower and ends in a rampart, with a great sea view, and with the breadth of all the land shoreward; walk calmly over the top of a king's gate, with the arms of a bishop and the shrine of the virgin beneath one's feet; and then, presently, begin to climb the side of a rock in which rude stone steps have been cut, till one lands on a miniature terrace, to find a preposterously sturdy-looking house affixed to a ridiculous ledge of rock that has the presumption to give shelter to a hundred or more travellers--ground enough, also, for rows of plane-trees, for honeysuckles, and rose-vine, with a full coquettish equipment of little tables and iron chairs--no such journey as that up a rock was ever taken with entirely sober eyes. although her people were waiting below, and the dinner was on its way to the cloth, madame poulard had plenty of time to give to the beauty about her. how fine was the outlook from the top of the ramparts! what a fresh sensation, this, of standing on a terrace in mid-air and looking down on the sea, and across to the level shores! the rose-vines--we found them sweet--_tiens_--one of the branches had fallen--she had full time to re-adjust the loosened support. and "marianne, give these ladies their hot water, and see to their bags--" even this order was given with courtesy. it was only when the supple, agile figure had left us to fly down the steep rock-cut steps; when it shot over the top of the gateway and slid with the grace of a lizard into the street far below us, that we were made sensible of there having been any especial need of madame's being in haste. that night, some three hours later, a picturesque group was assembled about this same supple figure. a pretty, and unlooked-for ceremony was about to take place. it was the ceremony of the lighting of the lanterns. in the great kitchen, in the dance of the firelight and the glow of the lamps, some seven or eight of us were being equipped with chinese lanterns. this of itself was an engaging sight. madame poulard was always gay at this performance--for it meant much innocent merriment among her guests, and with the lighting of the last lantern, her own day was done. so the brilliant eyes flashed with a fresh fire, and the olive cheek glowed anew. all the men and women laughed as children sputter laughter, when they are both pleased and yet a little ashamed to show their pleasure. it was so very ridiculous, this journey up a rock with a chinese lantern! but just because it was ridiculous, it was also delightful. one--two--three--seven--eight--they were all lit. the last male guest had touched his cap to madame, exchanging the "_bonne nuit_" a man only gives to a pretty woman, and that which a woman returns who feels that her beauty has received its just meed of homage; madame's figure stood, still smiling, a radiant benedictory presence, in the doorway, with the great glow of the firelight behind her; the last laugh echoed down the street--and behold, darkness was upon us! the street was as black as a cavern. the strip of sky and the stars above seemed almost day, by contrast. the great arch of the porte du roi engulphed us, and then, slowly groping our way, we toiled up the steps to the open ramparts. here the keen night air swept rudely through our cloaks and garments; the sea tossed beneath the bastions like some restless tethered creature, that showed now a gray and now a purple coat, and the stars were gold balls that might drop at any instant, so near they were. the men shivered and buttoned their coats, and the women laughed, a trifle shrilly, as they grasped the floating burnous closer about their faces and shoulders. and the lanterns' beams danced a strange dance on the stone flagging. once more we were lost in darkness. we were passing through the old guard-house. and then slowly, more slowly than ever, the lanterns were climbing the steps cut in the rock. hands groped in the blackness to catch hold of the iron railing; the laughter had turned into little shouts and gasps for help. and then one of the lanterns played a treacherous trick; it showed the backs of two figures groping upward together--about one of the girlish figures a man's arm was flung. as suddenly the noise of the cries was stilled. the lanterns played their fitful light on still other objects. they illumined now a vivid yellow shrub; they danced upon a roof-top; they flooded, with a sudden circlet of brilliance, the awful depths below of the swirling waters and of rocks that were black as a bottomless pit. then the terrace was reached. and the lanterns danced a last gay little dance among the roses and the vines before, pouffe! pouffe! and behold! they were all blown out. thus it was we went to bed on the mont. chapter xxx. an historical omelette--the pilgrims and the shrine. to awake on a hill-top at sea. this was what morning brought. crowd this hill with houses plastered to the sides of rocks, with great walls girdling it, with tiny gardens lodged in crevices, and with a forest tumbling seaward. let this hill yield you a town in which to walk, with a street of many-storied houses; with other promenades along ramparts as broad as church aisles; with dungeons, cloisters, halls, guard-rooms, abbatial gateways, and a cathedral whose flying buttresses seemed to spring from mid-air and to end in a cloud--such was the world into which we awoke on the heights of mont st. michel. the verdict of the shore on the hill had been a just one; this world on a rock was a world apart. this hill in the sea had a detached air--as if, though french, at heart a true gaul, it had had from the beginning of things a life of adventure peculiar to itself. the shore, at best, had been only a foster-mother; the hill was the true child of the sea. since its birth it has had a more or less enforced separateness, in experience, from the country to which it belonged. whether temple or fortress, whether forest-clad in virginal fierceness of aspect, or subdued into beauty by the touch of man's chisel, its destiny has ever been the same--to suffice unto itself--to be, in a word, a world in miniature. the mont proved by its appearance its history in adventure; it had the grim, grave, battered look that comes only to features, whether of rock or of more plastic human mould--that have been carved by the rough handling of experience. it is the common habit of hills and mountains, as we all know, to turn disdainful as they grow skyward; they only too eagerly drop, one by one, the things by which man has marked the earth for his own. to stand on a mountain top and to go down to your grave are alike, at least in this--that you have left everything, except yourself, behind you. but it is both the charm and the triumph of mont st. michel, that it carries so much of man's handiwork up into the blue fields of air; this achievement alone would mark it as unique among hills. it appears as if for once man and nature had agreed to work in concert to produce a masterpiece in stone. the hill and the architectural beauties it carries aloft, are like a taunt flung out to sea and to the upper heights of air; for centuries they appear to have been crying aloud, "see what we can do, against your tempests and your futile tides--when we try." on that particular morning, the taunt seemed more like an epithalamium--such marriage-lines did sea and sky appear to be reading over the glistening face of the rock. june had pitched its tent of blue across the seas; all the world was blue, except where the sun smote it into gold. to eyes in love with beauty, what a world at one's feet! beneath that azure roof, toward the west, was the world of water, curling, dimpling, like some human thing charged with the conscious joy of dancing in the sun. shoreward, the more stable earth was in the moslem's ideal posture--that of perpetual prostration. the brittany coast was a long, flat, green band; the rocks of cancale were brown, but scarcely higher in point of elevation than the sand-hills; the normandy forests and orchards were rippling lines that focussed into the spiral of the avranches cathedral spires: floating between the two blues, hung the aerial shapes of the chaunsey and the channel islands; and nearer, along the coast-line, were the fringing edges of the shore, broken with shoals and shallows--earth's fingers, as it were, touching the sea--playing, as coleridge's abyssinian maid fingered the dulcimer, that music that haunts the poet's ear. we were seated at the little iron tables, on the terrace. we were sipping our morning coffee, beneath the plane-trees. the terrace, a foot beyond our coffee-cups, instantly began its true career as a precipice. we, ourselves, seemed to have begun as suddenly our own flight heavenward--on such astonishing terms of intimacy were we with the sky. the clapping close to our ears of large-winged birds; the swirling of the circling sea-gulls; the amazing nearness of the cloud drapery--all this gave us the sense of being in a new world, and of its being a strangely pleasant one. suddenly a cock's crow, shrill and clear, made us start from the luxurious languor of our contentment; for we had scarcely looked to find poultry on this hill of surprises. turning in the direction of the homely, familiar note, we beheld a garden. in this garden walked the cock--a two-legged gentleman of gorgeous plumage. if abroad for purely constitutional purposes, the crowing chanticleer must be forced to pass the same objects many times in review. of all infinitesimal, microscopic gardens, this one, surely, was a model in minuteness. yet it was an entirely self-respecting little garden. it was not much larger than a generous-sized pocket handkerchief; yet how much talent--for growing--may be hidden in a yard of soil--if the soil have the right virtue in it. here were two rocks forming, with a fringe of cliff, a triangle; in that tri-cornered bit of earth a lively crop of growing vegetables was offering flattering signs of promise to the owner's eye. where all land runs aslant, as all land does on this mont, not an inch was to be wasted; up the rocks peach and pear-split trees were made to climb--and why should they not, since everything else--since man himself must climb from the moment he touches the base of the hill? following the cock's call, came the droning sweetness of bees; the rose and the honeysuckle vines were loading the morning air with the perfume of their invitations. then a human voice drowned the bees' whirring, and a face as fresh and as smiling as the day stood beside us. it was the voice and the face of madame poulard, on the round of her morning inspections. our table and the radiant world at her feet were included in this, her line of observations. "_ah, mesdames, comme vous savez bien vous placer!_--how admirably you understand how to place yourselves! under such a sky as this--before such a spectacle--one should be in the front row, as at a theatre!" and that was the beginning of our deeds finding favor in the eyes of madame poulard. it was our happy fate to drink many a morning cup of coffee at those little iron tables; to have many a prolonged chat with the charming landlady of the famous inn; to become as familiar with the glories and splendors of the historical hill as with the habits and customs of the world that came up to view them. for here our journey was to end. the comedy of life, as it had played itself out in normandy inns, was here, in this inn on a rock, to give us a series of farewell performances. on no other stage, we were agreed, could the versatile french character have had as admirable and picturesque a setting; and surely, on no other bit of french soil could such an astonishing and amazing variety of types be assembled for a final appearance, as came up, day after day, to make the tour of the mont. to the shore, and for the whole of the near-lying breton and norman rustic world, the mont is still the hill of delight. it is their alp, their shrine, the tenth wonder of the world, a prison, a palace, and a temple still. in spite of parisian changes in religious fashions, the blouse is still devout; for curiosity is the true religion of the provincial, and all love of adventure did not die out with the crusades. therefore it is that rustic france along this coast still makes pilgrimages to the shrine of the archangel st. michael. no marriage is rightly arranged which does not include a wedding-journey across the _grève_; no nuptial breakfast is aureoled with the true halo of romance which is eaten elsewhere than on these heights in mid-air. the young come to drink deep of wonders; the old, to refresh the depleted fountains of memory; and the tourist, behold, he is as a plague of locusts let loose upon the defenceless hill! after a fortnight's sojourn, charm and i held many a grave consultation; close observation of this world that climbed the heights had bred certain strange misgivings. what was it this world of sight-seers came up to the mont for to see? was it to behold the great glories thereof, or was it, oh, human eye of man! to look on the face of a charming woman i it was impossible, after sojourning a certain time upon the hill, not to concede that there were two equally strong centres of attractions, that drew the world hither-ward. one remained, indeed, gravely suspended between the doubt and the fear, as to which of these potential units had the greater pull, in point of actual attraction. the impartial historian, given to a just weighing of evidence, would have been startled to find how invariably the scales tipped; how lightly an historical mont, born of a miracle, crowned by the noblest buildings, a pious mecca for saints and kings innumerable, shot up like feathers in lightness when over-weighted by the modern realities of a perfectly appointed inn, the cooking and eating of an omelette of omelettes, and the all-conquering charms of madame poulard. the fog of doubt thickened as, day after day, the same scenes were enacted; when one beheld all sorts and conditions of men similarly affected; when, again and again, the potentiality in the human magnet was proved true. doubt turned to conviction, at the last, that the holy shrine of st. michael had, in truth, been, violated; that the mont had been desecrated; that the latter exists now solely as a setting for a pearl of an inn; and that within the shrine--it is madame poulard herself who fills the niche! the pilgrims come from darkest africa and the sunlit yosemite, but they remain to pray at the inn of the omelette. yonder, on the _grèves,_ as we ourselves had proved, one crosses the far seas and one is wet to the skin, only to hear the praises sung of madame's skill in the handling of eggs in a pan; it is for this the lean guide strides before the pilgrim tourist, and that he dippeth his trident in the waters. at the great gates of the fortifications the pilgrim descends, and behold, a howling chorus of serving-people take up the chant of: "_chez madame poulard, à gauche, à la renommée de l'omelette!_" the inner walls of the town lend themselves to their last and best estate, that of proclaiming the glory of "_l'omelette_." placards, rich in indicative illustrations of hands all forefingers, point, with a directness never vouchsafed the sinner eager to find the way to right and duty, to the inn of "_l'incomparable, la fameuse omelette!_" the pilgrims meekly descend at that shrine. they bow low to the worker of the modern miracle; they pass with eager, trembling foot, into the inner sanctorum, to the kitchen, where the presiding deity receives them with the grace of a queen and the simplicity of a saint. life on the mont, as we soon found, resolved itself into this--into so arranging one's day as to be on hand for the great, the eventful hour. in point of fact there were two such hours in the mont st. michel day. there was the hour of the cooking of the omelette. there was always the other really more tragic hour, of the coming across the dike, of the huge lumbering omnibuses. for you see, that although one may be beautiful enough to compete successfully against dead-and-gone saints, against worn out miracles, and wonders in stone, human nature, when it is alive, is human nature still. it is the curse of success, the world over, to arouse jealousy; and we all have lived long enough to know that jealousy's evil-browed offspring are named hate and competition. up yonder, beyond the porte du roi, rivalry has set up a counter-shrine, with a competing saint, with all the hateful accessories of a pretty face, a younger figure, and a graceful if less skilled aptitude in the making of omelettes in public. the hour of the coming in of the coaches, was, therefore, a tragic hour. on the arrival of the coaches madame was at her post long before the pilgrims came up to her door. being entirely without personal vanity--since she felt her beauty, her cleverness, her grace, and her charm to be only a part of the capital of the inn trade--a higher order of the stock in trade, as it were--she made it a point to look handsomer on the arrival of coaches than at any other time. her cheeks were certain to be rosier; her bird's head was always carried a trifle more takingly, perched coquettishly sideways, that the caressing smile of welcome might be the more personal; and as the woman of business, lining the saint, so to speak, was also present, into the deep pockets of the blue-checked apron, the calculating fingers were thrust, that the quick counting of the incoming guests might not be made too obvious an action. after such a pose, to see a pilgrim escape! to see him pass by, unmoved by that smile, turning his feelingless back on the true shrine! it was enough to melt the stoutest heart. madame's welcome of the captured, after such an affront, was set in the minor key; and her smile was the smile of a suffering angel. "_cours, mon enfant_, run, see if he descends or if he pushes on; tell him _i_ am madame poulard!" this, a low command murmured between a hundred orders, still in the minor key, would be purred to clémentine, a peasant in a cap, exceeding fleet of foot, and skilled in the capture of wandering sheep. and clémentine would follow that stray pilgrim: she would attack him in the open street; would even climb after him, if need be, up the steep rock steps, till, proved to be following strange gods, he would be brought triumphantly back to the kitchen-shrine, by clémentine, puffing, but exultant. "ah, monsieur, how could you pass us by?" madame's soft voice would murmur reproachfully in the pilgrim's ear. and the pilgrim, abashed, ashamed, would quickly make answer, if he were born of the right parents: "_chère_ madame, how was i to believe my eyes? it is ten years since i was here, and you are younger, more beautiful than ever! i was going in search of your mother!" at which needless truism all the kitchen would laugh. madame poulard herself would find time for one of her choicest smiles, although this was the great moment of the working of the miracle. she was beginning to cook the omelette. the head-cook was beating the eggs in a great yellow bowl. madame had already taken her stand at the yawning louis xv. fireplace; she was beginning gently to balance the huge _casserole_ over the glowing logs. and all the pilgrims were standing about, watching the process. now, the group circling about the great fireplace was scarcely ever the same; the pilgrims presented a different face and garb day after day--but in point of hunger they were as one man; they were each and all as unvaryingly hungry as only tourists could be, who, clamoring for food, have the smell of it in their nostrils, with the added ache of emptiness gnawing within. but besides hunger, each one of the pilgrims had brought with him a pair of eyes; and what eyes of man can be pure savage before the spectacle of a pretty woman cooking, _for him_, before an open fire? therefore it was that still another miracle was wrought, that of turning a famished mob into a buzzing swarm of admirers. "_mais si, monsieur_, in this pan i can cook an omelette large enough for you all; you will see. ah, madame, you are off already? célestine! madame's bill, in the desk yonder. and you, monsieur, you too leave us? _deux cognacs?_ victor--_deux cognacs et une demi-tasse pour monsieur!_" these and a hundred other answers and questions and orders, were uttered in a fluted voice or in a tone of sharp command, by the miracle-worker, as the pan was kept gently turning, and the eggs were poured in at just the right moment--not one of the pretty poses of head and wrist being forgotten. madame poulard, like all clever women who are also pretty, had two voices: one was dedicated solely to the working of her charms; this one was soft, melodious, caressing, the voice of dove when cooing; the other, used for strictly business purposes, was set in the quick, metallic _staccato_ tones proper for such occasions. the dove's voice was trolling its sweetness, as she went on-- "eggs, monsieur? how many i use? ah, it is in the season that counting the dozens becomes difficult--seventy dozen i used one day last year!" "seventy dozen!" the pilgrim-chorus ejaculated, their eyes growing the wider as their lips moistened. for behold, the eggs were now cooked to a turn; the long-handled pan was being lifted with the effortless skill of long practice, the omelette was rolled out at just the right instant of consistency, and was being as quickly turned into its great flat dish. there was a scurrying and scampering up the wide steps to the dining room, and a hasty settling into the long rows of chairs. presently madame herself would appear, bearing the huge dish. and the omelette--the omelette, unlike the pilgrims, would be found to be always the same--melting, juicy, golden, luscious, and above all _hot!_ the noon-day table d'hôte was always a sight to see. many of the pilgrim-tourists came up to the mont merely to pass the day, or to stop the night; the midday meal was therefore certain to be the liveliest of all the repasts. the cloth was spread in a high, white, sunlit room. it was a trifle bare, this room, in spite of the walls being covered with pictures, the windows with pretty draperies, and the spotless linen that covered the long table. but all temples, however richly adorned, have a more or less unfurnished aspect; and this room served not only as the dining-table, but also as a foreshadowing of the apotheosis of madame poulard. here were grouped together all the trophies and tributes of a grateful world; there were portraits of her charming brunette face signed by famous admirers; there were sonnets to her culinary skill and her charms as hostess, framed; these alternated with gifts of horned beasts that had been slain in her honor, and of stuffed birds who, in life, had beguiled the long winters for her with their songs. about the wide table, the snow of the linen reflected always the same picture; there were rows of little palms in flower-pots, interspersed with fruit dishes, with the butter pats, the almonds, and raisins, in their flat plates. the rows of faces above the cloth were more varied. the four corners of the earth were sometimes to be seen gathered together about the breakfast-table. frenchmen of the midi, with the skin of spaniards and the buzz of tartarin's _ze ze_ in their speech; priests, lean and fat; germans who came to see a french stronghold as defenceless as a woman's palm; the italian, a rarer type, whose shoes, sufficiently pointed to prick, and whose choice for décolleté collars betrayed his nationality before his lisping french accent could place him indisputably beyond the alps; herds of english--of all types--from the aristocrat, whose open-air life had colored his face with the hues of a butcher, to the pale, ascetic clerk, off on a two weeks' holiday, whose bending at his desk had given him the stoop of a scholar; with all these were mixed hordes of french provincials, chiefly of the _bourgeois type,_ who singly, or in family parties, or in the nuptial train of sons or daughters, came up to the shrine of st. michel. to listen to the chatter of these tourists was to learn the last word of the world's news. as in the days before men spoke to each other across continents, and the medium of cold type had made the event of to-day the history of to-morrow, so these pilgrims talked through the one medium that alone can give a fact the real essence of freshness--the ever young, the perdurably charming human voice. it was as good as sitting out a play to watch the ever-recurring characteristics, which made certain national traits as marked as the noses on the faces of the tourists. the question, for example, on which side the channel a pilgrim was born, was settled five seconds after he was seated at table. the way in which the butter was passed was one test; the manner of the eating of the famous omelette was another. if the tourist were a frenchman, the neat glass butter-dish was turned into a visiting-card--a letter of introduction, a pontoon-bridge, in a word, hastily improvised to throw across the stream of conversation. "_madame_" (this to the lady at the tourist's left), "_me permet-elle de lui offrir le beurre?_" whereat madame bowed, smiled, accepted the golden balls as if it were a bouquet, returning the gift, a few seconds later, by the proffer of the gravy dish. between the little ceremony of the two bows and the smiling _mercis_, a tentative outbreak of speech ensued, which at the end of a half-hour, had spread from _bourgeois_ to countess, from curé to parisian _boulevardier_, till the entire side of the table was in a buzz of talk. these genial people of a genial land finding themselves all in search of the same adventure, on top of a hill, away from the petty world of conventionality, remembered that speech was given to man to communicate with his fellows. and though neighbors for a brief hour, how charming such an hour can be made when into it are crowded the effervescence of personal experience, the witty exchange of comment and observation, and the agreeable conflict of thought and opinion! on the opposite side of the table, what a contrast! there the english were seated. there was the silence of the grave. all the rigid figures sat as upright as posts. in front of these severe countenances, the butter-plates remained as fixtures; the passing of them to a neighbor would be a frightful breach of good form--besides being dangerous. such practices, in public places, had been known to lead to things--to unspeakable things--to knowing the wrong people, to walks afterward with cads one couldn't shake off, even to marriages with the impossible! therefore it was that the butter remained a fixture. even between those who formed the same tourist-party, there was rarely such an act of self-forgetfulness committed as an indulgence in talk--in public. the eye is the only active organ the englishman carries abroad with him; his talking is done by staring. what fierce scowls, what dark looks of disapproval, contempt, and dislike were levelled at the chattering frenchmen opposite. [illustration: mont saint michel snail-gatherers] across the table, the national hate perpetuated itself. it appears to be a test of patriotism, this hatred between frenchmen and englishmen. that strip of linen might easily have been the channel itself; it could scarcely more effectually have separated the two nations. a whole comedy of bitterness, a drama of rivalry, and a five-act tragedy of scorn were daily played between the briton who sat facing the south, and the frenchman who faced north. both, as they eyed their neighbor over the foam of their napkins, had the island in their eye!--the englishman to flaunt its might and glory in the teeth of the hated gaul, and the frenchman to return his contempt for a nation of moist barbarians. meanwhile, the omelette was going its rounds. it was being passed at that moment to monsieur le curé. he had been watching its progress with glistening eye and moistening lips. madame poulard, as she slipped the melting morsel beneath his elbow, had suddenly assumed the role of the penitent. her tone was a reminder of the confessional, as of one who passed her masterpiece apologetically. she, forsooth, a sinner, to have the honor of ministering to the carnal needs of a son of the church! the son of the church took two heaping spoonfuls. his eye gave her, with his smile, the benediction of his gratitude, even before he had tasted of the luscious compound. "_ah, chère madame! il n'y a que vous_--it is only you who can make the ideal omelette! i have tried, but suzette has no art in her fingers; your receipt doesn't work away from the mont!" and the good man sighed as he chuckled forth his praises. he had come up to the hill in company with the two excellent ladies beside him, of his flock, to make a little visit to his brethren yonder, to the priests who were still here, wrecks of the once former flourishing monastery. he had come to see them, and also to gaze on la merveille. it was a good five years since he had looked upon its dungeons and its lace-work. but after all, in his secret soul of souls, he had longed to eat of the omelette. _dieu!_ how often during those slow, quiet years in the little hamlet yonder on the plain, had its sweetness and lightness mocked his tongue with illusive tasting! little wonder, therefore, that the good curé's praises were sweet in madame's ear, for they had the ring of truth--and of envy! and madame herself was only mortal, for what woman lives but feels herself uplifted by the sense of having found favor in the eyes of her priest? the omelette next came to a halt between the two ladies of the curé's flock. these were two _bourgeoises_ with the deprecating, mistrustful air peculiar to commonplace the world over. the walk up the steep stairs was still quickening their breath their compressed bosoms were straining the hooks of their holiday woollen bodices--cut when they were of slenderer build. their bonnets proclaimed the antique fashions of a past decade; but the edge of their tongues had the keenness that comes with daily practice--than which none has been found surer than adoration of one's pastor, and the invigorating gossip of small towns. these ladies eyed the omelette with a chilled glance. naturally, they could not see as much to admire in madame poulard or in her dish as did their curé. there was nothing so wonderful after all in the turning of eggs over a hot fire. the omelette!--after all, an omelette is an omelette! some are better--some are worse; one has one's luck in cooking as in anything else. they had come up to the mont with their good curé to see its wonders and for a day's outing; admiration of other women had not been anticipated as a part of the programme. _tiens_--who was he talking to now? to that tall blonde--a foreigner, a young girl--_tiens_--who knows?--possibly an american--those americans are terrible, they say--bold, immodest, irreverent. and the two ladies' necks were screwed about their over-tight collars, to give charm the verdict of their disapproval. "monsieur le curé, they are passing you the fish!" cried the stouter, more aggressive parishioner, who boasted a truculent mustache. "monsieur le curé, the roast is at your elbow!" interpolated the second, with the more timid voice of a second in action; this protector of the good curé had no mustache, but her face was mercifully protected by nature from a too-disturbing combination of attractions, by being plentifully punctuated with moles from which sprouted little tufts of hair. the rain of these ladies' interruption was incessant; but the curé was a man of firm mind; their efforts to recapture his attention were futile. for the music of charm's foreign voice was in his ear. worship of the cloth is not a national, it is a more or less universal cult, i take it. it is in the blood of certain women. opposite the two fussy, jealous _bourgeoises_, were others as importunate and aggressive. they were of fair, lean, lank english build, with the shifting eyes and the persistent courage which come to certain maidens in whose lives there is but one fixed and certain fact--that of having missed the matrimonial market. the shrine of their devotions, and the present citadel of their attack, was seated between them--he also being lean, pale, high-arched of brow, high anglican by choice, and noticeably weak of chin, in whose sable garments there was framed the classical clerical tie. to this curate madame was now passing her dish. she still wore her fine sweet smile, but there was always a discriminating reserve in its edge when she touched the english elbow. the curate took his spoonful with the indifference of a man who had never known the religion of good eating. he put up his one eye-glass; it swept madame's bending face, its smile, and the yellow glory floating beneath both. "ah-h--ya-as--an omelette!" the glass was dropped; he took a meagre spoonful which he cut, presently, with his knife. he turned then to his neighbors--to both his neighbors! they had been talking of the parish church on the hill. "ah-h-h, ya-as--lovely porch--isn't it?" "oh, lovely--lovely!" chorussed the two maidens, with assenting fervor. "_were_ you there this morning?" and they lifted eyes swimming with the rapture of their admiration. "ya-as." "only fancy--our missing you! we were _both_ there!" "dear me! really, were you?" "_could_ you go this afternoon? i do want so to hear your criticism of my drawing--i'm working on the arch now." "so sorry--can't--possibly. i promised what's his name to go over to tombelaine, don't you know!" "oh-h! we do so want to go to tombelaine!" "ah-h--do you, really? one ought to start a little before the tide drops--they tell me!" and the clerical eye, through its correctly adjusted glass, looked into those four pleading eyes with no hint of softening. the dish that was the masterpiece of the house, meanwhile, had been despatched as if it were so much leather. the omelette fared no better with the brides, as a rule, than with the english curates. such a variety of brides as came up to the mont! you could have your choice, at the midday meal, of almost any nationality, age, or color. the attempt among these bridal couples to maintain the distant air of a finished indifference only made their secret the more open. the british phlegm, on such a journey, did not always serve as a convenient mask; the flattering, timid glance, the ripple of the tender whispers, and the furtive touching of fingers beneath the table, made even these english couples a part of the great human marrying family; their superiority to their fellows would return, doubtless, when the honey had dried out of their moon. the best of our adventures into this tender country were with the french bridal tourists; they were certain to be delightfully human. as we had had occasion to remark before, they were off, like ourselves, on a little voyage of discovery; they had come to make acquaintance with the being to whom they were mated for life. various degrees of progress could be read in the air and manner of the hearty young _bourgeoises_ and their paler or even ruddier partners, as they crunched their bread or sipped their thin wine. some had only entered as yet upon the path of inquiry; others had already passed the mile-stone of criticism; and still others had left the earth and were floating in full azure of intoxication. of the many wedding parties that sat down to breakfast, we soon made the commonplace discovery that the more plebeian the company, the more certain-orbed appeared to be the promise of happiness. some of the peasant weddings were noisy, boisterous performances; but how gay were the brides, and how bloated with joy the hardy, knotty-handied grooms! these peasant wedding guests all bore a striking family likeness; they might easily all have been brothers and sisters, whether they had come from the fields near pontorson, or cancale, or dol, or st. malo. the older the women, the prettier and the more gossamer were the caps; but the younger maidens were always delightful to look upon, such was the ripe vigor of their frames, and the liquid softness of eyes that, like animals, were used to wide sunlit fields and to great skies full of light. the bride, in her brand-new stuff gown, with a bonnet that recalled the bridal wreath only just laid aside, was also certain to be of a general universal type with the broad hips, wide waist, muscular limbs, and the melting sweetness of lips and eyes that only abundant health and a rich animalism of nature bring to maidenhood. madame poulard's air with this, her world, was as full of tact as with the tourists. many of the older women would give her the norman kiss, solemnly, as if the salute were a part of the ceremony attendant on the eating of a wedding breakfast at mont st. michel. there would be a three times' clapping of the wrinkled or the ruddy peasant cheeks against the sides of madame poulard's daintier, more delicately modelled face. then all would take their seats noisily at table. it was madame poulard who then would bring us news of the party; at the end of a fortnight, charm and i felt ourselves to be in possession of the hidden and secret reasons for all the marrying that had been done along the coast, that year. "_tiens, ce n'est pas gai, la noce!_ i must learn the reason!" madame would then flutter over the bridal breakfasters as a delicate plumaged bird hovers over a mass of stuff out of which it hopes to make a respectable meal. she presently would return to murmur in a whisper, "it is a _mariage de raison_. they, the bride and groom, love elsewhere, but they are marrying to make a good partnership; they are both hair-dressers at caen. they have bought a new and fine shop with their earnings." or it would be, "look, madame, at that _jolie personne_; see how sad she looks. she is in love with her cousin who sits opposite, but the groom is the old one. he has a large farm and a hundred cows." to look on such a trio would only be to make the acquaintance anew of sidonie and risler and of froment jeune. such brides always had the wandering gaze of those in search of fresh horizons, or of those looking already for the chance of escape. for such "unhappies," _ces malheureuses_, madame's manner had an added softness and tenderness; she passed the frosted bridal cake as if it were a propitiatory offering to the god of hymen. however melancholy the bride, the cake and madame's caressing smiles wrought ever the same spell; for an instant, at least, the newly-made wife was in love with matrimony and with the cake, accepting the latter with the pleased surprise of one who realizes that, at least, on one's wedding day, one is a person of importance; that even so far as mont st. michel the news of their marriage had turned the ovens into a baking of wedding-cakes. this was destined to be the first among the deceptions that greeted such brides; for there were hundreds of such cakes, alas! kept constantly on hand. they were the same--a glory of sugar-mouldings and devices covering a mountain of richness--that were sent up yearly at christmas time to certain mansard studios in the latin quarter, where the artist recipients, like the brides, eat of the cake as did adam when partaking of the apple, believing all the woman told them! there were other visitors who came up to the mont, not as welcome as were these tourist parties. one morning, as we looked toward pontorson, a small black cloud appeared to be advancing across the bay. the day was windy; the sky was crowded with huge white mountains--round, luminous clouds that moved in stately sweeps. and the sea was the color one loves to see in an earnest woman's eye, the dark-blue sapphire that turns to blue-gray. this was a setting that made that particular cloud, making such slow progress across from the shore, all the more conspicuous. gradually, as the black mass neared the dike, it began to break and separate; and we saw plainly enough that the scattering particles were human beings. it was, in point of fact, a band of pilgrims; a peasant pilgrimage was coming up to the mont. in wagons, in market carts, in _char-à-bancs_, in donkey-carts, on the backs of monster percherons--the pilgrimage moved in slow processional dignity across the dike. some of the younger black gowns and blue blouses attempted to walk across over the sands; we could see the girls sitting down on the edge of the shore, to take off their shoes and stockings and to tuck up their thick skirts. when they finally started they were like unto so many huge cheeses hoisted on stilts. the bare legs plunged boldly forward, keeping ahead of the slower-moving peasant-lads; the girls' bravery served them till they reached the fringe of the incoming tide; not until their knees went under water did they forego their venture. a higher wave came in, deluging the ones farthest out; and then ensued a scampering toward the dike and a climbing up of the stone embankment. the old route across the sands, that had been the only one known to kings and barons, was not good enough for a modern norman peasant. the religion of personal comfort has spread even as far as the fields. at the entrance gate a tremendous hubbub and noise announced the arrival of the pilgrimage. wagons, carts, horses, and peasants were crowded together as only such a throng is mixed in pilgrimages, wars, and fairs. women were taking down hoods, unharnessing the horses, fitting slats into outsides of wagons, rolling up blankets, unpacking from the _char-à-bancs_ cooking utensils, children, grain-bags, long columns of bread, and hard-boiled eggs. for the women, darting hither and thither in their blue petticoats, their pink and red kerchiefs, and the stiff white norman caps, were doing all the work. the men appeared to be decorative adjuncts, plying the norman's gift of tongue across wagon-wheels and over the back of their vigorous wives and daughters. for them the battle of the day was over; the hour of relaxation had come. the bargains they had made along the route were now to be rehearsed, seasoned with a joke. "_allons, toi, on ne fait pas de la monnaie blanche comme ca!_" "_je t'ai offert huit sous, tu sais, lapin!_" "_farceur, va-t'en--_" "come, are you never going to have done fooling?" cried a tan-colored, wide-hipped peasant to her husband, who was lounging against the wagon pole, sporting a sprig of gentian pinned to his blouse. he was fat and handsome; and his eye proclaimed, as he was making it do heavy work at long range at a cluster of girls descending from an antique gig, that the knowledge of the same was known unto him. "that's right, growl ahead, thou, _tes beaux jours sont passés_, but for me _l'amour, l'amour--que c'est gai, que c'est frais!_" he half sung, half shouted. the moving mass of color, the breton caps, and the norman faces, the gold crosses that fell from dented bead necklaces, the worn hooped earrings, the clean bodices and home-spun skirts, streamed out past our windows as we looked down upon them. how pretty were some of the faces, of the younger women particularly! and with what gay spirits they were beginning their day! it had begun the night before, almost; many of the carts had been driven in from the forests beyond avranches; some of the brittany groups had started the day before. but what can quench the fountain of french vivacity? to see one's world, surely, there is nothing in that to tire one; it only excites and exhilarates; and so a fair or market day, and above all a pilgrimage, are better than balls, since they come more regularly; they are the peasant's opera, his piccadilly and broadway, club, drawing-room, exchange, and parade, all in one. a half-hour after a landing of the pilgrims at the outer gates of the fortifications, the hill was swarming with them. the single street of the town was choked with the black gowns and the cobalt-blue blouses. before these latter took a turn at their devotions they did homage to bacchus. crowds of peasants were to be seen seated about the long, narrow inn-tables, lifting huge pewter tankards to bristling beards. some of these taverns were the same that had fed and sheltered bands of pilgrims that are now mere handfuls of dust in country churchyards. those sixteenth century pilgrims, how many of them, had found this same arched doorway of la licorne as cool as the shade of great trees after the long hot climb up to the hill! what a pleasant face has the timbered facade of the tête d'or, and the mouton blanc, been to the weary-limbed: and how sweet to the dead lips has been the first taste of the acid cider! other aspects of the hill, on this day of the pilgrimage, made those older dead-and-gone bands of pilgrims astonishingly real. on the tops of bastions, in the clefts of the rocks, beneath the glorious walls of la merveille, or perilously lodged on the crumbling cornice of a tourelle, numerous rude altars had been hastily erected. the crude blues and scarlets of banners were fluttering, like so many pennants, in the light breeze. beneath the improvised altar-roofs--strips of gay cloth stretched across poles stuck into the ground--were groups not often seen in these less fervent centuries. high up, mounted on the natural pulpit formed of a bit of rock, with the rude altar before him, with its bit of scarlet cloth covered with cheap lace, stood or knelt the priest. against the wide blue of the open heaven his figure took on an imposing splendor of mien and an unmodern impressiveness of action. beneath him knelt, with bowed heads, the groups of the peasant-pilgrims; the women, with murmuring lips and clasped hands, their strong, deeply-seamed faces outlined, with the precision of a francesco painting, against the gray background of a giant mass of wall, or the amazing breadth of a vast sea-view; children, squat and chubby, with bulging cheeks starting from the close-fitting french _bonnet_; and the peasant-farmers, mostly of the older varieties, whose stiffened or rheumatic knees and knotty hands made their kneeling real acts of devotional zeal. there were a dozen such altars and groups scattered over the perpendicular slant of the hill. the singing of the choir-boys, rising like skylark notes into the clear space of heaven, would be floating from one rocky-nested chapel, while below, in the one beneath which we, for a moment, were resting, there would be the groaning murmur of the peasant groups in prayer. all day little processions were going up and down the steep stone steps that lead from fortified rock to parish church, and from the town to the abbatial gateway. the banners and the choir-boys, the priests in their embroideries and lace, the peasants in cap and blouse, were incessantly mounting and descending, standing on rock edges, caught for an instant between a medley of perpendicular roofs, of giant gateways, and a long perspective of fortified walls, only to be lost in the curve of a bastion, or a flying buttress, that, in their turn, would be found melting into a distant sea-view. all the hours of a pilgrimage, we discovered, were not given to prayer; nor yet is an incessant bowing at the shrine of st. michel the sole other diversion in a true pilgrim's round of pious devotions. later on in this eventful day, we stumbled on a somewhat startling variation to the penitential order of the performances. in a side alley, beneath a friendly overhanging rock and two protecting roof-eaves, an acrobat was making her professional toilet. when she emerged to lay a worn strip of carpet on the rough cobbles of the street, she presented a pathetic figure in the gold of the afternoon sun. she was old and wrinkled; the rouge would no longer stick to the sunken cheeks; the wrinkles were become clefts; the shrunken but still muscular legs were clad in a pair of tights, a very caricature of the silken webs that must once have encased the poor old creature's limbs, for these were knitted of the coarse thread the commonest peasant uses for the rough field stocking. over these obviously home-made coverings was a single skirt of azure tarlatan, plentifully besprinkled with golden stars. the gossamer skirt and its spangles turned, for their _début_, a somersault in the air, and the knitted tights took strange leaps from the bars of a rude trapeze. the groups of peasants were soon thicker about this spectacle than they had gathered about the improvised altars. all the men who had passed the day in the taverns came out at the sound of the hoarse cracked voice of the aged acrobat. as she hurled her poor old twisted shape from swinging bar to pole, she cried aloud, "_ah, messieurs, essayez ça seulement!_" the men's hands, when she had landed on her feet after an uncommonly venturous whirl of the blue skirts in mid-air, came out of their deep pockets; but they seasoned their applause with coarse jokes which they flung, with a cruel relish, into the pitifully-aged face. a cracked accordion and a jingling tambourine were played by two hardened-looking ruffians, seated on their heels beneath a window--a discordant music that could not drown the noise of the peasants' derisive laughter. but the latter's pennies rattled a louder jingle into the ancient acrobat's tin cup than it had into the priest's green netted contribution box. "no, madame, as for us, we do not care for pilgrimages," was madame poulard's verdict on such survivals of past religious enthusiasms. and she seasoned her comments with an enlightening shrug. "we see too well how they end. the men go home dead drunk, the women are dropping with fatigue, _et les enfants même se grisent de cidre!_ no; pilgrimages are bad for everyone. the priests should not allow them." this was at the end of the day, after the black and blue swarm had passed, a weary, uncertain-footed throng, down the long street, to take its departure along the dike. at the very end of the straggling procession came the three acrobats; they had begged, or bought, a drive across the dike from some of the pilgrims. the lady of the knitted tights, in her conventional skirts and womanly fichu, was scarcely distinguishable from the peasant women who eyed her askance; though decently garbed now, they looked at her as if she were some plague or vice walking in their midst. the verdict of madame poulard seemed to be the verdict of all mont st. michel. the whole town was abroad that evening, on its doorsteps and in its garden beds, repairing the ravages committed by the band of the pilgrims. never had the town, as a town, been so dirty; never had the street presented so shocking a collection of abominations; never had flowers and shrubs been so mercilessly robbed and plundered--these were the comments that flowed as freely as the water that was rained over the dusty cobbles, thick with refuse of luncheon and the shreds of torn skirts and of children's socks. at any hour of the day, of even an ordinary, uneventful day, to take a walk in the town is to encounter a surprise at every turning. would you call it a town--this one straggling street that begins in a king's gateway and ends--ah, that is the point, just where does it end? i, for one, was never once quite certain at just what precise point this one single mont st. michel street stopped--lost itself, in a word, and became something else. that was also true of so many other things on the hill; all objects had such an astonishing way of suddenly becoming something else. a house, for example, that you had passed on your upward walk, had a beguiling air of sincerity. it had its cellar beneath the street front like any other properly built house; it continued its growth upward, showing the commonplace features of a door, of so many windows--queerly spaced, and of an amazing variety of shapes, but still unmistakably windows. then, assured of so much integrity of character, you looked to see the roof covering the house, and instead-like the eggs in a chinese juggler's fingers, that are turned in a jiffy into a growing plant--behold the roof miraculously transformed into a garden, or lost in a rampart, or, with quite shameless effrontery, playing deserter, and serving as the basement of another and still fairer dwelling. that was a sample of the way all things played you the trick of surprise on this hill. stairways began on the cobbles of the streets, only to lose themselves in a side wall; a turn on the ramparts would land you straight into the privacy of a st. michelese interior, with an entire household, perchance, at the mercy of your eye, taken at the mean disadvantage of morning dishabille. as for doors that flew open where you looked to find a bastion; or a school--house that flung all the michelese _voyous_ over the tops of the ramparts at play-time; or of fishwives that sprung, as full-armed in their kit as minerva from her sire's brows, from the very forehead of fortified places; or of beds and settees and wardrobes (surely no michelese has ever been able, successfully, to maintain in secret the ghost of a family skeleton!) into which you were innocently precipitated on your way to discover the minutest of all cemeteries--these were all commonplace occurrences once your foot was set on this hill of surprises. there are two roads that lead one to the noble mass of buildings crowning the hill. one may choose the narrow street with its moss-grown steps, its curves, and turns; or one may have the broader path along the ramparts, with its glorious outlook over land and sea. whichever approach one chooses, one passes at last beneath the great doors of the barbican. three times did the vision of st. michel appear to saint aubert, in his dream, commanding the latter to erect a church on the heights of mont st. michel to his honor. how many a time must the modern pilgrim traverse the stupendous mass that has grown out of that command before he is quite certain that the splendor of mont st. michel is real, and not a part of a dream! whether one enters through the dark magnificence of the great portals of the châtelet; whether one mounts the fortified stairway, passing into the salle des gardes, passing onward from dungeon to fortified bridge, to gain the abbatial residence; whether one leaves the vaulted splendor of oratories for aerial passage-ways, only to emerge beneath the majestic roof of the cathedral--that marvel of the early norman, ending in the gothic choir of the fifteenth century; or, as one penetrates into the gloom of the mighty dungeons where heroes and the brothers of kings, and saints and scientists have died their long death--as one gropes through the black night of the crypt, where a faint, mysterious glint of light falls aslant the mystical face of the black virgin; as one climbs to the light beneath the ogive arches of the aumônerie, through the wide-lit aisles of the salle des chevaliers, past the slender gothic columns of the refectory, up at last to the crowning glory of all the glories of la merveille, to the exquisitely beautiful colonnades of the open cloister the impressions and emotions excited by these ecclesiastical and military masterpieces are ever the same, however many times one may pass them in review. a charm, indefinable, but replete with subtle attractions, lurks in every one of these dungeons. the great halls have a power to make one retraverse their space, i have yet to find under other vaulted chambers. the grass that is set, like a green jewel, in the arabesques of the cloister, is a bit of greensward the feet press with a different tread to that which skips lightly over other strips of turf. and the world, that one looks out upon through prison bars, that is so gloriously arched in the arm of a flying buttress, or that lies prone at your feet from the dizzy heights of the rock clefts, is not the world in which you, daily, do your petty stretch of toil, in which you laugh and ache, sorrow, sigh, and go down to your grave in. the secret of this deep attraction may lie in the fact of one's being in a world that is built on a height. much, doubtless, of the charm lies, also, in the reminders of all the human life that, since the early dawn of history, has peopled this hill. one has the sense of living at tremendously high mental pressure; of impressions, emotions, sensations crowding upon the mind; of one's whole meagre outfit of memory, of poetic equipment, and of imaginative furnishing, being unequal to the demand made by even the most hurried tour of the great buildings, or the most flitting review of the noble massing of the clouds and the hilly seas. the very emptiness and desolation of all the buildings on the hill help to accentuate their splendor. the stage is magnificently set; the curtain, even, is lifted. one waits for the coming on of kingly shapes, for the pomp of trumpets, for the pattering of a mighty host. but, behold, all is still. and one sits and sees only a shadowy company pass and repass across that glorious _mise-en-scène._ for, in a certain sense, i know no other mediaeval mass of buildings as peopled as are these. the dead shapes seem to fill the vast halls. the salle des chevaliers is crowded, daily, with a brilliant gathering of knights, who sweep the trains of their white damask mantles, edged with ermine, over the dulled marble of the floor; two by two they enter the hall; the golden shells on their mantles make the eyes blink, as the groups gather about the great chimneys, or wander through the column-broken space. behind this dazzling _cortège_, up the steep steps of the narrow street, swarm other groups--the mediaeval pilgrim host that rushes into the cathedral aisles, and that climbs the ramparts to watch the stately procession as it makes its way toward the church portals. there are still other figures that fill every empty niche and deserted watch-tower. through the lancet windows of the abbatial gateways the yeomanry of the vassal villages are peering; it is the weary time of the hundred years' war, and all france is watching, through sentry windows, for the approach of her dread enemy. on the shifting sands below, as on brass, how indelibly fixed are the names of the hundred and twenty-nine knights whose courage drove, step by step, over that treacherous surface, the english invaders back to their island strongholds. will you have a less stormy and belligerent company to people the hill? in the quieter days of the fourteenth century, on any bright afternoon, you could have sat beside some friendly artist-monk, and watched him color and embellish those wondrous missals that made the manuscripts of the brothers famous throughout france. earlier yet, in those naive centuries, robert de torigny, that "bouche des papes," would doubtless have discoursed to you on any subject dear to this "counsellor of kings"--on books, or architecture, or the science of fortifications, or on the theology of lanfranc; from the helmeted locks of rollon to the veiled tresses of the lovely tiphaine raguenel, duguesclin's wife; from the ghastly rat-eaten body of the dutch journalist, who offended that tyrant king, louis xiv., to the revolutionary heroes, as pitilessly doomed to an odious death under the gentle louis philippe--there is no shape or figure in french history which cannot be summoned at will to refill either a dungeon or a palace chamber at mont st. michel. even in these, our modern days, one finds strange relics of past fashions in thought and opinion. the various political, religious, and ethical forms of belief to be met with in a fortnight's sojourn on the hill, give one a sense of having passed in review a very complete gallery of ancient and modern portraits of men's minds. in time one learns to traverse even a dozen or more centuries with ease. to be in the dawn of the eleventh century in the morning; at high noon to be in the flood-tide of the fifteenth; and, as the sun dipped, to hear the last word of our own dying century--such were the flights across the abysmal depths of time charm and i took again and again. one of our chosen haunts was in a certain watch-tower. from its top wall, the loveliest prospect of mont st. michel was to be enjoyed. day after day and sunset after sunset, we sat out the hours there. again and again the world, as it passed, came and took its seat beside us. pilgrims of the devout and ardent type would stop, perchance, would proffer a preliminary greeting, would next take their seat along the parapet, and, quite unconsciously, would end by sitting for their portrait. one such sitter, i remember, was clad in carmine crepe shawl; she was bonneted in the shape of a long-ago decade. she had climbed the hill in the morning before dawn, she said; she had knelt in prayer as the sun rose. for hers was a pilgrimage made in fulfilment of a vow. st. michel had granted her wish, and she in return had brought her prayers to his shrine. "ah, mesdames! how good is god! how greatly he rewards a little self-sacrifice. figure to yourselves the mont in the early mists, with the sun rising out of the sea and the hills. i was on my knees, up there. i had eaten nothing since yesterday at noon. i was full of the holy ghost. when the sun broke at last, it was god himself in all his glory come down to earth! the whole earth seemed to be listening--_prêtait l'oreille_--and with the great stillness, and the sea, and the light breaking everywhere, it was as if i were being taken straight up into paradise. saint michel himself must have been supporting me." the carmine crepe shawl covered a poet, you see, as well as a devotee. up yonder, in the little shops and stalls tucked away within the walls of the barbican, a lively traffic, for many a century now, has been going on in relics and _plombs de pèlerinage_. some of these mediaeval impressions have been unearthed in strange localities, in the bed of the seine, as far away as paris. rude and archaic are many of these early essays in the sculptor's art. but they preserve for us, in quaint intensity, the fervor of adoration which possessed that earlier, more devout time and period. on the mind of this nineteenth century pilgrim, the same lovely old forms of belief and superstition were imprinted as are still to be seen in some of those winged figures of st. michel, with feet securely set on the back of the terrible dragon, staring, with triumphant gaze, through stony or leaden eyes. on the evening of the pilgrimage our friend, the parisian, joined us on our high perch. the mont seemed strangely quiet after the noise and confusion the peasants had brought in their train. the parisian, like ourselves, had been glad to escape into the upper heights of the wide air, after the bustle and hurry of the day at our inn. "you permit me, mesdames?" he had lighted his after-dinner cigar; he went on puffing, having gained our consent. he curled a leg comfortably about the railings of a low bridge connecting a house that sprang out of a rock, with the rampart. below, there was a clean drop of a few hundred feet, more or less. in spite of the glories of a spectacular sunset, yielding ceaseless changes and transformations of cloud and sea tones, the words of madame poulard alone had power to possess our companion. she had uttered her protest against the pilgrimage, as she had swept the parisian's _pousse-café_ from his elbow. he took up the conversation where it had been dropped. "it is amusing to hear madame poulard talk of the priests stopping the pilgrimages! the priests? why, that's all they have left them to live upon now. these peasants' are the only pockets in which they can fumble nowadays." "all the same, one can't help being grateful to those peasants," retorted charm. "they are the only creatures who have made these things seem to have any meaning. how dead it all seems! the abbey, the cloisters, the old prisons, the fortifications, it is like wandering through a splendid tomb! "yes, as the curé said yesterday, '_l'âme n'y est plus_,'--since the priests have been dislodged, it is the house of the dead." "the priests"--the parisian snorted at the very sound of the word--"they have only themselves to blame. they would have been here still, if they had not so abused their power." "how did they abuse it?" charm asked. "in every possible way. i am, myself, not of the country. but my brother was stationed here for some years, when the mont was garrisoned. the priests were in full possession then, and they conducted a lively commerce, mademoiselle. the mont was turned into a show--to see it or any part of it, everyone had to pay toll. on the great fête-days, when st. michel wore his crown, the gold ran like water into the monks' treasury. it was still then a fashionable religious fad to have a mass said for one's dead, out here among the clouds and the sea. well, try to imagine fifty masses all dumped on the altar together; that is, one mass would be scrambled through, no names would be mentioned, no one save _le bon dieu_ himself knew for whom it was being said; but fifty or more believed they had bought it, since they had paid for it. and the priests laughed in their sleeves, and then sat down, comfortably, to count the gold. ah, mesdames, those were, literally, the golden days of the priesthood! what with the pilgrimages, and the sale of relics, and _les benefices_--together with the charges for seeing the wonders of the mont--what a trade they did! it is only the jews, who, in their turn, now own us, up in paris, who can equal the priests as commercial geniuses!" and our pessimistic parisian, during the next half-hour, gave us a prophetic picture of the approaching ruin of france, brought about by the genius for plunder and organization that is given to the sons of moses. following the parisian, a figure, bent and twisted, opened a door in a side-wall, and took his seat beside us. one became used, in time, to these sudden appearances; to vanish down a chimney, or to emerge from the womb of a rock, or to come up from the bowels of what earth there was to be found--all such exits and entrances became as commonplace as all the other extraordinary phases of one's life on the hill. this particular shape had emerged from a hut, carved, literally, out of the side of the rock; but, for a hut, it was amazingly snug--as we could see for ourselves; for the venerable shape hospitably opened the low wooden door, that we might see how much of a home could be made out of the side of a rock. only, when one had been used to a guard-room, and to great and little dungeons, and to a rattling of keys along dark corridors, a hut, and the blaze of the noon sun, were trying things to endure, as the shape, with a shrug, gave us to understand. "you see, mesdames, i was jailor here, years ago, when all la merveille was a prison. ah! those were great days for the mont! there were soldiers and officers who came up to look at the soldiers, and the soldiers--it was their business to look after the prisoners. the emperor himself came here once--i saw him. what a sight!--dieu! all the monks and priests and nuns, and the archbishop himself were out. what banners and crosses and flags! the cannon was like a great thunder--and the grève was red with soldiers. ah, those were days! dieu--why couldn't the republic have continued those glories--_ces gloires? aujourd'hui nous ne sommes que des morts_--instead of prisoners to handle--to watch and work, like so many good machines there is only the dike yonder to keep in repair! what changes--mon dieu! what changes!" and the shape wrung his hands. it was, in truth, a touching spectacle of grief for a good old past. an old priest, with equally saddened vision, once came to take his seat, quite easily and naturally, beside us, on our favorite perch. he was one of the little band of priests who had remained faithful to the mont after the government had dispersed his brothers--after the monastery had been broken up. he and his four or five companions had taken refuge in a small house, close by the cemetery; it was they who conducted the services in the little parish church; who had gathered the treasures still grouped together in that little interior--the throne of st. michel, with its blue draperies and the golden fleur-de-lis, the floating banners and the shields of the knights of st. michel, the relics, and wondrous bits of carving rescued from the splendors of the cathedral. "_ah, mesdames--que voulez-vous?_" was the old priest's broken chant; he was bewailing the woes that had come to his order, to religion, to france. "what will you have? the history of nations repeats itself, as we all know. we, of our day, are fallen on evil times; it is the reign of image-breakers--nothing is sacred, except money." "france has worn herself out. she is like an old man, the hero of many battles, who cares only for his easy chair and his slippers. she does not care about the children who are throwing stones at the windows. she likes to snooze, in the sun, and count her money-bags. france is too old to care about religion, or the future--she is thinking how best to be comfortable--here in this world, when she has rheumatism and a cramp in the stomach!" and the old priest wrapped his own _soutane_ about his lean knees, suiting his gesture to his inward convictions. was the priest's summary the last word of truth about modern france? on the sands that lay below at our feet, we read a different answer. the skies were still brilliantly lighted. the actual twilight had not come yet, with its long, deep glow, a passion of color that had a longer life up here on the heights than when seen from a lower level. this twilight hour was always a prolonged moment of transfiguration for the mont. the very last evening of our stay, we chose this as the loveliest light in which to see the last of the hill. on that evening, i remember, the reds and saffrons in the sky were of an astonishing richness. the sea wall, the bastions, the faces of the great rocks, the yellow broom that sprang from the clefts therein, were dyed as in a carmine bath. in that mighty glow of color, all things took on something of their old, their stupendous splendor. the giant walls were paved with brightness. the town, climbing the hill, assumed the proportions of a mighty citadel; the forest tree-tops were prismatic, emerald balls flung beneath the illumined merveille; and the cathedral was set in a daffodil frame; its aerial _escalier de dentelle_, like jacob's ladder, led one easily heavenward. the circling birds, in the lace-work of the spiral finials, sang their night songs, as the glow in the sky changed, softened, deepened. this was the world that was in the west. toward the east, on the flat surface of the sands, this world cast a strange and wondrous shadow. jagged rocks, a pyramidal city, a gothic cathedral in mid-air--behold the rugged outlines of mont st. michel carving their giant features on the shifting, sensitive surface of the mirroring sands. in the little pools and the trickling rivers, the fishermen--from this height, liliputians grappling with liliputian meshes--were setting their nets for the night. across the river-beds, peasant women and fishwives, with bared legs and baskets clasped to their bending backs, appeared and disappeared--shapes that emerged into the light only to vanish into the gulf of the night. in was in these pictures that we read our answer. like mont st. michel, so has france carried into the heights of history her glory and her power. on every century, she, like this world in miniature, has also cast her shadow, dwarfing some, illuminating others. and, as on those distant sands the toiling shapes of the fishermen are to be seen, early and late, in summer and winter, so can france point to her people, whose industry and amazing talent for toil have made her, and maintain her, great. some of these things we have learned, since, in normandy inns, we have sat at meat with her peasants, and have grown to be friends with her fishwives. team normandy: the scenery & romance of its ancient towns: depicted by gordon home part . chapter iv concerning the cathedral city of evreux and the road to bernay the tolling of the deep-toned bourdon in the cathedral tower reverberates over the old town of evreux as we pass along the cobbled streets. there is a yellow evening light overhead, and the painted stucco walls of the houses reflect the soft, glowing colour of the west. in the courtyard of the hotel du grand cerf, too, every thing is bathed in this beautiful light and the double line of closely trimmed laurels has not yet been deserted by the golden flood. but evreux does not really require a fine evening to make it attractive, although there is no town in existence that is not improved under such conditions. with the magnificent cathedral, the belfry, the norman church of st taurin and the museum, besides many quaint peeps by the much sub-divided river iton that flows through the town, there is sufficient to interest one even on the dullest of dull days. of all the cathedral interiors in normandy there are none that possess a finer or more perfectly proportioned nave than evreux, and if i were asked to point out the two most impressive interiors of the churches in this division of france i should couple the cathedral at evreux with st ouen at rouen. it was our own henry i. who having destroyed the previous building set to work to build a new one and it is his nave that we see to-day. the whole cathedral has since that time been made to reflect the changing ideals of the seven centuries that have passed. the west front belongs entirely to the renaissance period and the north transept is in the flamboyant style of the fifteenth century so much in evidence in normandy and so infrequent in england. the central tower with its tall steeple now encased in scaffolding was built in by cardinal balue, bishop of evreux and inventor of the fearful wooden cages in one of which the prisoner dubourg died at mont st michel. in most of the windows there is old and richly coloured glass; those in the chancel have stronger tones, but they all transform the shafts of light into gorgeous rainbow effects which stand out in wonderful contrast to the delicate, creamy white of the stone-work. pale blue banners are suspended in the chancel, and the groining above is coloured on each side of the bosses for a short distance, so that as one looks up the great sweep of the nave, the banners and the brilliant fifteenth century glass appear as vivid patches of colour beyond the uniform, creamy grey on either side. the norman towers at the west end of the cathedral are completely hidden in the mask of classical work planted on top of the older stone-work in the sixteenth century, and more recent restoration has altered some of the other features of the exterior. at the present day the process of restoration still goes on, but the faults of our grandfathers fortunately are not repeated. leaving the place parvis by the rue de l'horloge you come to the great open space in front of the hotel de ville and the theatre with the museum on the right, in which there are several roman remains discovered at vieil-evreux, among them being a bronze statue of jupiter stator. on the opposite side of the place stands the beautiful town belfry built at the end of the fifteenth century. there was an earlier one before that time, but i do not know whether it had been destroyed during the wars with the english, or whether the people of evreux merely raised the present graceful tower in place of the older one with a view to beautifying the town. the bell, which was cast in may have hung in the former structure, and there is some fascination in hearing its notes when one realises how these same sound waves have fallen on the ears of the long procession of players who have performed their parts within its hearing. a branch of the iton runs past the foot of the tower in canal fashion; it is backed by old houses and crossed by many a bridge, and helps to build up a suitable foreground to the beautiful old belfry, which seems to look across to the brand new hotel de ville with an injured expression. from the boulevard chambaudouin there is a good view of one side of the bishop's palace which lies on the south side of the cathedral, and is joined to it by a gallery and the remains of the cloister. the walls are strongly fortified, and in front of them runs a branch of one of the canals of the iton, that must have originally served as a moat. out towards the long straight avenue that runs out of the town in the direction of caen, there may be seen the norman church of st taurin. it is all that is left of the benedictine abbey that once stood here. many people who explore this interesting church fail to see the silver-gilt reliquary of the twelfth century that is shown to visitors who make the necessary inquiries. the richness of its enamels and the elaborate ornamentation studded with imitation gems that have replaced the real ones, makes this casket almost unique. many scenes from the life of the saint are shown in the windows of the choir of the church. they are really most interesting, and the glass is very beautiful. the south door must have been crowded with the most elaborate ornament, but the delicately carved stone-work has been hacked away and the thin pillars replaced by crude, uncarved chunks of stone. there is norman arcading outside the north transept as well as just above the floor in the north aisle. st taurin is a somewhat dilapidated and cob-webby church, but it is certainly one of the interesting features of evreux. instead of keeping on the road to caen after reaching the end of the great avenue just mentioned, we turn towards the south and soon enter pretty pastoral scenery. the cottages are almost in every instance thatched, with ridges plastered over with a kind of cobb mud. in the cracks in this curious ridging, grass seeds and all sorts of wild flowers are soon deposited, so that upon the roof of nearly every cottage there is a luxuriant growth of grass and flowers. in some cases yellow irises alone ornament the roofs, and they frequently grow on the tops of the walls that are treated in a similar fashion. a few miles out of evreux you pass a hamlet with a quaint little church built right upon the roadway with no churchyard or wall of any description. a few broken gravestones of quite recent date litter the narrow, dusty space between the north side of the church and the roadway. inside there is an untidy aspect to everything, but there are some windows containing very fine thirteenth century glass which the genial old cure shows with great delight, for it is said that they were intended for the cathedral at evreux, but by some chance remained in this obscure hamlet. the cure also points out the damage done to the windows by _socialistes_ at a recent date. by the roadside towards conches, there are magpies everywhere, punctuated by yellow hammers and nightingales. the cottages have thatch of a very deep brown colour over the hipped roofs, closely resembling those in the out-of-the-way parts of sussex. it a beautiful country, and the delightfully situated town of conches at the edge of its forest is well matched with its surroundings. in the middle of the day the inhabitants seem to entirely disappear from the sunny street, and everything has a placid and reposeful appearance as though the place revelled in its quaintness. backed by the dense masses of forest there is a sloping green where an avenue of great chestnuts tower above the long, low roof of the timber-framed cattle shelter. on the highest part of the hill stands the castle, whose round, central tower shows above the trees that grow thickly on the slopes of the hill. close to the castle is the graceful church, and beyond are the clustered roofs of the houses. a viaduct runs full tilt against the hill nearly beneath the church, and then the railway pierces the hill on its way towards bernay. the tall spire of the church of st foy is comparatively new, for the whole structure was rebuilt in the fifteenth century, but its stained glass is of exceptional interest. its richness of colour and the interest of the subjects indicate some unusually gifted artist, and one is not surprised to discover that they were designed by aldegrevers, who was trained by that great master albrecht dyrer. altogether there are twenty-one of these beautiful windows. seven occupy the eastern end of the apse and give scenes taken from the life of st foy. you can reach the castle by passing through the quaint archway of the hotel de ville, and then passing through the shady public garden you plunge into the dry moat that surrounds the fortified mound. there is not very much to see but what appears in a distant view of the town, and in many ways the outside groupings of the worn ruin and the church roofs and spire above the houses are better than the scenes in the town itself. the hotel croix blanche is a pleasant little house for dejeuner. everything is extremely simple and typical of the family methods of the small french inn, where excellent cooking goes along with many primitive usages. the cool salle-a-manger is reached through the general living-room and kitchen, which is largely filled with the table where you may see the proprietor and his family partaking of their own meals. there seems no room to cook anything at all, and yet when you are seated in the next room the daughter of the family, an attractive and neatly dressed girl, gracefully serves the most admirable courses, worthy and perhaps better than what one may expect to obtain in the best hotel in rouen. there is a road that passes right through the forest of conches towards rugles, but that must be left for another occasion if we are to see anything of the charms of beaumont-le-roger, the perfectly situated little town that lies half-way between conches and bernay. the long street of the town containing some very charming peeps as you go towards the church is really a terrace on the limestone hills that rises behind the houses on the right, and falls steeply on the left. spaces between the houses and narrow turnings give glimpses of the rich green country down below. from the lower level you see the rocky ridge above clothed in a profusion of trees. the most perfect picture in the town is from the river bank just by the bridge. in the foreground is the mirror-like stream that gives its own rendering of the scene that is built up above it. leaning upon a parapet of the bridge is a man with a rod who is causing tragedies in the life that teems beneath the glassy surface. beyond the bridge appear some quaint red roofs with one tower-like house with an overhanging upper storey. higher up comes the precipitous hill divided into terraces by the huge walls that surround the abbey buildings, and still higher, but much below the highest part of the hill, are the picturesque ruins of the abbey. on the summit of the ridge dominating all are the insignificant remains of the castle built by roger a la barbe, whose name survives in that of the town. his family were the founders of the abbey that flourished for several centuries, but finally, about a hundred years ago, the buildings were converted to the uses of a factory! spinning and weaving might have still been going on but for a big fire that destroyed the whole place. there was, however, a considerably more complete series of buildings left than we can see to-day, but scarcely more than fifty years ago the place was largely demolished for building materials. the view from the river rille is therefore the best the ruin can boast, for seen from that point the arches rise up against the green background as a stately ruin, and the tangled mass of weeds and debris are invisible. the entrance is most inviting. it is down at the foot of the cliff, and the archway with the steep ascent inside suggests all sorts of delights beyond, as it stands there just by the main street of the town. i was sorry afterwards, that i had accepted that hospitality, for with the exception of a group of merry children playing in an orchard and some big caves hollowed out of the foot of the cliff that rises still higher, i saw nothing but a jungle of nettles. this warning should not, however, suggest that beaumont-le-roger is a poor place to visit. not only is it a charming, i may say a fascinating spot to visit, but it is also a place in which to stay, for the longer you remain there the less do you like the idea of leaving. the church of st nicholas standing in the main street where it becomes much wider and forms a small place, is a beautiful old building whose mellow colours on stone-work and tiles glow vividly on a sunny afternoon. there is a great stone wall forming the side of the rocky platform that supports the building and the entrance is by steps that lead up to the west end. the tower belongs to the flamboyant period and high up on its parapet you may see a small statue of regulus who does duty as a "jack-smite-the-clock." just by the porch there leans against a wall a most ponderous grave slab which was made for the tomb of jehan du moustier a soldier of the fourteenth century who fought for that charles of navarre who was surnamed "the bad." the classic additions to the western part of the church seem strangely out of sympathy with the gargoyles overhead and the thirteenth century arcades of the nave, but this mixing up of styles is really more incongruous in description than in reality. when you have decided to leave beaumont-le-roger and have passed across the old bridge and out into the well-watered plain, the position of the little town suggests that of the village of pulborough in sussex, where a road goes downhill to a bridge and then crosses the rich meadowland where the river arun winds among the pastures in just the same fashion as the rille. at a bend in the road to bernay stands the village of serquigny. it is just at the edge of the forest of beaumont which we have been skirting, and besides having a church partially belonging to the twelfth century it has traces of a roman camp. all the rest of the way to bernay the road follows the railway and the river charentonne until the long--and when you are looking out for the hotel--seemingly endless street of bernay is reached. after the wonderful combination of charms that are flaunted by beaumont-le-roger it is possible to grumble at the plainer features of bernay, but there is really no reason to hurry out of the town for there is much quaint architecture to be seen, and near the hotel du lion d'or there is a house built right over the street resting on solid wooden posts. but more interesting than the domestic architecture are the remains of the abbey founded by judith of brittany very early in the eleventh century for it is probably one of the oldest romanesque remains in normandy. the church is cut up into various rooms and shops at the choir end, and there has been much indiscriminate ill-treatment of the ancient stone-work. much of the structure, including the plain round arches and square columns, is of the very earliest norman period, having been built in the first half of the eleventh century, but in later times classic ornament was added to the work of those shadowy times when the kingdom of normandy had not long been established. so much alteration in the styles of decoration has taken place in the building that it is possible to be certain of the date of only some portions of the structure. the hotel de ville now occupies part of the abbey buildings. at the eastern side of the town stands st croix, a fifteenth century church with a most spacious interior. there is much beautiful glass dating from three hundred years ago in the windows of the nave and transepts, but perhaps the feature which will be remembered most when other impressions have vanished, will be the finely carved statues belonging to the fourteenth century which were brought here from the abbey of bec. the south transept contains a monument to guillaume arvilarensis, an abbot of bec who died in . upon the great altar which is believed to have been brought from the abbey of bec, there are eight marble columns surrounding a small white marble figure of the child jesus. another church at bernay is that of notre dame de la couture. it has much fourteenth century work and behind the high altar there are five chapels, the centre one containing a copy of the "sacred image" of notre dame which stands by the column immediately to the right of the entrance. much more could be said of these three churches with their various styles of architecture extending from the very earliest period down to the classic work of the seventeenth century. but this is not the place for intricate descriptions of architectural detail which are chiefly useful in books which are intended for carrying from place to place. chapter v concerning lisieux and the romantic town of falaise lisieux is so rich in the curious timber-framed houses of the middle and later ages that there are some examples actually visible immediately outside the railway station whereas in most cases one usually finds an aggregation of uninteresting modern buildings. as you go towards the centre of the town the old houses, which have only been dotted about here and there, join hands and form whole streets of the most romantic and almost stage-like picturesqueness. the narrow street illustrated here is the rue aux fevres. its houses are astonishingly fine, and it forms--especially in the evening--a background suitable for any of the stirring scenes that took place in such grand old towns as lisieux in medieval days. this street is however, only one of several that reek of history. in the rue des boucheries and in the grande rue there are lovely overhanging gables and curious timber-framing that is now at any angle but what was originally intended. there is really so much individual quaintness in these houses that they deserve infinitely more than the scurry past them which so frequently is all their attractions obtain. the narrowness and fustiness of the rue aux fevres certainly hinder you from spending much time in examining the houses but there are two which deserve a few minutes' individual attention. one which has a very wide gable and the upper floors boarded is believed to be of very great antiquity, dating from as early a period as the thirteenth century. it is numbered thirty-three, and must not be confused with the richly ornamented manoir de francois i. the timber work of this house, especially of the two lower floors is covered with elaborate carving including curious animals and quaint little figures, and also the salamander of the royal house. for this reason the photographs sold in the shops label the house "manoir de la salamandre." the place is now fast going to ruin--a most pitiable sight and i for one, would prefer to see the place restored rather than it should be allowed to become so hopelessly dilapidated and rotten that the question of its preservation should come to be considered lightly. if the town authorities of lisieux chose to do so, they could encourage the townsfolk to enrich many of their streets by a judicious flaking off of the plaster which in so many cases tries to hide all the pleasant features of houses that have seen at least three centuries, but this sort of work when in the hands of only partially educated folk is liable to produce a worse state of affairs than if things had been left untouched. an example of what over-restoration can do, may be seen when we reach the beautiful old inn at dives. the two churches of lisieux are well fitted to their surroundings, and although st jacques has no graceful tower or fleche, the quaintness of its shingled belfry makes up for the lack of the more stately towers of st pierre. where the stone-work has stopped short the buttresses are roofed with the quaintest semi-circular caps, and over the clock there are two more odd-looking pepper boxes perched upon the steep slope that projects from the square belfry. over all there is a low pyramidal roof, stained with orange lichen and making a great contrast in colour to the weather-beaten stone-work down below. there are small patches of tiled roofing to the buttresses at the western ends of the aisles and these also add colour to this picturesque building. the great double flight of stone steps which lead to the imposing western door have balustrades filled with flamboyant tracery, but although the church is built up in this way, the floor in the interior is not level, for it slopes gently up towards the east. the building was commenced during the reign of louis xii. and not finished until nearly the end of the reign of francois i. it is therefore coeval with that richly carved house in the rue aux fevres. along the sides of the church there project a double row of thirsty-looking gargoyles--the upper ones having their shoulders supported by the mass of masonry supporting the flying buttresses. the interior is richer than the exterior, and you may see on some of the pillars remains of sixteenth century paintings. a picture dating from occupies a position in the chapel of st ursin in the south aisle; it shows the relic of the saint being brought to lisieux in . the wide and sunny place thiers is dominated by the great church of st pierre, which was left practically in its present form in the year . the first church was begun some years before the conquest of england but about a century later it suffered the fate of bayeux being burnt down in . it was reconstructed soon afterwards and shows to-day the first period of gothic architecture that became prevalent in normandy. only the north tower dates from this period, the other one had to be rebuilt during the reign of henri iii. and the spire only made its appearance in the seventeenth century. the lady chapel is of particular interest owing to the statement that it was built by that bishop of beauvais who took such a prominent part in the trial of joan of arc. the main arches over the big west door are now bare of carving or ornament and the hotel de ville is built right up against the north-west corner, but despite this st pierre has the most imposing and stately appearance, and there are many features such as the curious turrets of the south transept that impress themselves on the memory more than some of the other churches we have seen. lisieux is one of those cheerful towns that appear always clean and bright under the dullest skies, so that when the sun shines every view seems freshly painted and blazing with colour. the freshness of the atmosphere, too, is seldom tainted with those peculiar odours that some french towns produce with such enormous prodigality, and lisieux may therefore claim a further point in its favour. it is generally a wide, hedgeless stretch of country that lies between lisieux and falaise, but for the first ten miles there are big farm-houses with timber-framed barns and many orchards bearing a profusion of blossom near the roadside. a small farm perched above the road and quite out of sight, invites the thirsty passer-by to turn aside up a steep path to partake of cider or coffee. it is a simple, almost bare room where the refreshment is served, but its quaintness and shadowy coolness are most refreshing. the fireplace has an open hearth with a wood fire which can soon be blown into a blaze by the big bellows that hang against the chimney corner. a table by one of the windows is generally occupied in her spare moments by the farmer's pretty daughter who puts aside her knitting to fetch the cider or to blow up the fire for coffee. they are a most genial family and seem to find infinite delight in plying english folk with questions for i imagine that not many find their way to this sequestered corner among waving trees and lovely orchards. a sudden descent before reaching st pierre-sur-dives gives a great view over the level country below where everything is brilliantly green and garden-like. the village first shows its imposing church through the trees of a straight avenue leading towards the village which also possesses a fine market hall that must be at least six hundred years old. the church is now undergoing restoration externally, but by dodging the falling cement dust you may go inside, perhaps to be disappointed that there is not more of the norman work that has been noticed in the southern tower that rises above the entrance. the village, or it should really be called a small town, for its population is over a thousand, has much in it that is attractive and quaint, and it might gain more attention if everyone who passes through its streets were not hurrying forward to falaise. the country now becomes a great plain, hedgeless, and at times almost featureless. the sun in the afternoon throws the shadows of the roadside trees at right angles, so that the road becomes divided into accurate squares by the thin lines of shadow. the straight run from st pierre is broken where the road crosses the dives. it is a pretty spot with a farm, a manor-house and a washing place for women just below the bridge, and then follows more open road and more interminable perspectives cutting through the open plain until, with considerable satisfaction, the great thoroughfare from caen is joined and soon afterwards a glimpse of the castle greets us as we enter falaise. there is something peculiarly fascinating about falaise, for it combines many of the features that are sparingly distributed in other towns. its position on a hill with deep valleys on all sides, its romantic castle, the two beautiful churches and the splendid thirteenth century gateway, form the best remembered attractions, but beyond these there are the hundred and one pretty groupings of the cottages that crowd both banks of the little river ante down in the valley under the awe-inspiring castle. even then, no mention has been made of the ancient fronts that greet one in many of the streets, and the charms of some of the sudden openings between the houses that give views of the steep, wooded hollows that almost touch the main street, have been slighted. a huge cube of solid masonry with a great cylindrical tower alongside perched upon a mass of rock precipitous on two sides is the distant view of the castle, and coming closer, although you can see the buttresses that spring from the rocky foundations, the description still holds good. you should see the fortress in the twilight with a golden suffusion in the sky and strange, purplish shadows on the castle walls. it then has much the appearance of one of those unassailable strongholds where a beautiful princess is lying in captivity waiting for a chivalrous knight who with a band of faithful men will attempt to scale the inaccessible walls. under some skies, the castle assumes the character of one of turner's impressions, half real and half imaginary, and under no skies does this most formidable relic of feudal days ever lose its grand and awesome aspect. the entrance is through a gateway, the porte st. nicolas, which was built in the thirteenth century. there you are taken in hand by a pleasant concierge who will lead you first of all to the tour la reine, where he will point out a great breach in the wall made by henri iv. when he successfully assaulted the castle after a bombardment with his artillery which he had kept up for a week. this was in , and since then no other fighting has taken place round these grand old walls. the ivy that clings to the ruins and the avenue of limes that leads up to the great keep are full of jackdaws which wheel round the rock in great flights. you have a close view of the great tour talbot, and then pass through a small doorway in the northern face of the citadel. inside, the appearance of the walls reveals the restoration which has taken place within recent years. but this, fortunately, does not detract to any serious extent from the interest of the whole place. up on the ramparts there are fine views over the surrounding country, and immediately beneath the precipice below nestle the picturesque, browny-red roofs of the lower part of the town. just at the foot of the castle rock there is still to be seen a tannery which is of rather unusual interest in connection with the story of how robert le diable was first struck by the charms of arlette, the beautiful daughter of a tanner. the norman duke was supposed to have been looking over the battlements when he saw this girl washing clothes in the river, and we are told that owing to the warmth of the day she had drawn up her dress, so that her feet, which are spoken of as being particularly beautiful were revealed to his admiring gaze. arlette afterwards became the mother of william the conqueror, and the room is pointed out in the south-west corner of the keep in which we are asked to believe that the conqueror of england was born. it is, however, unfortunate for the legend that archaeologists do not allow such an early date for the present castle, and thus we are not even allowed to associate these ramparts with the legend just mentioned. it must have been a strong building that preceded this present structure, for during the eleventh century william the norman was often obliged to retreat for safety to his impregnable birthplace. the tour talbot has below its lowest floor what seems to be a dungeon, but it is said that prisoners were not kept here, the place being used merely for storing food. the gloomy chamber, however, is generally called an oubliette. above, there are other floors, the top one having been used by the governor of the castle. in the thickness of the wall there is a deep well which now contains no water. one of the rooms in the keep is pointed out as that in which prince arthur was kept in confinement, but although it is known that the unfortunate youth was imprisoned in this castle, the selection of the room seems to be somewhat arbitrary. in the news of joan of arc's continued successes was brought to the earl of salisbury who was then governor of falaise castle, and it was from here that he started with an army to endeavour to stop that triumphal progress. in when the french completely overcame the numerous english garrisons in the towns of normandy, falaise with its magnificent position held out for some time. the defenders sallied out from the walls of the town but were forced back again, and notwithstanding their courage, the town capitulated to the duke of alencon's army at almost the same time as avranches and a dozen other strongly defended towns. we can picture to ourselves the men in glinting head-pieces sallying from the splendid old gateway known as the port des cordeliers. it has not lost its formidable appearance even to-day, though as you look through the archway the scene is quiet enough, and the steep flight of outside steps leads up to scenes of quiet domestic life. the windows overlook the narrow valley beneath where the humble roofs of the cottages jostle one another for space. there are many people who visit falaise who never have the curiosity to explore this unusually pleasing part of the town. in the spring when the lilac bushes add their brilliant colour to the russet brown tiles and soft creams of the stone-work, there are pictures on every side. looking in the cottages you may see, generally within a few feet of the door, one of those ingenious weaving machines that are worked with a treadle, and take up scarcely any space at all. if you ask permission, the cottagers have not the slightest objection to allowing you to watch them at their work, and when one sees how rapidly great lengths of striped material grow under the revolving metal framework, you wonder that falaise is not able to supply the demands of the whole republic for this class of material. just by the hotel de ville and the church of la trinite stands the imposing statue of william the conqueror. he is mounted on the enormous war-horse of the period and the whole effect is strong and spirited. the most notable feature of the exterior of the church of la trinite is the curious passage-way that goes underneath the lady chapel behind the high altar. the whole of the exterior is covered with rich carving, crocketed finials, innumerable gargoyles and the usual enriched mouldings of gothic architecture. the charm of the interior is heightened if one enters in the twilight when vespers are proceeding. there is just sufficient light to show up the tracery of the windows and the massive pointed arches in the choir. a few candles burn by the altar beyond the dark mass of figures forming the congregation. a gregorian chant fills the building with its solemn tones and the smoke of a swinging censer ascends in the shadowy chancel. then, as the service proceeds, one candle above the altar seems to suddenly ignite the next, and a line of fire travels all over the great erection surrounding the figure of the virgin, leaving in its trail a blaze of countless candles that throw out the details of the architecture in strong relief. soon the collection is made, and as the priest passes round the metal dish, he is followed by the cocked-hatted official whose appearance is so surprising to those who are not familiar with french churches. as the priest passes the dish to each row the official brings his metal-headed staff down upon the pavement with a noisy bang that is calculated to startle the unwary into dropping their money anywhere else than in the plate. in time the bell rings beside the altar, and the priest robed in white and gold elevates the host before the kneeling congregation. once more the man in the cocked hat becomes prominent as he steps into the open space between the transepts and tolls the big bell in the tower above. then a smaller and much more cheerful bell is rung, and fearing the arrival of another collecting priest we slip out of the swinging doors into the twilight that has now almost been swallowed up in the gathering darkness. the consecration of the splendid norman church of st gervais took place in the presence of henry i. but there is nothing particularly english in any part of the exterior. the central tower has four tall and deeply recessed arches (the middle ones contain windows) on each side, giving a rich arcaded appearance. above, rises a tall pointed roof ornamented with four odd-looking dormers near the apex. every one remarks on their similarity to dovecots and one almost imagines that they must have been built as a place of shelter on stormy days for the great gilded cock that forms the weather vane. the nave is still norman on the south side, plain round-headed windows lighting the clerestory, but the aisles were rebuilt in the flamboyant period and present a rich mass of ornament in contrast to the unadorned masonry of the nave. the western end until lately had to endure the indignity of having its wall surfaces largely hidden by shops and houses. these have now disappeared, but the stone-work has not been restored, and you may still see a section of the interior of the house that formerly used the west end of the south aisle as one of its walls. you can see where the staircases went, and you may notice also how wantonly these domestic builders cut away the buttresses and architectural enrichments to suit the convenience of their own needs. as you go from the market-place along the street that runs from st gervais to the suburb of guibray, the shops on the left are exchanged for a low wall over which you see deep, grassy hollows that come right up to the edge of the street. two fine houses, white-shuttered and having the usual vacant appearance, stand on steep slopes surrounded by great cedars of lebanon and a copper beech. the church of guibray is chiefly norman--it is very white inside and there is some round-headed arcading in the aisles. the clustered columns of the nave have simple, pointed arches, and there is a carved marble altarpiece showing angels supporting the virgin who is gazing upwards. the aisles of the chancel are restored norman, and the stone-work is bright green just above the floor through the dampness that seems to have defied the efforts of the restorers. chapter vi from argentan to avranches between tall poplars whose stems are splotched with grey lichen and whose feet are grown over with browny-green moss, runs the road from falaise to argentan, straight and white, with scarcely more than the slightest bend, for the whole eight miles. it is typical of the roads in this part of the country and beyond the large stone four or five kilometres outside falaise, marking the boundary between calvados and orne, and the railway which one passes soon afterwards, there is nothing to break the undulating monotony of the boundless plain. we cannot all hope to have this somewhat dull stretch of country relieved by any exciting event, but i can remember one spring afternoon being overtaken by two mounted gendarmes in blue uniforms, galloping for their very lives. i looked down the road into the cloud of dust raised by the horses' hoofs, but the country on all sides lay calm and deserted, and i was left in doubt as to the reason for this astonishing haste. half an hour afterwards a group of people appeared in the distance, and on approaching closer, they proved to be the two gendarmes leading their blown horses as they walked beside a picturesque group of apparently simple peasants, the three men wearing the typical soft, baggy cap and blue smock of the country folk. the little group had a gloomy aspect, which was explained when i noticed that the peasants were joined together by a bright steel chain. evidently something was very much amiss with one of the peaceful villages lying near the road. after a time, at the end of the long white perspective, appear the towers of the great church of st germain that dominate the town where henry ii. was staying when he made that rash exclamation concerning his "turbulent priest." it was from argentan that those four knights set out for england and canterbury to carry out the deed, for which henry lay in ashes for five weeks in this very place. but there is little at the present time at argentan to remind one that it is in any way associated with the murder of becket. the castle that now exists is occupied by the courts of justice and was partially built in the renaissance period. standing close to it, is an exceedingly tall building with a great gable that suggests an ecclesiastical origin, and on looking a little closer one soon discovers blocked up gothic windows and others from which the tracery has been hacked. this was the chapel of the castle which has been so completely robbed of its sanctity that it is now cut up into small lodgings, and in one of its diminutive shops, picture post-cards of the town are sold. the ruins of the old castle are not very conspicuous, for in the seventeenth century the great keep was demolished. there is still a fairly noticeable round tower--the tour marguerite--which has a pointed roof above its corbels, or perhaps they should be called machicolations. in the place henri iv. stands a prominent building that projects over the pavement supported by massive pointed arches, and with this building in the foreground there is one of the best views of st germain that one can find in the town. just before coming to the clock that is suspended over the road by the porch of the church, there is a butcher's shop at the street corner that has a piece of oak carving preserved on account of its interest while the rest of the building has been made featureless with even plaster. the carving shows adam and eve standing on either side of a formal tree of life, and the butcher, who is pleased to find a stranger who notices this little curiosity, tells him with great pride that his house dates from the fifteenth century. the porch of st germain is richly ornamented, but it takes a second place to the south porch of the church of notre dame at louviers and may perhaps seem scarcely worthy of comment after st maclou at rouen. the structure as a whole was commenced in , and the last portion of the work only dates from the middle of the seventeenth century. the vaulting of the nave has a very new and well-kept appearance and the side altars, in contrast to so many of even the large churches, are almost dignified in their somewhat restrained and classic style. the high altar is a stupendous erection of two storeys with corinthian pillars. nine long, white, pendant banners are conspicuous on the walls of the chancel. the great altars and the lesser ones that crowd the side chapels are subject to the accumulation of dirt as everything else in buildings sacred or lay, and at certain times of the day, a woman may be seen vigorously flapping the brass candlesticks and countless altar ornaments with a big feather broom. on the north side of the chancel some of the windows have sections of old painted glass, and in one of them there is part of a ship with men in crow's nests backed by clouds, a really vigorous colour scheme. keeping to the high ground, there is to the south of this church an open place, and beyond it there are some large barracks, where, on the other side of a low wall may be seen the elaborately prepared steeple-chase for training soldiers to be able to surmount every conceivable form of obstacle. awkward iron railings, wide ditches, walls of different composition and varying height are frequently scaled, and it is practice of this sort that has made the french soldier famous for the facility with which he can storm fortifications. the river orne finds its way through the lower part of the town and here there are to be found some of the most pleasing bits of antique domestic architecture. one of the quaintest of these built in is the galleried building illustrated here, and from a parallel street not many yards off there is a peep of a house that has been built right over the stream which is scarcely less picturesque. [illustration: a seventeenth century house at argentan] the church of st martin is passed on entering argentan from falaise. its east end crowds right up against the pavement and it is somewhat unusual to find the entrances at this portion of the building. the stained glass in the choir of st martin is its most noticeable feature--the pictures showing various scenes in the life of christ. as in all french towns argentan knows how to decorate on fete days. coming out of the darkness of the church in the late twilight on one of these occasions, i discovered that the town had suddenly become festooned with a long perspective of arches stretching right away down the leafy avenue that goes out of the town--to the north in one direction, and to st germain in the other. the arches were entirely composed without a single exception of large crimson-red chinese lanterns. the effect was astonishingly good, but despite all the decoration, the townsfolk seemed determined to preserve the quiet of the sabbath, and although there were crowds everywhere, the only noise that broke the stillness was that of the steam round-about that had been erected on a triangular patch of grass. the dark crowds of people illuminated by flaring lights stood in perfect quiet as they watched the great noisy mass of moving animals and boats, occupied almost entirely by children, keep up its perpetual dazzle and roar. the fair--for there were many side-shows--was certainly quieter than any i have witnessed in england. a long, straight road, poplar-bordered and level, runs southwards from argentan to mortree, a village of no importance except for the fact that one must pass through it if one wishes to visit the beautiful chateau d'o. this sixteenth century mansion like so many to be seen in this part of france, is in a somewhat pathetic state of disrepair, but as far as one may see from the exterior, it would not require any very great sum to completely restore the broken stone-work and other signs of decay. these, while perhaps adding to the picturesqueness of the buildings, do not bring out that aspect of carefully preserved antiquity which is the charm of most of the houses of this period in england. the great expanse of water in the moat is very green and covered by large tracts of weed, but the water is supplied by a spring, and fish thrive in it. the approach to the chateau across the moat leads to an arched entrance through which you enter the large courtyard overlooked on three sides by the richly ornamented buildings, the fourth side being only protected from the moat by a low wall. it would be hard to find a more charming spot than this with its views across the moat to the gardens beyond, backed by great masses of foliage. going on past mortree the main road will bring one after about eight miles to the old town of alencon, which has been famed ever since the time of louis xiv. for the lace which is even at the present day worked in the villages of this neighbourhood, more especially at the hamlet of damigny. the cottagers use pure linen thread which is worth the almost incredible sum of £ per lb. they work on parchment from patterns which are supplied by the merchants in alencon. the women go on from early morning until the light fails, and earn something about a shilling per day! the castle of alencon, built by henry i. in the twelfth century, was pulled down with the exception of the keep, by the order of henry of navarre, the famous contemporary of queen elizabeth. this keep is still in existence, and is now used as a prison. near it is the palais de justice, standing where the other buildings were situated. the west porch of the church of notre dame is richly ornamented with elaborate canopies, here and there with statues. one of these represents st john, and it will be seen that he is standing with his face towards the church. a legend states that this position was taken by the statue when the church was being ransacked by protestants in the sixteenth century. another road from argentan is the great _route nationale_ that runs in a fairly direct line to granville. as one rides out of the town there is a pretty view on looking back, of st germain standing on the slight eminence above the orne. keeping along by that river the road touches it again at the little town of ecouche. the old market hall standing on massive pillars, is the most attractive feature of the place. its old tiled roof and half-timbered upper storey remind one forcibly of some of those fortunate old towns in england that have preserved this feature. the church has lost its original nave, and instead, there is a curious barn-like structure, built evidently with a view to economy, being scarcely more than half the height of the original: the vacant space has been very roughly filled up, and the numerous holes and crevices support a fine growth of weeds, and a strong young tree has also taken root in the ramshackle stone work. from the central tower, gargoyles grin above the elaborately carved buttresses and finials in remarkable contrast to the jerry-built addition. [illustration: the old market house at ecouche] passing through rich country, you leave the valley of the orne, and on both sides of the road are spread wide and fascinating views over the orchard-clad country that disappears in the distant blue of the horizon. wonderful patches of shadow, when large clouds are flying over the heavens, fall on this great tract of country and while in dull weather it may seem a little monotonous, in days of sunshine and shade it is full of a haunting beauty that is most remarkable. about seven miles from argentan one passes fromentelle, a quiet hamlet full of thatched cottages and curious weathercocks, and then five miles further on, having descended into the valley of the little river rouvre, briouze is entered. here there is a wide and very extensive market-place with another quaint little structure, smaller than the one at ecouche, but having a curious bell-turret in the centre of the roof. on monday, which is market day, briouze presents a most busy scene, and there are plenty of opportunities of studying the genial looking country farmers, their wives, and the large carts in which they drive from the farms. in the midst of the booths, you may see a bronze statue commemorating the "sapeurs, pompiers" and others of this little place who fell in . leaving the main road which goes on to flers, we may take the road to domfront, which passes through three pretty villages and much pleasant country. bellau, the first village, is full of quaint houses and charming old-world scenes. the church is right in the middle on an open space without an enclosure of any description. standing with one's back to this building, there is a pretty view down the road leading to the south, a patch of blue distance appearing in the opening between the old gables. to all those who may wish to either paint or photograph this charming scene, i would recommend avoiding the hour in the afternoon when the children come out of school. i was commencing a drawing one sunny afternoon--it must have been about three o'clock--and the place seemed almost deserted. indeed, i had been looking for a country group of peasants to fill the great white space of sunny road, when in twos and threes, the juvenile population flooded out towards me. for some reason which i could not altogether fathom, the boys arranged themselves in a long, regular line, occupying exactly one half of the view, the remaining space being filled by an equally long line of little girls. all my efforts failed to induce the children to break up the arrangement they had made. they merely altered their formation by advancing three or four paces nearer with almost military precision. they were still standing in their unbroken rows when i left the village. passing a curious roadside cross which bears the date and a long latin inscription splashed over with lichen, one arrives at la ferriere aux etangs, a quaint village with a narrow and steep street containing one conspicuously old, timber-framed house. but it is scarcely necessary to point out individual cottages in this part of normandy, for wherever one looks, the cottages are covered with thick, purply-grey thatch, and the walls below are of grey wooden framework, filled in with plaster, generally coloured a creamy-white. when there are deep shadows under the eaves and the fruit trees in blossom stand out against the dark thatch, one can easily understand how captivating is the rural charm of this part of normandy. gradually the road ascends, but no great views are apparent, although one is right above the beautiful valley of the varennes, until quite near to domfront. then, suddenly there appears an enormous stretch of slightly undulating country to the south and west. as far as one can see, the whole land seems to be covered by one vast forest. but though part of this is real forest-land, much of it is composed of orchards and hedgerow trees, which are planted so closely together that, at a short distance, they assume the aspect of close-growing woods. the first impression of the great stretch of forest-land does not lose its striking aspect, even when one has explored the whole of the town. the road that brings one into the old town runs along a ridge and after passing one of the remains of the old gateways, it rises slightly to the highest part of the mass of rock upon which domfront is perched. the streets are narrow and parallel to accommodate themselves to the confined space within the walls. at the western end of the granite ridge, and separated from the town by a narrow defile, stands all that is left of the castle--a massive but somewhat shapeless ruin. at the western end of the ramparts, one looks down a precipitous descent to the river varennes which has by some unusual agency, cut itself a channel through the rocky ridge if it did not merely occupy an existing gap. at the present time, besides the river, the road and railway pass through the narrow gorge. the castle has one of those sites that appealed irresistibly to the warlike barons of the eleventh century. in this case it was william i., duc de belleme, who decided to raise a great fortress on this rock that he had every reason to believe would prove an impregnable stronghold, but although only built in , it was taken by duke william thirty-seven years later, being one of the first brilliant feats by which william the norman showed his strength outside his own duchy. a century or more later, henry ii., when at domfront, received the pope's nuncio by whom a reconciliation was in some degree patched up between the king and becket. richard i. is known to have been at the castle at various times. in the sixteenth century, a most thrilling siege was conducted during the period when catherine de medicis was controlling the throne. a royalist force, numbering some seven or eight thousand horse and foot, surrounded this formidable rock which was defended by the calvinist comte de montgommery. with him was another protestant, ambroise le balafre, who had made himself a despot at domfront, but whose career was cut short by one of montgommery's men with whom he had quarrelled. they buried him in the little church of notre-dame-sur-l'eau--the wonderfully preserved norman building that one sees beneath one's feet when standing on the ramparts of the castle. the body, however, was not long allowed to remain there, for when the royal army surrounded the castle they brought out the corpse and hung it in a conspicuous place to annoy the besieged. like corfe castle in england, and many other magnificently fortified strongholds, domfront was capable of defence by a mere handful. in this case the original garrison consisted of one hundred and fifty, and after many desertions the force was reduced to less than fifty. a great breach had been made by the six pieces of artillery placed on the hill on the opposite side of the gorge, and through this the besiegers endeavoured to enter. the attenuated garrison, with magnificent courage, held the breach after a most desperate and bloody fight. but after all this display of courage, it was found impossible to continue the defence, for by the next morning there were barely more than a dozen men left to fight. finally montgommery was obliged to surrender unconditionally, and not long afterwards he was executed in paris. you may see the breach where this terrible fight took place at the present day, and as you watch the curious effects of the blue shadows falling among the forest trees that stretch away towards the south, you may feel that you are looking over almost the same scene that was gazed upon by the notable figures in history who have made their exits and entrances at domfront. so little has the church of notre-dame-sur-l'eau altered in its appearance since it was built by the duc de belleme that, were he to visit the ruins of his castle, he would marvel no doubt that the men of the nine centuries which have passed, should have consistently respected this sturdy little building. there are traces of aisles having existed, but otherwise the exterior of the church can have seen no change at all in this long period. inside, however, the crude whitewash, the curious assemblage of enormous seventeenth century gravestones that are leant against the walls, and the terribly jarring almost life-sized crucifix, all give one that feeling of revulsion that is inseparable from an ill-kept place of worship. on the banks of the river outside, women may be seen washing clothes; the sounds of the railway come from the station near by, and overhead, rising above the foliage at its feet, are the broken walls and shattered keep from which we have been gazing. [illustration: one of the towers in the walls of domfront] the walls of the town, punctuated by many a quaint tower, have lost their fearsome aspect owing to the domestic uses to which the towers are palpably devoted. one of them appears in the adjoining illustration, and it is typical of the half-dozen or so that still rise above the pretty gardens that are perched along the steep ascent. but though domfront is full of almost thrilling suggestions of medievalism and the glamour of an ancient town, yet there is a curious lack of picturesque arrangement, so that if one were to be led away by the totally uninteresting photographs that may be seen in the shops, one would miss one of the most unique spots in normandy. stretching away towards flers, there is a tract of green country all ups and downs, but with no distant views except the peep of domfront that appears a few miles north of the town. crowning the ridge of the hill is the keep of the castle, resembling a closed fist with the second finger raised, and near it, the bell-cote of the palais de justice and the spire of the church break the line of the old houses. ferns grow by the roadside on every bank, but the cottages and farms are below the average of rustic beauty that one soon demands in this part of france. flers is a somewhat busy manufacturing town where cotton and thread mills have robbed the place of its charm. at first sight one might imagine the church which bears the date was of considerably greater age, but inside one is almost astounded at the ramshackle galleries, the white-washed roof of rough boards discoloured by damp, and the general squalor of the place relieved only by a ponderous altar-piece of classic design. the castle is still in good preservation but although it dates from early norman times, it is chiefly of the sixteenth century. out in the country again, going westwards, the cottage industry of weaving is apparent in nearly every cottage one sees. the loud click-a-ti-clack--click-a-ti-clack of the looms can be heard on every side as one passes such villages as landisacq. everywhere the scenery is exceedingly english, the steep hillsides are often covered with orchards, and the delicate green of the apple-trees in spring-time, half-smothered in pinky-white blossom, gives the country a garden-like aspect. you may see a man harrowing a field on a sudden slope with a cloud of dust blowing up from the dry light soil, and you may hear him make that curious hullaballooing by which the peasants direct their horses, so different from the grunting "way-yup there" of the english ploughman. coming down a long descent, a great stretch of country to the north that includes the battlefield of tinchebrai comes into view. it is hard to associate the rich green pastures, smiling orchards, and peaceful cattle, with anything so gruesome as a battle between armies led by brothers. but it was near the little town of tinchebrai that the two brothers, henry i., king of england, and robert duke of normandy fought for the possession of normandy. henry's army was greatly superior to that of his brother, for he had the valuable help of the counts of conches, breteuil, thorigny, mortagne, montfort, and two or three others as powerful. but despite all this array, the battle for some time was very considerably in robert's favour, and it was only when henry, heavily pressed by his brother's brilliant charge, ordered his reserves to envelop the rear, that the great battle went in favour of the english king. among the prisoners were robert and his youthful son william, the counts of mortain, estouteville, ferrieres, and a large number of notable men. until his death, twenty-seven years later, henry kept his brother captive in cardiff castle, and it has been said that, owing to an effort to escape, henry was sufficiently lacking in all humane feelings towards his unfortunate brother, to have both his eyes put out. it seems a strange thing that exactly sixty years after the battle of hastings, a norman king of england, should conquer the country which had belonged to his father. the old church of st remy at tinchebrai, part of which dates from the twelfth century, has been abandoned for a new building, but the inn--the hotel lion d'or--which bears the date , is still in use. vire, however, is only ten miles off, and its rich mediaeval architecture urges us forward. standing in the midst of the cobbled street, there suddenly appears right ahead a splendid thirteenth century gateway--the tour de l'horloge--that makes one of the richest pictures in normandy. it is not always one can see the curious old tower thrown up by a blaze of gold in the west, but those who are fortunate enough to see such an effect may get a small suggestion of the scene from the illustration given here. the little painted figure of the virgin and child stands in a niche just over the arch, and by it appears the prayer "marie protege la ville!" one of the charms of vire is its cleanliness, for i can recall no unpleasant smells having interfered with the pleasure of exploring the old streets. there is a great market on the northern side of the town, open and breezy. it slopes clear away without any intervening buildings to a great expanse of green wooded country, suggestive of some of the views that lie all around one at avranches. the dark old church of notre dame dates mainly from the twelfth century. houses and small shops are built up against it between the buttresses in a familiar, almost confidential manner, and on the south side, the row of gargoyles have an almost humorous appearance. the drips upon the pavement and shops below were evidently a nuisance, and rain water-spouts, with plain pipes leading diagonally from them, have been attached to each grotesque head, making it seem that the grinning monsters have developed a great and unquenchable thirst. inside, the church is dark and impressive. there are double rows of pillars in the aisles, and a huge crucifix hangs beneath the tower, thrown up darkly against the chancel, which is much painted and gilded. the remains of the great castle consist of nothing more than part of the tall keep, built eight hundred years ago, and fortunately not entirely destroyed when the rest of the castle came down by the order of cardinal richelieu. an exploration of the quaint streets of vire will reveal two or three ancient gateways, many gabled houses, some of which are timber-framed visually, and most of them are the same beneath their skins of plaster. the houses in one of the streets are connected with the road by a series of wooden bridges across the river, which there forms one of the many pictures to be found in vire. mortain is separated from vire by fifteen miles of exceedingly hilly country, and those who imagine that all the roads in normandy are the flat and poplar bordered ones that are so often encountered, should travel along this wonderful switch-back. as far as sourdeval there seems scarcely a yard of level ground--it is either a sudden ascent or a breakneck rush into a trough-like depression. you pass copices of firs and beautiful woods, although in saying beautiful it is in a limited sense, for one seldom finds the really rich woodlands that are so priceless an ornament to many surrey and kentish lanes. the road is shaded by tall trees when it begins to descend into the steep rocky gorge of the cance with its tumbling waterfalls that are a charming feature of this approach to mortain. high upon the rocks on the left appears an enormous gilded statue of the virgin, in the grounds of the abbaye blanche. going downwards among the broken sunlight and shadows on the road, mortain appears, picturesquely perched on a great rocky steep, and in the opening of the valley a blue haze suggests the great expanse of level country towards the south. the big parish church of the town was built originally in by that robert of mortain, who, it will be remembered, was one of the first of the normans to receive from the victorious william a grant of land in england. the great tower which stands almost detached on the south-west side is remarkable for its enormously tall slit windows, for they run nearly from the ground to the saddle-back roof. the interior of this church is somewhat unusual, the nave and chancel being structurally one, and the aisles are separated by twenty-four circular grey pillars with corinthian capitals. the plain surfaces of the walls and vaulting are absolutely clean white, picked out with fine black lines to represent stone-work--a scarcely successful treatment of such an interior! on either side of the high altar stand two great statues representing st guillaume and st evroult. to those who wish to "do" all the sights of mortain there is the chapel of st michael, which stands high up on the margin of a great rocky hill, but the building having been reconstructed about fifty years ago, the chief attraction to the place is the view, which in tolerably clear weather, includes mont st michel towards which we are making our way. a perfectly straight and fairly level stretch of road brings you to st hilaire-du-harcout. on the road one passes two or three large country houses with their solemn and perfectly straight avenues leading directly up to them at right angles from the road. the white jalousies seem always closed, the grass on the lawns seems never cut, and the whole establishments have a pathetically deserted appearance to the passer-by. a feature of this part of the country can scarcely be believed without actually using one's eyes. it is the wooden chimney-stack, covered with oak shingles, that surmounts the roofs of most of the cottages. where the shingles have fallen off, the cement rubble that fills the space between the oak framing appears, but it is scarcely credible that, even with this partial protection, these chimneys should have survived so many centuries. i have asked the inmates of some of the cottages whether they ever feared a fire in their chimneys, but they seemed to consider the question as totally unnecessary, for some providence seems to have watched over their frail structures. st hilaire has a brand new church and nothing picturesque in its long, almost monotonous, street. instead of turning aside at pontaubault towards mont st michel, we will go due north from that hamlet to the beautifully situated avranches. this prosperous looking town used, at one time, to have a large english colony, but it has recently dwindled to such small dimensions that the english chaplain has an exceedingly small parish. the streets seem to possess a wonderful cleanliness; all the old houses appear to have made way for modern buildings which, in a way, give avranches the aspect of a watering-place, but its proximity to the sea is more apparent in a map than when one is actually in the town. on one side of the great place in front of the church of notre dame des champs is the jardin des plantes. to pass from the blazing sunshine and loose gravel, to the dense green shade of the trees in this delightful retreat is a pleasure that can be best appreciated on a hot afternoon in summer. the shade, however, and the beds of flowers are not the only attractions of these gardens. their greatest charm is the wonderful view over the shining sands and the glistening waters of the rivers see and selune that, at low tide, take their serpentine courses over the delicately tinted waste of sand that occupies st michael's bay. out beyond the little wooded promontory that protects the mouth of the see, lies mont st michel, a fretted silhouette of flat pearly grey, and a little to the north is tombelaine, a less pretentious islet in this fairyland sea. framed by the stems and foliage of the trees, this view is one of the most fascinating in normandy. one would be content to stay here all through the sultry hours of a summer day, to listen to the distant hum of conversation among white-capped nursemaids, as they sew busily, giving momentary attention to their charges. but avranches has an historical spot that no student of history, and indeed no one who cares anything for the picturesque events that crowd the pages of the chronicles of england in the days of the norman kings, may miss. it is the famous stone upon which henry ii. knelt when he received absolution for the murder of becket at the hands of the papal legate. to reach this stone is, for a stranger, a matter of some difficulty. from the place by the jardin des plantes, it is necessary to plunge down a steep descent towards the railway station, and then one climbs a series of zigzag paths on a high grassy bank that brings one out upon the place huet. in one corner, surrounded by chains and supported by low iron posts, is the historic stone. it is generally thickly coated with dust, but the brass plate affixed to a pillar of the doorway is quite legible. these, and a few fragments of carved stone that lie half-smothered in long grass and weeds at a short distance from the railed-in stone, are all that remain of the cathedral that existed in the time of henry ii. it must have been an impressive scene on that sunday in may , when the papal legate, in his wonderful robes, stood by the north transept door, of which only this fragment remains, and granted absolution to the sovereign, who, kneeling in all humbleness and submission, was relieved of the curse of excommunication which had been laid on him after the tragic affair in the sanctuary at canterbury. in place of the splendid cathedral, whose nave collapsed, causing the demolition of the whole building in , there is a new church with the two great western towers only carried up to half the height intended for them. from the roadway that runs along the side of the old castle walls in terrace fashion there is another wonderful view of rich green country, through which, at one's feet, winds the river see. away towards the north-west the road to granville can be seen passing over the hills in a perfectly straight line. but this part of the country may be left for another chapter. transcriber's note: every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible; please see detailed list of printing issues at the end of the text. a village of vagabonds by f. berkeley smith author of "the lady of big shanty." a. l. burt company publishers new york all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the scandinavian copyright, , by doubleday, page & company published may, copyright, , , by smith publishing house * * * * * contents chapter page i. the house by the marsh ii. monsieur le curé iii. the exquisite madame de bréville iv. the smugglers v. marianne vi. the baron's perfectos vii. the horrors of war viii. the million of monsieur de savignac ix. the man with the gun x. the bells of pont du sable xi. the miser--garron xii. midwinter flights * * * * * a village of vagabonds [illustration: house by the marsh] a village of vagabonds chapter one the house by the marsh it was in fat madame fontaine's little café at bar la rose, that norman village by the sea, that i announced my decision. it being market-day the café was noisy with peasants, and the crooked street without jammed with carts. monsieur torin, the butcher, opposite me, leaned back heavily from his glass of applejack and roared. monsieur pompanet, the blacksmith, at my elbow, put down his cup of black coffee delicately in its clean saucer and opened his honest gray eyes wide in amazement. simultaneously monsieur jaclin, the mayor, in his freshly ironed blouse, who for want of room was squeezed next to torin, choked out a wheezy "_bon dieu!_" and blew his nose in derision. "pont du sable--_bon dieu!_" exclaimed all three. "pont du sable--_bon dieu!_" "_cristi!_" thundered torin. "you say you are going to _live_ in pont du sable? _hélas!_ it is not possible, my friend, you are in earnest!" "that lost hole of a village of _sacré_ vagabonds," echoed pompanet. "why, the mud when the tide is out smells like the devil. it is unhealthy." "père bordier and i went there for ducks twenty years ago," added the mayor. "we were glad enough to get away before dark. b-r-r! it was lonely enough, that marsh, and that dirty little fishing-village no longer than your arm. bah! it's a hole, just as pompanet says." torin leaned across the table and laid a heavy hand humanely on my shoulder. "take my advice," said he, "don't give up that snug farm of yours here for a lost hole like pont du sable." "but the sea-shooting is open there three hundred and sixty-five days in the year," i protested, with enthusiasm. "i'm tired of tramping my legs off here for a few partridges a season. besides, what i've been looking for i've found--a fine old abandoned house with a splendid old courtyard and a wild garden. i had the good luck to climb over a wall and discover it." "i know the place you mean," interrupted the mayor. "it was a post-tavern in the old days before the railroad ran there." "and later belonged to the estate of the marquis de lys," i added proudly. "now it belongs to me." "what! you've bought it!" exclaimed torin, half closing his veal-like eyes. "yes," i confessed, "signed, sealed, and paid for." "and what the devil do you intend to do with that old stone pile now that you've got it?" sneered jaclin. "ah! you artists are queer fellows!" "live in it, messieurs," i returned as happily as i could, as i dropped six sous for my glass into madame fontaine's open palm, and took my leave, for under the torrent of their protest i was beginning to feel i had been a fool to be carried away by my love of a gun and the picturesque. the marsh at pont du sable was an old friend of mine. so were the desert beach beyond the dunes, and the lost fishing-village--"no longer than your arm." i had tramped in wind and rain and the good sunlight over that great desert of pasty black clay at low tide. i had lain at high tide in a sand-pit at the edge of the open sea beyond the dunes, waiting for chance shots at curlew and snipe. i had known the bay at the first glimmer of dawn with a flight of silver plovers wheeling for a rush over my decoys. dawn--the lazy, sparkling noon and the golden hours before the crisp, still twilight warned me it was high time to start back to bar la rose fourteen kilometres distant. all these had become enchanting memories. thus going to pont du sable for a day's shooting became a weekly delight, then a biweekly fascination, then an incorrigible triweekly habit. there was no alternative left me now but to live there. the charm of that wild bay and its lost village had gotten under my skin. and thus it happened that i deserted my farm and friends at bar la rose, and with my goods and chattels boarded the toy train one spring morning, bound for my abandoned house, away from sufficient-unto-itself bar la rose and its pigheaded inhabitants, the butcher, the blacksmith, and the mayor. * * * * * it is such a funny little train that runs to my new-found paradise, rocking and puffing and grumbling along on its narrow-gauge track with its cars labelled like grown-up ones, first, second, and third class; and no two painted the same colour; and its noisy, squat engine like the real ones in the toy-stores, that wind up with a key and go rushing off frantically in tangents. no wonder the train to my lost village is called "_le petit déraillard_"--"the little get-off-the-track." and so i say, it might all have come packed in excelsior in a neat box, complete, with instructions, for the sum of four francs sixty-five centimes, had it not been otherwise destined to run twice daily, rain or shine, to pont du sable, and beyond. poor little train! it is never on time, but it does its best. it is at least far more prompt than its passengers, for most of them come running after it out of breath. "hurry up, mademoiselle!" cries the engineer to a rosy-cheeked girl in sabots, rushing with a market-basket under one arm and a live goose under the other. "eh, my little lady, you should have gotten out of bed earlier!" laughs the conductor as he pulls her aboard. "toot! toot!" and off goes the little get-off-the-track again, rocking and rumbling along past desert stretches of sand dunes screening the blue sea; past modern villas, isolated horrors in brick, pink, and baby blue, carefully planted away from the trees. then suddenly the desert is left behind! past the greenest of fields now, dotted with sleek, grazing cattle; past groves of pine; past snug norman farms with low-thatched roofs half-smothered in yellow roses. again the dunes, as the toy train swings nearer the sea. they are no longer desert wastes of sand and wire-grass, but covered now with a riot of growing things, running in one rich congested sweep of orchards, pastures, feathery woodlands and matted hedges down to the very edge of the blue sea. a sudden turn, and the toy train creeps out of a grove of pines to the open bay. it is high tide. a flight of plover, startled by the engine, go wheeling away in a silver streak to a spit of sand running out from the marsh. a puff of smoke from the sand-spit, and the band leaves two of its members to a gentleman in new leather leggings; then, whistling over the calamity that has befallen them, they wheel again and strike for the open sea and safety. far across the expanse of rippling turquoise water stands a white lighthouse that at dusk is set with a yellow diamond. snug at the lower end of the bay, a long mile from where the plovers rise, lies the lost village. now the toy train is crawling through its crooked single street, the engine-bell ringing furiously that stray dogs and children, and a panicky flock of sheep may have time to get out of the way. the sheep are in charge of a rough little dog with a cast in one eye and a slim, barelegged girl who apologizes a dozen times to monsieur the engineer between her cries to her flock. "they are not very well brought up, my little one--those sacred mutton of yours," remarks the engineer as he comes to a dead stop, jumps out of his cab, and helps straighten out the tangle. "ah, monsieur!" sighs the girl in despair. "what will you have? it is the little black one that is always to blame!" the busy dog crowds them steadily into line. he seems to be everywhere at once, darting from right to left, now rounding up a stubborn ewe and her first-born, now cornering the black one. "toot! toot!" and the little get-off-the-track goes rumbling on through the village, past the homes of the fishermen--a straggling line of low stone houses with quaint gabled roofs, and still quainter chimneys, and old doorways giving glimpses of dark interiors and dirt floors. past the modest houses of the mayor, the baker, the butcher and monsieur le curé; then through the small public square, in which nothing ever happens, and up to a box of a station. "pont du sable!" cries the conductor, with as much importance as if he had announced paris. i have arrived. * * * * * there was no doubt about my new-found home being abandoned! the low stone wall that tempered the wind from courtyard and garden was green with lichens. the wide stone gateway, with its oaken doors barred within by massive cross-hooks that could have withstood a siege; the courtyard, flanked by the house and its rambling appendages that contained within their cavernous interiors the cider-press and cellars; the stable with its long stone manger, and next it the carved wooden bunk for the groom of two centuries ago; the stone pig-sty; the tile-roofed sheds--all had about them the charm of dignified decay. but the "château" itself! generations of spiders had veiled every nook and corner within, and the nooks and corners were many. these cobwebs hung in ghostly festoons from the low-beamed ceiling of the living room, opening out upon the wild garden. they continued up the narrow stone stairway leading to the old-fashioned stone-paved bedrooms; they had been spun in a labyrinth all over the generous, spooky, old stone-paved attic, whose single eye of a window looked out over the quaint gables and undulating tiled roofs of adjoining attics, whose dark interiors were still pungent with the tons of apples they had once sheltered. beyond my rambling roofs were rich orchards and noble trees and two cool winding lanes running up to the green country beyond. ten days of strenuous settling passed, at the end of which my abandoned house was resuscitated, as it were. without suzette, my little maid-of-all-work, it would have been impossible. i may say we attacked this seemingly superhuman task together--and suzette is so human. she has that frantic courage of youth, and a smile that is irresistible. "to-morrow monsieur shall see," she said. "my kitchen is clean--that is something, eh? and the beds are up, and the armoires, and nearly all of monsieur's old studio furniture in place. _eh, ben!_ to-morrow night shall see most of the sketches hung and the rugs beaten--that is again something, eh? then there will be only the brass and the andirons and the guns to clean." ten days of strenuous attack, sometimes in the rain, and when i hammer my fingers in the rain i swear horribly; the average french saw, too, would have placed job in a sanitarium. suzette's cheery smile is a delight, and how her sturdy, dimpled arms can scrub, and dust, and cook, and clean. when she is working at full steam she invariably sings; but when her soufflé does not soufflé she bursts into tears--this good little peasant maid-of-all-work! and so the abandoned house by the marsh was settled. now there is charm, and crackling fires o' nights within, and sunny breakfasts in the garden without--a garden that grew to be gay with flowers, and is still in any wind, thanks to my friend the lichen-stained wall over which clamber vines and all manner of growing things; and sometimes my kitten with her snow-white breast, whose innocent green eyes narrow to slits as she watches for hours two little birds that are trying to bring up a small family in the vines. i have told her plainly if she even touches them i will boil her in oil. "do you hear, miquette?" and she turns away and licks her pink paw as if she had not heard--you essence of selfishness that i love! shall i tell you who is coming to dine to-night, green-eyes? our neighbours! madame alice de bréville who spoils you, and the marquis de clamard who does not like pussy-cats, but is too well-bred to tell you so, and the marquise who flatters you, and blondel! don't struggle--you cannot get away, i've got you tight. you are not going to have your way all the time. look at me! claws in and your ears up! there! and tanrade, that big, whole-souled musician, with his snug old house and his two big dogs, either one of which would make mince-meat of you should you have the misfortune to mistake his garden for your own. madame de bréville--do you hear?--who has but to half close her eyes to make tanrade forget his name. he loves her madly, you see, pussy-kit! ah, yes! the lost village! in which the hours are never dull. lost village! with these parisian neighbours, whose day of discovery antedated mine by several years. lost village! in which there are jolly fishermen and fishergirls as pretty as some gipsies--slim and fearless, a genial old mayor, an optimistic blacksmith, and a butcher who is a seigneur; gentle old women in white caps, blue-eyed children, kind dogs, fresh air, and _life_! there is a mysterious fascination about that half-hour before the first glimmer of dawn. the leaves, this september morning, are shivering in the dusk of my garden; the house is as silent as my sleeping cat save for the resonant tick-tock, tick-tock, of the tall norman clock in the kitchen, to which i tiptoe down and breakfast by candle-light. you should see the essence of selfishness then as she purrs around a simmering saucepan of milk destined for my coffee, and inspects the toast and jam, and sniffs at my breech-loader, well greased with neatsfoot-oil, and now the ghostly light in the courtyard tells me to hurry out on the bay. low tide. far out on the desert of black clay a colony of gulls have spent the night. their quarrelsome jargon reaches me as i cautiously raise my head over the dunes, for often a band of plover is feeding at dawn out on the mud, close enough for a shot. nothing in view save the gulls, those gossiping concierges of the bay, who rise like a squall of snow as i make a clean breast of my presence, and start across the soggy, slippery mud toward the marsh running out to the open sea. a curlew, motionless on his long legs, calls cheerfully from the point of sand: "curli--curli!" strong, cheerful old bird. the rifts of white mist are lifting from the bay, thinned into rose vapour now, as the sun creeps above the green hillsides. swish! three silver plovers flash back of me--a clean miss. if we never missed we should never love a gun. it is time now to stalk the bottoms of the narrow, winding causeways that drain the bay. their beds at low tide are full of dead mussels, dormant clams, and awkward sputtering crabs; the old ones sidling away from you with threatening claws wide open for combat; the young ones standing their ground bravely, in ignorance. swish again! but this time i manage to kill them both--two fat golden plovers. the essence of selfishness shall have her fill at noon, and the pupils of her green eyes will contract in ecstasy as she crunches and gnaws. now all the bay is alive. moreover, the sea is sweeping in, filling the bay like a bath-tub, obliterating the causeways under millions of dancing ripples of turquoise. soon my decoys are out, and i am sunk in a sand-pit at the edge of the sea. the wind holds strong from the northeast, and i am kept busy until my gun-barrels are too hot to be pleasant. all these things happen between dawn and a late breakfast in my garden. suzette sang all day. it is always so with suzette upon the days when the abandoned house is giving a dinner. the truth is, suzette loves to cook; her pride and her happiness increase as the hour appointed for my guests to arrive approaches. with suzette it is a delightful event. the cracked jingle-bell over my stone gateway had jingled incessantly since early morning, summoning this good little norman maid-of-all-work to slip her trim feet into her sabots and rush across the court to open the small door piercing my wall beside the big gates. twice for beggars, once for the grocer's boy, three times for the baker--who had, after all, forgotten the _brioche_; again for the baker's boy, who invariably forgets if he thinks there is another chance in his forgetting, of paying a forgotten compliment to suzette. i heard his mother scolding him yesterday. his bread, which he kneads and bakes himself before dawn, is losing its lightness. there is little harmony between rising yeast and a failing heart. again the bell jingles; this time it is the mère marianne, with a basket of quivering, iridescent mackerel just in from the night's fishing. mère marianne, who once was a village belle, is now thirty-three years of age, strong as a man, fair-haired, hatless, bronzed by the sun, salt-tanned, blue-eyed, a good mother to seven fair-haired, blue-eyed children; yet a hard, amiable drinker in her leisure hours after a good catch. "_bonjour_, my all beautiful!" she greets suzette as the door opens. "_bonjour_, madame!" returns suzette, her cheeks flushed from her kitchen fire. the word "madame" seems out of place, for mère marianne wears her man's short tarpaulin coat cinched about her waist with a thin tarred rope. her sinewy legs, bare to the knees, are tightly incased in a pair of sea-soaked trousers. "so monsieur is having his friends to dinner," she rattles on garrulously, swinging her basket to the ground and kneeling before it. "i heard it as i came up the road from blancheville's girl, who had it from the mère taurville. _eh ben!_ what do you think of these?" she adds in the same breath, as she turns up two handsful of live mackerel. "six sous apiece to you, my pretty one. you see i came to you first; i'm giving them to you as cheap as if you were my own daughter." "come, be quick," returns suzette. "i have my lobster to boil and my roast to get ready; four sous if you like, but not a sou more." "four sous! _bon dieu!_ i would rather eat them myself. they only lack speech to tell you themselves how fresh they are. look at them!" "four sous," insists suzette. "do you think monsieur is rich enough to buy the _république_." "_allez!_ then, take them at four sous." and mère marianne laughs, slips the money into her trousers pocket, and goes off to another bargain in the village, where, if she gets two sous for her mackerel she will be lucky. at six suzette lifts the burgundy tenderly from its resting-place in a closet beneath the winding stone stairs--a stone closet, low, sinister, and dark, that suggests the solitary dungeons of feudal times. three cobwebbed bottles of burgundy are now carefully ranged before the crackling blaze in the living room. at six-thirty suzette lays the generous dark-oak table in lace and silver, thin glasses, red-shaded candles, and roses--plenty of roses from the garden. her kitchen by this time is no longer open to visitors. it has become a sacred place, teeming with responsibility--a laboratory of resplendent shining copper sauce-pans, pots and casseroles, in which good things steam and stew and bubble under lids of burnished gold, which, when lifted, give one a rousing appetite. * * * * * i knew tanrade's ring--vigorous and hearty, like himself. you would never guess this sturdy, broad-shouldered man has created delicious music--fairy ballets, pantomimes, and operettas. all paris has applauded him for years, and his country has rewarded him with a narrow red ribbon. rough-bearded, bronzed like a sailor, his brown eyes gleam with kindness and intelligence. the more i know this modest great man the more i like him, and i have known him in all kinds of wind and weather, for tanrade is an indefatigable hunter. he and i have spent nights together in his duck-blind--a submerged hut, a murderous deceit sunk far out on the marsh--cold nights; soft moonlight nights--the marsh a mystic fairy-land; black nights---mean nights of thrashing rain. nights that paled to dawn with no luck to bring back to suzette's larder. sunny mornings after lucky nights, when tanrade and i would thaw out over our coffee in the garden among the roses. tanrade had arrived early, a habit with this genial gourmand when the abandoned house is giving a dinner, for he likes to supervise the final touches. he was looking critically over the three cobwebbed bottles of his favourite burgundy now warming before my fire, and having tenderly lifted the last bottle in the row to a place which he considered a safer temperature, he straightened and squared his broad shoulders to the blaze. "i'll send you half a dozen more bottles to-morrow," he said. "no, you won't, my old one," i protested, but he raised his hand and smiled. "the better the wine the merrier shall be the giver. eighteen bottles left! _eh bien!_ it was a lucky day when that monastery was forced to disband," he chuckled, alluding to the recent separation of the church from the state. "_vive la république!_" he crossed the room to the sideboard and, having assured himself the camembert was of the right age, went singing into suzette's kitchen to glance at the salad. "bravo, my little one, for your romaine!" i heard him exclaim. then a moment's silence ensued, while he tasted the dressing. "_sacristi!_ my child, do you think we are rabbits. _hélas!_ not a bit of astragon in your seasoning! a thousand thunders! a salad is not a salad without astragon. come, be quick, the lantern! i know where the bed is in the garden." "ah, monsieur tanrade! to think i should have forgotten it!" sighed the little maid. "if monsieur will only let me hold the lantern for him!" "there, there! never mind! see, you are forgiven. attend to your lobster. quick, your soup is boiling over!" and he went out into the garden in search of the seasoning. suzette adores him--who does not in the lost village? he had rewarded her with a two-franc piece and forgiven her with a kiss. i had hardly time to open the big gates without and light the candles within under their red shades glowing over the mass of roses still wet from the garden, before i heard the devilish wail of a siren beyond the wall; then a sudden flash of white light from two search-lights illumined the courtyard, and with a wrenching growl madame alice de bréville's automobile whined up to my door. the next instant the tip of a little patent-leather slipper, followed by the trimmest of silken ankles framed in a frou-frou of creamy lace, felt for the steel step of the limousine. at the same moment a small white-gloved hand was outstretched to mine for support. "_bonsoir_, dear friend," she greeted me in her delicious voice. "you see how punctual i am. _l'heure militaire_--like you americans." and she laughed outright, disclosing two exquisite rows of pearls, her soft, dark eyes half closing mischievously as she entered my door--eyes as black as her hair, which she wore in a bandeau. the tonneau growled to its improvised garage under the wood-shed. she was standing now in the hall at the foot of the narrow stone stairs, and as i slipped the long opera-cloak of dove-gray from her shoulders as white as ivory, she glided out of it, and into the living room--a room which serves as gun room, dining room and salon. "stand where you are," i said, as madame approached the fire. "what a portrait!" she stopped, the dancing light from the flames playing over her lithe, exquisite figure, moulded in a gown of scintillating scales of black jet. then, seeing i had finished my mental note of line and composition, she half turned her pretty head and caught sight of the ruby, cobwebbed row of old burgundy. "ah! tanrade's burgundy!" she exclaimed with a little cry of delight. "how did you guess?" "guess! one does not have to guess when one sees as good burgundy as that. you see i know it." she stretched forth her firm white arms to the blaze. "where is he, that good-for-nothing fellow?" she asked. "in the garden after some astragon for the salad." she tripped to the half-open door leading to the tangled maze of paths. "tanrade! tanrade! _bonsoir, ami!_" she called. "_bonsoir_, madame punctual," echoed his great voice from the end of the garden, and again he broke forth in song as he came hurrying back to the house with his lantern and his bunch of seasoning. following at his heels trotted the essence of selfishness. "oh, you beauty!" cried alice. she nodded mischievously to tanrade, who rushed to the piano, and before the essence of selfishness had time to elude her she was picked up bodily, held by her fore paws and forced to dance upon her hind legs, her sleek head turned aside in hate, her velvety ears flattened to her skull. "dance! dance!" laughed alice. "one--two, one--two! _voilà!_" the next instant miquette was caught up and hugged to a soft neck encircled with jewels. "there, go! do what you like, mademoiselle independent!" and as miquette regained her liberty upon her four paws, the marquis and marquise de clamard announced their arrival by tapping on the window, so that for the moment the cozy room was deserted save by miquette, who profited during the interval by stealing a whole sardine from the hors-d'oeuvres. another good fellow is the marquis--tall, with the air of a diplomat, the simplicity of a child, and the manners of a prince. another good friend, too, is the marquise. they had come on foot, these near-by neighbours, with their lantern. was there ever such a marquise? this once famous actress, who interpreted the comedies of molière. was there ever a more charming grandmother? ah! you do not look it even now with your gray hair, for you are ever young and witty and gracious. she clapped her hands as she peered across the dinner-table to the row before the chimney. "my burgundy, i see!" she exclaimed, to my surprise; tanrade was gazing intently at a sketch. "oh, you shall see," added the marquise seriously. "you are not the only one, my friend, the gods have blessed. did you not send me a dozen bottles this morning, monsieur tanrade? come, confess!" he turned and shrugged his shoulders. "impossible! i cannot remember. i am so absent-minded, madame," and he bent and kissed her hand. "where's blondel?" cried clamard, as he extracted a thin cigarette-case from his waistcoat. "he'll be here presently," i explained. "it's a long drive for him," added the marquise, a ring of sympathy in her voice. "poor boy, he is working so hard now that he is editor of _la revue normande_. ah, those wretched politics!" "he doesn't mind it," broke in tanrade, "he has a skin like a bear--driving night and day all over the country as he does. what energy, _mon dieu_!" "oh!" cried madame de bréville, "blondel shall sing for us 'l'histoire de madame x.' you shall cry with laughter." "and 'le brigadier de tours,'" added tanrade. the sound of hoofs and the rattle of a dog-cart beyond the wall sent us hurrying to the courtyard. "_eh, voilà!_" shouted tanrade. "there he is, that good blondel!" "suzette!" i cried as i passed the kitchen. "the vermouth!" "_bien_, monsieur." "eh, blondel, there is nothing to eat, you late vagabond!" a black mare steaming from her hot pace of twelve miles, drawing a red-wheeled dog-cart, entered the courtyard. "a thousand pardons," came a voice out of a bearskin coat, "my editorial had to go to press early, or i should have been here half an hour ago." then such a greeting and a general rush to unharness the tired mare, the marquis tugging at one trace and i at the other, while tanrade backed the cart under the shed next to the cider-press, alice de bréville and the marquise holding the mare's head. all this, despite the pleadings of blondel, who has a horror of giving trouble--the only man servant to the abandoned house being pierre, who was occupied at that hour in patrolling the coast in the employ of the french république, looking out for possible smugglers, and in whose spare hours served me as gardener. and so the mare was led into the stable with its stone manger, where every one helped with halter, blanket, a warm bed, and a good supper; alice de bréville holding the lantern while the marquise bound on the mare's blanket with a girdle of straw. "monsieur, dinner is served," announced suzette gently as she entered the stable. "vive suzette!" shouted the company. "_allons manger, mes enfants!_" they found their places at the table by themselves. in the abandoned house there is neither host nor formality, but in their stead comradeship, understanding, and good cheer. blondel is delightful. you can always count on him for the current events with the soup, the latest scandal with the roast, and a song of his own making with the cheese. what more can one ask? it all rolls from him as easily as the ink from his clever pen; it is as natural with him as his smile or the merriment in his eyes. during the entire dinner the essence of selfishness was busy visiting from one friendly lap to another, frequently crossing the table to do so, and as she refuses to dine from a saucer, though it be of the finest porcelain of rouen, she was fed piecemeal. it was easily seen tanrade was envious of this charity from one shapely little hand. what a contrast are these dinners in the lost village to some i have known elsewhere! what refreshing vivacity! how genuine and merry they are from the arrival of the first guest to the going of the last! when at last the coffee and liqueurs were reached and six thin spirals of blue smoke were curling lazily up among the rafters of the low ceiling, the small upright piano talked under tanrade's vibrant touch. he sang heartily whatever came into his head; now a quaint peasant song, again the latest success of the café concert. alice de bréville, stretched out in the long chair before the fire, was listening intently. and so with song and story the hands of the tall clock slipped by the hours. it was midnight before we knew it. again tanrade played--this time it was the second act of his new operetta. when he had finished he took his seat beside the woman in the long chair. "bravo!" she murmured in his ear. then she listened as he talked to her earnestly. "good!" i overheard her say to him with conviction, her eyes gleaming. "and you are satisfied at last with the second act?" "yes, after a month's struggle with it." "ah, i am so glad--so glad!" she sighed, and pressed his hand. "i must go to paris next week for the rehearsals." "for long?" she asked. he shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "for weeks, perhaps. come," he said, "let us go out to the wall--the moon is up. the marsh is so beautiful in the moonlight." she rose, slipped on the dove-gray cloak he brought her, and together they disappeared in the courtyard. the marquise raised her eyes to mine and smiled. "_bonne promenade_, dear children," she called after them, but they did not hear. an hour later alice de bréville was speeding back to her château; blondel and his mare were also clattering homeward, for he had still an article to finish before daylight. i had just bid the marquis and the marquise good night when tanrade, who was about to follow, suddenly turned and called me aside in the shadow of the gateway. what he said to me made my heart leap. his eyes were shining with a strange light; his hands, gripping me by both shoulders, trembled. "it is true," he repeated. "don't tell me i am dreaming, old friend. yes, it is true. alice--yes, it is alice. come, a glass of wine! i feel faint--and happy!" we went back to the dying fire, and i believe he heard all my congratulations, though i am not sure. he seemed in a dream. when he had gone suzette lighted my candle. "suzette," i said, "your dinner was a success." "ah, but i am content, monsieur. _mon dieu_, but i do love to cook!" "come, miquette! it's past your bedtime, you adorable egoist." "_bonsoir_, suzette." "_bonsoir_, monsieur." village of vagabonds! in which the hours are never dull! lost village by the normand sea! in which lies a paradise of good-fellowship, romance, love, and sound red wine! [illustration: train] * * * * * [illustration: the little stone church] chapter two monsieur le curÉ the sun had just risen, and the bell of the little stone church chattered and jangled, flinging its impatient call over the sleeping village of pont du sable. in the clear morning air its voice could be heard to the tops of the green hills, and across the wide salt marsh that stretched its feathery fingers to the open sea. a lone, wrinkled fisherman, rolling lazily on the mighty heave of the incoming tide, turned his head landward. "_sapristi!_" he grinned, as he slipped a slimy thumb from the meshes of a mackerel-net and crossed himself. "she has a hoarse throat, that little one." far up the hillside a mile back of the churchyard, a barelegged girl driving a cow stopped to listen, her hood pushed back, her brown hands crossed upon her breast. lower down, skirting the velvet edge of the marsh, filmy rifts of mist broke into shreds or blended with the spirals of blue smoke mounting skyward from freshly kindled fires. pont du sable was awake for the day. it is the most unimportant of little villages, yet it is four centuries old, and of stone. it seems to have shrivelled by its great age, like its oldest inhabitants. one-half of its two score of fishermen's houses lie crouched to the rambling edge of its single street; the other half might have been dropped at random, like stones from the pocket of some hurrying giant. some of these, including the house of the ruddy little mayor and the polite, florid grocer, lie spilled along the edge of the marsh. as for monsieur le curé, he was at this very moment in the small stone church saying mass to five fishermen, two devout housewives, a little child, an old woman in a white cap, and myself. being in my shooting-boots, i had tiptoed into a back seat behind two of the fishermen, and sat in silence watching monsieur le curé's gaunt figure and listening to his deep, well-modulated, resonant voice. what i saw was a man uncommonly tall and well built, dressed in a rusty black soutane that reached in straight lines from beneath his chin to his feet, which were encased in low calf shoes with steel buckles. i noticed, too, that his face was angular and humorous; his eyes keen and merry by turns; his hair of the colourless brown one sees among fisherfolk whose lives are spent in the sun and rain. i saw, too, that he was impecunious, for the front edges of his cassock were frayed and three buttons missing, not to be wondered at, i said to myself, as i remembered that the stone church, like the village it comforted, had always been poor. now and then during the mass i saw the curé glance at the small leaded window above him as if making a mental note of the swaying tree-tops without in the graveyard. then his keen gray eyes again reverted to the page he knew by heart. the look evidently carried some significance, for the gray-haired old sea-dog in front of me cocked his blue eye to his partner--they were both in from a rough night's fishing--and muttered: "it will be a short mass." "_ben sûr_," whispered back the other from behind his leathery hand. "the wind's from the northeast. it will blow a gale before sundown." and he nodded toward the swaying tree-tops. with this, the one with the blue eyes straightened back in the wooden pew and folded his short, knotty arms in attention; the muscles of his broad shoulders showing under his thick seaman's jersey, the collar encircling his corded, stocky neck deep-seamed by a thousand winds and seas. the gestures of these two old craftsmen of the sea, who had worked so long together, were strangely similar. when they knelt i could see the straw sticking from the heels of their four wooden sabots and the rolled-up bottoms of their patched sail-cloth trousers. as the mass ended the old woman in the white cap coughed gently, the curé closed his book, stepped from the chancel, patted the child's head in passing, strode rapidly to the sacristy, and closed the door behind him. i followed the handful of worshippers out into the sunlight and down the hill. as i passed the two old fishermen i heard the one with the blue eyes say to his mate with the leathery hand: "_allons, viens t'en!_ what if we went to the café after that dog's night of a sea?" "i don't say no," returned his partner; then he winked at me and pointed to the sky. "i know," i said. "it's what i've been waiting for." i kept on down the crooked hill to the public square where nothing ever happens save the arrival of the toy train and the yearly fête, and deciding the two old salts were right after their "dog's night" (and it had blown a gale), wheeled to the left and followed them to the tiniest of cafés kept by stout, cheery madame vinet. it has a box of a kitchen through which you pass into a little square room with just space enough for four tables; or you may go through the kitchen into a snug garden gay in geraniums and find a sheltered table beneath a rickety arbour. "ah, _mais_, it was bad enough!" grinned the one with the leathery hand as he drained his thimbleful of applejack and, norman-like, tossed the last drop on the floor of the snug room. "bad enough! it was a sea, i tell you, monsieur, like none since the night the wreck of _la belle marie_ came ashore," chimed in the one with the blue eye, as he placed his elbows on the clean marbletop table and made room for my chair. "_mon dieu!_ you should have seen the ducks south of the wolf. aye, 'twas a sight for an empty stomach." the one with the leathery hand nodded his confirmation sleepily. "_hélas!_" continued the one with the blue eye. "if monsieur could only have been with us!" as he spoke he lifted his shaggy eyebrows in the direction of the church and laughed softly. "he's happy with his northeast wind; i knew 'twould be a short mass." "a good catch?" i ventured, looking toward him as madame vinet brought my glass. "eight thousand mackerel, monsieur. we should have had ten thousand had not the wind shifted." "_ben sûr!_" grumbled the one with the leathery hand. at this madame vinet planted her fists on her ample hips. "_hélas!_ there's the mère coraline's girl to be married thursday," she sighed, "and planchette's baby to be christened tuesday, and the wind in the northeast, _mon dieu!_" and she went back to her spotless kitchen for a sou's worth of black coffee for a little girl who had just entered. big, strong, hearty madame vinet! she has the frankness of a man and the tenderness of a mother. there is something of her youth still left at forty-six; not her figure--that is rotund simplicity itself--but in the clearness of her brown eyes and the finely cut profile before it reaches her double chin, and the dimples in her hands, well shaped even to-day. and so the little girl who had come in for the sou's worth of coffee received an honest measure, smoking hot out of a dipper and into the bottle she had brought. in payment madame vinet kissed the child, and added a lump of sugar to the bargain. from where i sat i could see the tears start in the good woman's eyes. the next moment she came back to us laughing to disguise them. "ah, you good soul!" i thought to myself. "always in a good humour; always pleasant. there you go again--this time it was the wife of a poor fisherman who could not pay. how many a poor devil of a half-frozen sailor you have warmed, you whose heart is so big and whose gains are so small!" i rose at length, bade the two old salts good morning, and with a blessing of good luck, recovered my gun from the kitchen cupboard, where i had reverently left it during mass, and went on my way to shoot. i, too, was anxious to make the most of the northeast wind. * * * * * there being no street in the lost village save the main thoroughfare, one finds only alleys flanked by rambling walls. one of these runs up to tanrade's house; another finds its zigzag way to the back gate of the marquis, who, being a royalist, insists upon telling you so, for the keystone of his gate is emblazoned with a bas-relief of two carved eagles guarding the family crest. still another leads unexpectedly to the silent garden of monsieur le curé. it is a protecting little by-way whose walls tell no tales. how many a suffering heart seeking human sympathy and advice has the strong figure in the soutane sent home with fresh courage by way of this back lane. indeed it would be a lost village without him. he is barely over forty years old, and yet no curé was ever given a poorer parish, for pont du sable has been bankrupt for generations. since a fortnight--so i am told--monsieur le curé has had no _bonne_. the reason is that no good suzette can be found to replace the one whom he married to a young farmer from bonville. the result is the good curé dines many times a week with the marquis, where he is so entertaining and so altogether delightful and welcome a guest that the marquise tells me she feels ten years younger after he has gone. "poor man," she confided to me the other day, "what will you have? he has no _bonne_, and he detests cooking. yesterday he lunched at the château with alice de bréville; to-morrow he will be cheering up two old maiden aunts who live a league from bar la rose. is it not sad?" and she laughed merrily. "monsieur le curé has no _bonne_!" _parbleu!_ it has become a household phrase in pont du sable. it is so difficult to get a servant here; the girls are all fishing. as for tanrade's maid-of-all-work, like the noiseless butler of the marquis and the _femme de chambre_ of alice de bréville, they are all from paris; and yet i'll wager that no larder in the village is better stocked than monsieur le curé's, for every housewife vies with her neighbour in ready-cooked donations since the young man from bonville was accepted. but these good people do not forget. they remember the day when the farm of père marin burned; they recall the figure in the black soutane stumbling on through flame and smoke carrying an unconscious little girl in his strong arms to safety. four times he went back where no man dared go--and each time came out with a life. again, but for his indomitable grit, a half-drowned father and daughter, clinging to a capsized fishing-smack in a winter sea, would not be alive--there are even fisherfolk who cannot swim. monsieur le curé saw this at a glance, alone he fought his way in the freezing surf out to the girl and the man. he brought them in and they lived. * * * * * but there is a short cut to the marsh if you do but know it--one that has served me before. you can easily find it, for you have but to follow your nose along the wall of madame vinet's café, creep past the modest rose-garden of the mayor, zigzag for a hundred paces or more among crumbling walls, and before you know it you are out on the marsh. * * * * * the one with the blue eye was right. the wind _was_ from the northeast in earnest, and the tide racing in. half a mile outward a dozen long puntlike scows, loaded to their brims with sand, were being borne on the swirling current up the river's channel, each guided at the stern by a ragged dot of a figure straining at an oar. as i struck out across the desolate waste of mud, bound for the point of dry marsh, the figure steering the last scow, as he passed, waved a warning to me. with the incoming sweep of tide the sunlight faded, the bay became noisy with the cries of sea-fowl, and the lighthouse beyond the river's channel stood out against the ominous green sky like a stick of school-chalk. i jerked my cap tighter over my ears, and lowering my head to the wind kept on. i had barely time to make the marsh. over the black desolate waste of clay-mud the sea was spreading its hands--long, dangerous hands, with fingers that every moment shot out longer and nearer my tracks. the wind blew in howling gusts now, straight in from the open sea. days like these the ducks have no alternative but the bay. only a black diver can stand the strain outside. tough old pirates these--diving to keep warm. i kept on, foolish as it was. a flight of becassines were whirled past me, twittering in a panic as they fought their way out of sudden squalls. i turned to look back. already my sunken tracks were obliterated under a glaze of water, but i felt i was safe, for i had gained harder ground. it was a relief to slide to the bottom of one of the labyrinth of causeways that drain the marsh, and plunge on sheltered from the wind. presently i heard ducks quacking ahead. i raised my head cautiously to the level of the wire-grass. a hundred rods beyond, nine black ducks were grouped near the edge of a circular pool; behind them, from where i stood, there rose from the level waste a humplike mound. i could no longer proceed along the bottom of the causeway, as it was being rapidly filled to within an inch below my boot-tops. the hump was my only salvation, so i crawled to the bank and started to stalk the nine black ducks. it was difficult to keep on my feet on the slimy mud-bank, for the wind, true to the fishermen's prediction, was now blowing half a gale. besides, this portion of the marsh was strange to me, as i had only seen it at a distance from the lower end of the bay, where i generally shot. i was within range of the ducks now, and had raised my hammers--i still shoot a hammer-gun--when a human voice rang out. then, like some weird jack-in-the-box, there popped out from the mound a straight, long-waisted body in black waving its arms. it was the curé! "stay where you are," he shouted. "treacherous ground! i'll come and help you!" then for a second he peered intently under his hand. "ah! it is you, monsieur--the newcomer; i might have guessed it." he laughed, leaping out and striding toward me. "ah, you americans! you do not mind the weather." "_bonjour_, monsieur le curé," i shouted back in astonishment, trying to steady myself across a narrow bridge of mud spanning the causeway. "look out!" he cried. "that mud you're on is dangerous. she's sinking!" it was too late; my right foot barely made another step before down i went, gun, shells, and all, up to my chin in ice-cold water. the next instant he had me by the collar of my leather coat in a grip of steel, and i was hauled out, dripping and draining, on the bank. "i'm all right," i sputtered. "come inside _instantly_," he said. "inside? inside where?" i asked. he pointed to the hump. "you must get your wet things off and into bed at once." this came as a command. "bed! where? whose bed?" was he an aladdin with a magic lamp, that could summon comfort in that desolation? "monsieur," i choked, "i owe you a thousand apologies. i came near killing one of your nine decoys. i mistook them for wild mallards." he laughed softly. "they are not mine," he explained. "they belong to the marquis; it is his gardener who pickets them out for me. i could not afford to keep them myself. they eat outrageously, those nine deceivers. they are well placed to-day; just the right distance." and he called the three nearest us by name, for they were quacking loudly. "be still, fannine! there, pierrot! if your cord and swivel does not work, my good drake, i'll fix it for you, but don't make such a fuss; you'll have noise enough to make later." and gripping me by the arm, he pushed me firmly ahead of him to a small open door in the mound. i peered into the darkness within. "get in," said he. "it's small, but it's warm and comfortable inside. after you, my friend," he added graciously, and we descended into a narrow ditch, its end blocked by a small, safe-like door leading into a subterranean hut, its roof being the mound, shelving out to a semicircular, overhanging eyebrow skirting the edge of the circular pool some ten yards back of the line of live decoys. "ah!" exclaimed monsieur le curé, "you should have seen the duck-blind i had three years ago. this _gabion_ of mine is smaller, but it is in better line with the flights," he explained as he opened the door. "look out for the steps--there are two." i now stood shivering in the gloom of a box-like, underground anteroom, provided with a grated floor and a low ribbed ceiling; beyond this, through another small door, was an adjoining compartment deeper than the one in which we stood, and in the darkness i caught the outline of a cot-bed, a carved, high-backed, leather-seated chair, and the blue glint of guns lying in their racks. the place was warm and smelled, like the cabin of some fishing-sloop, of sea-salt and tar. it did not take me long to get out of my clothes. when the last of them lay around my heels i received a rubbing down with a coarse sailor's shirt, that sent the blood back where it belonged. "_allons!_ into bed at once!" insisted the curé. "you'll find those army blankets dry." i felt my way in while he struck a match and lighted a candle upon a narrow shelf strewn with empty cartridges. the candle sputtered, sunk to a blue flame, and flared up cheerfully, while the curé poured me out a stiff glass of brandy, and i lay warm in the blankets of the _armée française_, and gazed about me at my strange quarters. back of my pillow was, tightly closed, in three sections, a narrow firing-slit. beside the bed the candle's glow played over the carved back of the leather-seated chair. above the closed slit ran a shelf, and ranged upon it were some fifty cartridges and an old-fashioned fat opera-glass. this, then, was monsieur le curé's duck-blind, or rather, in french, his _gabion_. the live decoys began quacking nervously. the curé, about to speak, tip-toed over to the firing-slit and let down cautiously one of its compartments. "a flight of plovers passing over us," he remarked. "yes, there they go. if the wind will only hold you shall see--there will be ducks in," his gray eyes beaming at the thought. then he drew the chair away from the firing-slit and seated himself, facing me. "if you knew," he began, "how much it means to me to talk to one of the outside world--your country--america! you must tell me much about it. i have always longed to see it, but----" he shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "are you warm?" he asked. "warm?" i laughed. "i never felt better in my life." and i thanked him again for his kindness to a stranger in distress. "a stranger in luck," i added. "i saw you at mass this morning," he returned bending over, his hands on his knees. "but you are not a catholic, my friend? you are always welcome to my church, however, remember that." "thank you," i said. "i like your little church, and--i like you, monsieur le curé." he put forth his hand. "brother sportsmen," he said. "it _is_ a brotherhood, isn't it? you are a protestant, is it not so?" and his voice sank to a gentle tone. "yes, i am what they call a blue presbyterian." "i have heard of that," he said. "'a _blue_ presbyterian.'" he repeated it to himself and smiled. suddenly he straightened and his finger went to his lips. "hark!" he whispered. "hear their wings!" instantly the decoys set up a strenuous quacking. then again all was silent. "too high," muttered the curé. "i do not expect much in before the late afternoon. do you smoke?" "yes, gladly," i replied, "but my cigarettes are done for, i am afraid; they were in the pocket of my hunting coat." "don't move," he said, noticing my effort to rise. "i've got cigarettes." and he fumbled in the shadow of the narrow shelf. i had hardly lighted my own over the candle-flame, which he held for me, when i felt a gentle rocking and heard the shells rattle as they rolled to the end of the shelf, stop, and roll back again. "do not be alarmed," he laughed, "it's only the water filling the outer jacket of my _gabion_. we shall be settled and steady in a moment, and afloat for the night." "the night!" i exclaimed in amazement. "but, my good friend, i have no intention of wearing out my welcome; i had planned to get home for luncheon." "impossible!" he replied. "we are now completely surrounded by water. it is always so at high tide at this end of the bay. come, see for yourself. besides, you don't know how glad i am that we can have the chance to shoot together. i've been waiting weeks for this wind." he blew out the candle, and again opened the firing-slit. as far as one could see the distant sea was one vast sweep of roaring water. "you see," he said, closing the firing-slit and striking a match--"you _must_ stay. i have plenty of dry clothes for you in the locker, and we shall not go hungry." he drew out a basket from beneath the cot and took from it a roasted chicken, two litres of red wine, and some bread and cheese, which he laid on the shelf. "a present," he remarked, "from one of my parishioners. you know, i have no _bonne_." "i have heard so," said i. he laughed softly. "one hears everything in the village. ah! but what good children they are! they even forgive my love of shooting!" he crossed his strong arms in the rusty black sleeves of his cassock, and for some moments looked at me seriously. "you think it strange, no doubt, irreverent, for a curé to shoot," he continued. "forgive me if i have shocked the ideas of your faith." "nonsense!" i returned, raising my hand in protest. "you are only human, an honest sportsman. we understand each other perfectly." "thank you," he returned, with sincerity. "i was afraid you might not understand--you are the first american i have ever met." he began taking out an outfit of sailor's clothes from the locker--warm things--which i proceeded to get into with satisfaction. i had just poked my head through the rough jersey and buckled my belt when our decoys again gave warning. out went the candle. "mallards!" whispered the curé. "here, take this gun, quick! it is the marquis's favourite," he added in a whisper. he reached for another breech-loader, motioned me to the chair, let down the three compartments of the firing-slit, and stretched himself out full length on the cot, his keen eyes scanning the bay at a glance. we were just in time--a dozen mallards were coming straight for our decoys. bang! thundered the curé's gun. bang! bang! echoed my own. then another roar from the curé's left barrel. when the smoke cleared three fat ducks were kicking beyond our deceivers. "take him!" he cried, as a straggler--a drake--shot past us. i snapped in a shell and missed, but the curé was surer. down came the straggler, a dead duck at sixty yards. "bravo, monsieur le curé!" i cried. but he only smiled modestly and, extracting the empty shell, blew the lurking smoke free from the barrels. it was noon when we turned to half the chicken and a bottle of _vin ordinaire_ with an appetite. the northeast wind had now shifted to the south; the bay became like glass, and so the afternoon passed until the blood-red sun, like some huge ribbed lantern of the japanese, slowly sank into the sea. it grew dusk over the desolate marsh. stray flights of plovers, now that the tide was again on its ebb, began to choose their resting places for the night. "i'm going out to take a look," said the curé. again, like some gopher of the prairie, he rose up out of his burrow. presently he returned, the old enthusiastic gleam in his eyes. "the wind's changing," he announced. "it will be in the north again to-night; we shall have a full moon and better luck, i hope. do you know," he went on excitedly, "that one night last october i killed forty-two ducks alone in this old _gabion_. _forty-two!_ twenty mallards and the rest vignon--and not a shot before one o'clock in the morning. then they came in, right and left. i believe my faithful decoys will remember that night until their dying day. ah, it was glorious! glorious!" his tanned, weather-beaten features wrinkled with delight; he had the skin of a sailor, and i wondered how often the marsh had hid him. "ah, my friend," he said, with a sigh, as we sat down to the remainder of the chicken and _vin ordinaire_ for supper, this time including the cheese, "it is not easy for a curé to shoot. my good children of the village do not mind, but----" he hesitated, running his long, vibrant fingers through his hair. "what then? tell me," i ventured. "it will go no further, i promise you." "rome!" he whispered. "i have already received a letter, a gentle warning from the palace; but i have a good friend in cardinal z. he understands." during the whole of that cold moonlight we took turns of two hours each; one sleeping while the other watched in the chair drawn up close to the firing-slit. what a night! the marsh seen through the firing-slit, with its overhanging eyebrow of sod, seemed not of this earth. the nine black decoys picketed before us straining at their cords, gossiping, dozing for a moment, preening their wings or rising up for a vigorous stretch, appeared by some curious optical illusion four times their natural size; now they seemed to be black dogs, again a group of sombre, misshapen gnomes. while i watched, the curé slept soundly, his body shrouded in the blankets like some carved gothic saint of old. the silence was intense--a silence that could be heard--broken only by the brisk ticking of the curé's watch on the narrow shelf. occasionally a water-rat would patter over the sunken roof, become inquisitive, and peer in at me through the slit within half a foot of my nose. once in a while i took down the fat opera-glass, focussing it upon the dim shapes that resembled ducks, but that proved to be bits of floating seaweed or a scurrying shadow as a cloud swept under the moon--all illusions, until my second watch, when, with a rush, seven mallards tumbled among our decoys. instantly the curé awakened, sprang from his cot, and with sharp work we killed four. "stay where you are," he said as he laid his gun back in its rack. "i'll get into my hip-boots and get them before the water-rats steal what we've earned. they are skilled enough to get a decoy now and then. the marsh is alive with them at night." morning paled. the village lay half hidden behind the rifts of mist. then dawn and the rising sun, the water like molten gold, the black decoys churning at their pickets sending up swirls of turquoise in the gold. suddenly the cracked bell rang out from the distant village. at that moment two long v-shaped strings of mallards came winging toward us from the north. i saw the curé glance at them. then he held out his hand to me. "you take them--i cannot," he said hurriedly. "i haven't a moment to lose--it is the bell for mass. here's the key. lock up when you leave." "dine with me to-night," i insisted, one eye still on the incoming ducks. "you have no _bonne_." his hand was on the _gabion_ door. "and if the northeast wind holds," he called back, "shall we shoot again to-night?" "yes, to-night!" i insisted. "then i'll come to dinner." and the door closed with a click. through the firing-slit i could see him leaping across the marsh toward the gray church with the cracked bell, and as he disappeared by the short cut i pulled the trigger of both barrels--and missed. an hour later suzette greeted me with eyes full of tears and anxiety. "ah! mother of pity! monsieur is safe!" she cried. "where has monsieur been, _mon dieu!_" "to mass, my child," i said gravely, filling her plump arms with the ducks. "monsieur le curé is coming to dinner!" [illustration: flying ducks] * * * * * [illustration: a château] chapter three the exquisite madame de brÉville poor tanrade! just as i felt the future was all _couleur de rose_ with him it has changed to gloom unutterable. _ah, les femmes!_ i should never dare fall in love with a woman as exquisite as alice de bréville. she is too beautiful, too seductive, with her olive skin, her frank smile, and her adorable head poised upon a body much too well made. she is too tender, too complex, too intelligent. she has a way of mischievously caressing you with her eyes one moment and giving an old comrade like myself a platonic little pat on the back the next, which is exasperating. as a friend i adore her, but to fall in love with her! _ah, non, merci!_ i have had a checkered childhood and my full share of suffering; i wish some peace in my old age. at sixteen one goes to the war of love blindly, but at forty it is different. our chagrins then plunge us into a state of dignified desolation. poor tanrade! i learned of the catastrophe the other night when he solemnly entered my abandoned house by the marsh and sank his big frame in the armchair before my fire. he was no longer the genial bohemian of a tanrade i had known. he was silent and haggard. he had not slept much for a week; neither had he worked at the score of his new opera or hunted, but he had smoked incessantly, furiously--a dangerous remedy with which to mend a broken heart. my poor old friend! i was so certain of his happiness that night after dinner here in the house abandoned, when he and alice had lost themselves in the moonlight. was it the moonlight? or the kiss she gave him as they stood looking out over the lichen-stained wall of the courtyard to the fairy marsh beyond, still and sublime--wedded to the open sea at high tide--like a mirror of polished silver, its surface ruffled now and then by the splash of some incoming duck. he had poured out his heart to her then, and again over their liqueur and cigarettes at that fatal dinner of two at the château. all this he confessed to me as he sat staring into the cheery blaze on my hearth. under my friendly but somewhat judicial cross-examination that ensued, it was evident that not a word had escaped alice's lips that any one but that big optimistic child of a tanrade could have construed as her promise to be his wife. he confided her words to me reluctantly, now that he realized how little she had meant. "come," said i, in an effort to cheer him, "have courage! a woman's heart that is won easily is not worth fighting for. you shall see, old fellow--things will be better." but he only shook his head, shrugged his great shoulders, and puffed doggedly at his pipe in silence. my tall clock in the corner ticked the louder, its brass pendulum glinting as it swung to and fro in the light of the slumbering fire. i threw on a fresh log, kicked it into a blaze, and poured out for him a stiff glass of applejack. i had faith in that applejack, for it had been born in the moonlit courtyard years ago. it roused him, for i saw something of his old-time self brighten within him; he even made an attempt at a careless smile--the reminiscent smile of a philosopher this time. "what if i went to see her?" i remarked pointblank. "you! _mon dieu!_" he half sprang out of the armchair in his intensity. "are you crazy?" "forgive me," i apologized. "i did not mean to hurt you. i only thought--and you are in no condition to reason--that alice may have changed her mind, may regret having refused you. women change their minds, you know. she might even confess this to me since there is nothing between us and we are old friends." "no, no," he protested. "you are not to speak of me to madame de bréville--do you understand?" he cried, his voice rising. "you are not to mention my name, promise me that." this time it was i who shrugged my shoulders in reply. he sat gripping the arms of his chair, again his gaze reverted stolidly to the fire. the clock ticked on past midnight, peacefully aloof as if content to be well out of the controversy. "a drop more?" i ventured, reaching for the decanter; but he stayed my arm. "i've been a fool," he said slowly. "_ah! mon dieu! les femmes! les femmes! les femmes!_" he roared. "very well," he exclaimed hotly, "it is well finished. to-morrow i must go to paris for the new rehearsals. i have begged off for a week. duclos is beside himself with anxiety--two telegrams to-day, the last one imperative. the new piece must open at the folies parisiennes the eighth." i saw him out to the gate and there was a brave ring in his "_bonsoir, mon vieux_," as he swung off in the dusk of the starlit road. he left the village the next day at noon by the toy train, "the little get off-the-track," as we call it. perhaps he wished it would and end everything, including the rehearsals. bah! to be rehearsing lovelorn shepherds and shepherdesses in sylvan dells. to call a halt eighteen times in the middle of the romantic duet between the unhappy innkeeper's daughter and the prince. to marry them all smoothly in b flat in the finale, and keep the brass down and the strings up in the apotheosis when the heart of the man behind the baton has been cured of all love and illusion--for did he not tell me "it is well finished"? poor tanrade! though it is but half a fortnight since he left, it seems years since he used to come into my courtyard, for he came and went as freely at all hours as the salt breeze from the marsh. often he would wake me at daybreak, bellowing up to my window at the top of his barytone lungs some stirring aria, ending with: "eh, _mon vieux!_ stop playing the prince! get up out of that and come out on the marsh. there are ducks off the point. where's suzette? where's the coffee? _sacristi!_ what a house. half-past four and nobody awake!" and he would stand there grinning; his big chest encased in a fisherman's jersey, a disreputable felt hat jammed on his head, and his feet in a pair of sabots that clattered like a farm-horse as he went foraging in the kitchen, upsetting the empty milk-tins and making such a bedlam that my good little maid-of-all-work, suzette, would hurry in terror into her clothes and out to her beloved kitchen to save the rest from ruin. needless to say, nothing ever happened to anything. he could make more noise and do less harm than any one i ever knew. then he would sing us both into good humour until suzette's peasant cheeks shone like ripe apples. "it is not the same without monsieur tanrade," suzette sighed to-day as she brought my luncheon to my easel in a shady corner of my wild garden--a corner all cool roses and shadow. "ah, no!" i confessed as i squeezed out the last of a tube of vermilion on the edge of my palette. "ah, no!" she sighed softly, and wiped her eyes briskly with the back of her dimpled red hand. "ah, no! _parbleu!_" and just then the bell over my gate jingled. "some one rings," whispered suzette and she ran to open the gate. it was the _valet de chambre_ from the château with a note from alice, which read: dear friend: it is lonely, this big house of mine. do come and dine with me at eight. hastily, a. de b. added to this was the beginning of a postscript crossed out. upon a leaf torn from my sketchbook i scribbled the answer: good dear charitable friend: the house abandoned is a hollow mockery without tanrade. i'll come gladly at eight. and suzette brought it out to the waiting _valet de chambre_ whom she addressed respectfully as "monsieur," half on account of his yellow-striped waistcoat and half because he was a parisian. bravo, alice! here then was the opportunity i had been waiting for, and i hugged myself over the fact. it was like the first ray of sunshine breaking through a week of leaden sky. for a long time i paced back and forth among the paths of the snug garden, past the roses and the heliotrope down as far as the flaming geraniums and the hollyhocks and the droning bees, and back again by way of some excellent salads and the bed of artichokes, while i turned over in my mind and rehearsed to myself all i intended to say to her. alice lonely! with a château, two automobiles, and all paris at her pretty feet! ha! ha! the symptoms were excellent. the patient was doing well. to-night would see her convalescent and happily on the road to recovery. this once happy family of comrades should be no longer under the strain of disunion, we should have another dinner soon and the house abandoned would ring with cheer as it had never rung before. japanese lanterns among the fruit-trees of the tangled garden, the courtyard full of villagers, red and blue fire, skyrockets and congratulations, a normand dinner and a keg of good sound wine to wish a long and happy life to both. there would be the same tanrade again and the same alice, and they would be married by the curé in the little gray church with the cracked bell, with the marquis and the marquise as notables in the front pew. in my enthusiasm i saw it all. * * * * * the lane back of the house abandoned shortens the way to the château by half a kilometre. it was this lane that i entered at dusk by crawling under the bars that divided it from the back pasture full of gnarled apple-trees, under which half a dozen mild-eyed cows had settled themselves for the night. they rose when they caught sight of me and came toward me blowing deep moist breaths as a quiet challenge to the intruder, until halted by the bars they stood in a curious group watching me until i disappeared up the lane, a lane screened from the successive pastures on either side by an impenetrable hedge and flanked its entire length by tall trees, their tops meeting overhead like the gothic arches of a cathedral aisle. this roof of green made the lane at this hour so dark that i had to look sharp to avoid the muddy places, for the lane ascended like the bed of a brook until it reached the plateau of woodlands and green fields above, commanding a sweeping view of marsh and sea below. birds fluttered nervously in the hedges, frightened at my approaching footsteps. a hare sniffing in the middle of the path flattened his long ears and sprang into the thicket ahead. the nightingales in the forest above began calling to one another. two doves went skimming out of the leaves over my head. even a peacemaker may be mistaken for an enemy. and now i had gained the plateau and it grew lighter--that gentle light with which night favours the open places. there are two crossroads at the top of the lane. the left one leads to the hamlet of beaufort le petit, a sunken cluster of farms ten good leagues from pont du sable; the right one swings off into the highroad half a mile beyond, which in turn is met by the private way of the château skirting the stone wall surrounding the park, which, as early as , served as the idle stronghold of the duc de rambutin. it has seen much since then and has stood its ground bravely under the stress of misfortune. the prussians hammered off two of its towers, and an artillery fire once mowed down some of its oldest trees and wrecked the frescoed ceiling and walls of the salon, setting fire to the south wing, which was never rebuilt and whose jagged and blackened walls the roses and vines have long since lovingly hidden from view. alice bought this once splendid feudal estate literally for a song--the song in the second act of fremier's comedy, which had a long run at the variétés three years ago, and in which she earned an enviable success and some beautiful bank-notes. were the duc de rambutin alive i am sure he would have presented it to her--shooting forest, stone wall, and all. they say he had an intolerable temper, but was kind to ladies and lap-dogs. it was not long before i unlatched a moss-covered gate with one hinge lost in the weeds--a little woebegone gate for intimate friends, that croaked like a night-bird when it opened, and closed with a whine. beyond it lay a narrow path through a rose-garden leading to the château. this rose-garden is the only cultivated patch within the confines of the wall, for on either side of it tower great trees, their aged trunks held fast in gnarled thickets of neglected vines. it is only another "house abandoned," this château of alice's, save that its bygone splendour asserts itself through the scars, and my own by the marsh never knew luxury even in its best days. "madame is dressing," announced that most faithful of old servitors, henri, who before alice conferred a full-fledged butlership upon him in his old age was since his youth a stage-carpenter at the théâtre français. "will monsieur have the goodness to wait for madame in the library?" added henri, as he relieved me of my hat and stick, deposited them noiselessly upon an oak table, and led me to a portière of worn gobelin which he lifted for me with a bow of the second empire. what a rich old room it is, this silent library of the choleric duke, with its walls panelled in worm-eaten oak reflecting the firelight and its rows of volumes too close to the grave to be handled. here and there above the high wainscoting are ancestral portraits, some of them as black as a favourite pipe. above the great stone chimney-piece is a full-length figure of the duke in a hunting costume of green velvet. the candelabra that henri had just lighted on the long centre-table, littered with silver souvenirs and the latest parisian comedies, now illumined the duke's smile, which he must have held with bad grace during the sittings. the rest of him was lost in the shadow above the chimney-piece of sculptured cherubs, whose missing noses have been badly restored in cement by the gardener. i had settled myself in a chintz-covered chair and was idly turning the pages of one of the latest of the parisian comedies when i heard the swish of a gown and the patter of two small slippered feet hurrying across the hall. i rose to regard my hostess with a feeling of tender curiosity mingled with resentment over her treatment of my old friend, when the portière was lifted and alice came toward me with both white arms outstretched in welcome. she was so pale in her dinner gown of black tulle that all the blood seemed to have taken refuge in her lips--so pale that the single camellia thrust in her corsage was less waxen in its whiteness than her neck. i caught her hands and she stood close to me, smiling bravely, the tips of her fingers trembling in my own. "you are ill!" i exclaimed, now thoroughly alarmed. "you must go straight to bed." "no, no," she replied, with an effort. "only tired, very tired." "you should not have let me come," i protested. she smiled and smoothed back a wave of her glossy black hair and i saw the old mischievous gleam flash in her dark eyes. "come," she whispered, leading me to the door of the dining room. "it is a secret," she confided, with a forced little laugh. "look!" and she pinched my arm. i glanced within--the table with its lace and silver under the glow of the red candle-shades was laid for two. "it was nice of you," i said. "we shall dine alone, you and i," she murmured. "i am so tired of company." i was on the point of impulsively mentioning poor tanrade's absence, but the subtle look in her eyes checked me. during dinner we should have our serious little talk, i said to myself as we returned to the library table. "it's so amusing, that little comedy of flandrean's," laughed alice, picking up the volume i had been scanning. "the second act is a jewel with its delicious situation in which françois villers, the husband, and thérèse, his wife, divorce in order to carry out between them a secret love-affair--a series of mysterious rendezvous that terminate in an amusing elopement. _très chic_, flandrean's comedy. it should have a _succès fou_ at the palais royal." "madame is served," gravely announced henri. not once during dinner was alice serious. over the soup--an excellent bisque of _écrevisses_--she bubbled over with the latest parisian gossip, the new play at the odéon, the fashion in hats. with the fish she prattled on over the limitations of the new directoire gowns and the scandal involving a certain tenor and a duchess. tanrade's defence, which i had so carefully thought out and rehearsed in my garden, seemed doomed to remain unheard, for her cleverness in evading the subject, her sudden change to the merriest of moods, and her quick wit left me helpless. neither did i make any better progress during the pheasant and the salad, and as she sipped but twice the pommard and scarcely moistened her lips with the champagne my case seemed hopeless. henri finally left us alone over our coffee and cigarettes. i had become desperate. "alice," i said bluntly, "we are old friends. i have some things to say to you of--of the utmost importance. you will listen, my friend, will you not, until i am quite through, for i shall not mention it again?" she leaned forward with a little start and gazed at me suddenly, with dilated eyes--eyes that were the next minute lowered in painful submission, the corners of her mouth contracting nervously. "_mon dieu!_" she murmured, looking up. "_mon dieu!_ but you are cruel!" "no," i replied calmly. "it is you who are cruel." "no, no, you shall not!" she exclaimed, raising both ringless hands in protest, her breath coming quick. "i--i know what you are going to say. no, my dear friend--i beg of you--we are good comrades. is it not so? let us remain so." "listen," i implored. "ah, you men with your idea of marriage!" she continued. "the wedding, the aunts, the cousins, who come staring at you for a day and giving you advice for years. a solemn apartment near the etoile--madame with her afternoons--monsieur with his club, his maîtresse, his gambling and his debts--the children with their english governess. a villa by the sea, tennis, infants and sand-forts. the annual stupid _voyage en suisse_. the inane slavery of it all. _you_ who are a bohemian, you who _live_--with all your freedom--all my freedom! _non, merci!_ i have seen all that! bah! you are as crazy as tanrade." "alice," i cried, "you think----" "precisely, my friend." she rose swiftly, crossed the room, and before i knew it slipped back of my chair, put both arms about my neck, kissed me, and burst into tears. "there, there, _mon pauvre petit_," she whispered. "forgive me--i was angry--we are not so stupid as all that--eh? we are not like the stupid _bourgeoisie_." "but it is not i----" i stammered. she caught her breath in surprise, straightened, and slowly retraced her steps to her vacant chair. "ah! so it is that?" she said slowly, drawing her chair close to my own. then she seated herself, rested her chin in her hands, and regarded me for some moments intently. "so you have come for--for him?" she resumed, her breast heaving. "i am right, am i not?" "he loves you," i declared. "do you think i am blind as to your love for him? you who came to greet me to-night out of your suffering?" for some moments she was silent, her fingers pressed over her eyes. "do you love him?" i insisted. "no, no," she moaned. "it is impossible." "do you know," i continued, "that he has not slept or hunted or smoked for a week before he was forced to go to paris? can you realize what he suffers now during days of exhausting rehearsals? he came to me a wreck," i said. "you have been cruel and you have----" again she had become deathly pale. then at length she rose slowly, lifted her head proudly, and led the way back to the library fire. "you must go," she said. "it is late." * * * * * when the little boy of the fisherman, jean tranchard, was not to be found playing with the other barelegged tots in the mud of the village alleys, or wandering alone on the marsh, often dangerously near the sweep of the incoming tide, one could be quite sure he was safe with tanrade. frequently, too, when the maker of ballets was locked in his domain and his servant had strict orders to admit no one--neither monsieur le curé nor the mayor, nor so intimate a comrade as myself--during such hours as these the little boy was generally beside the composer, his chubby toes scarcely reaching to the rungs of the chair beside tanrade's working desk. though the little boy was barely seven he was a sturdy little chap with fair curly hair, blue eyes, and the quick gestures of his father. he had a way of throwing out his chest when he was pleased, and gesticulating with open arms and closed fists when excited, which is peculiar to the race of fishermen. the only time when he was perfectly still was when tanrade worked in silence. he would then often sit beside him for hours waiting until the composer dropped his pen, swung round in his chair to the keyboard at his elbow, and while the piano rang with melody the little boy's eyes danced. he forgot during such moments of ecstasy that his father was either out at sea with his nets or back in the village good-naturedly drunk, or that his mother, whom he vaguely remembered, was dead. tanrade was a so much better father to him than his own that the rest of his wretched little existence did not count. when the father was fishing, the little boy cared for himself. he knew how to heat the pot and make the soup when there was any to make. he knew where to dig for clams and sputtering crabs. it was the bread that bothered him most--it cost two sous. it was tanrade who discovered and softened these hard details. the house in which the fisherman and the little boy live is tucked away in an angle of the walled lane leading out to the marsh. this stone house of tranchard's takes up as little room as possible, since its front dare not encroach upon the lane and its back is hunched up apologetically against the angle of the wall. the house has but two compartments--the loft above stored with old nets and broken oars, and the living room beneath, whose dirt floor dampens the feet of an oak cupboard, a greasy table, a chair with a broken leg, and a mahogany bed. over the soot-blackened chimney-piece is a painted figure of the virgin, and a frigate in a bottle. monsieur le curé had been watching all night beside the mahogany bed. now and then he slipped his hand in the breast of his soutane of rusty black, drew out a steel watch, felt under a patchwork-quilt for a small feverish wrist, counted its feeble pulse, and filling a pewter spoon with a mixture of aconite, awakened the little boy who gazed at him with hollow eyes sunken above cheeks of dull crimson. in the corner, his back propped against the cupboard, his bare feet tucked under him, dozed tranchard. there was not much else he could do, for he was soaked to the skin and half drunk. occasionally he shifted his feet, awakened, and dimly remembered the little boy was worse; that this news had been hailed to him by the skipper of the mackerel smack, _la belle Élise_, and that he had hauled in his empty nets and come home. as the gray light of dawn crept into the room, the little boy again grew restless. he opened the hollow eyes and saw dimly the black figure of the curé. "tanné," he whimpered. "where is he, tanné?" "monsieur tanrade will come," returned the curé, "if you go to sleep like a brave little man." "tanné," repeated the child and closed his eyes obediently. a cock crowed in a distant yard, awakening a sleek cat who emerged from beneath the bed, yawned, stretched her claws, and walked out of the narrow doorway into the misty lane. the curé rose stiffly, went over to the figure in the corner and shook it. tranchard started up out of a sound sleep. "tell madame when she arrives that i have gone for doctor thévenet. i shall return before night." "i won't forget," grumbled tranchard. "i have left instructions for madame beside the candle. see that you keep the kettle boiling for the poultices." the fisherman nodded. "_eh ben!_ how is it with the kid?" he inquired. "he does not take after his mother. _parbleu!_ she was as strong as a horse, my woman." monsieur le curé did not reply. he had taken down his flat black hat from a peg and was carefully adjusting his square black cravat edged with white beneath his chin, when alice de bréville entered the doorway. "how is his temperature?" she asked eagerly, unpinning a filmy green veil and throwing aside a gray automobile coat. monsieur le curé graciously uncovered his head. "there has been no change since you left at midnight," he said gravely. "the fever is still high, the pulse weaker. i am going for doctor thévenet after mass. there is a train at eight." tranchard was now on his knees fanning a pile of fagots into a blaze, the acrid smoke drifting back into the low-ceiled room. "i will attend to it," said alice, turning to the fisherman. "tell my chauffeur to wait at the church for monsieur le curé. the auto is at the end of the lane." for some minutes after the clatter of tranchard's sabots had died away in the lane, alice de bréville and monsieur le curé stood in earnest conversation beside the table. "it may save the child's life," pleaded the priest. there was a ring of insistence in his voice, a gleam in his eyes that made the woman beside him tremble. "you do not understand," she exclaimed, her breast heaving. "you do not realize what you ask of me. i cannot." "you must," he insisted. "he might not understand it coming from me. you and he are old friends. you _must_, i tell you. were he only here the child would be happy, the fever would be broken. it must be broken and quickly. thévenet will tell you that when he comes." alice raised her hands to her temples. "will you?" he pleaded. "yes," she replied half audibly. monsieur le curé gave a sigh of relief. "god be with you!" said he. he watched her as she wrote in haste the following telegram in pencil upon the back of a crumpled envelope: monsieur tanrade, théâtre des folies parisiennes, paris. tranchard's child very ill. come at once. a. de bréville. this she handed to the priest in silence. monsieur le curé tucked it safely in the breast of his cassock. "god be with you!" he repeated and turned out into the lane. he ran, for the cracked bell for mass had ceased ringing. the woman stood still by the table as if in a dream, then she staggered to the door, closed it, and throwing herself on her knees by the bedside of the sleeping boy, buried her face in her hands. the child stirred, awakened by her sobbing. "tanné," he cried feebly. "he will come," she said. outside in the mist-soaked lane three toothless fisherwomen gossiped in whispers. almost any day that you pass through the village you will see a chubby little rascal who greets you with a cheery "_bonjour_" and runs away, dragging a tin horse with a broken tail. should you chance to glance over my wall you will discover the tattered remnants of two japanese lanterns hanging among the fruit-trees. they are all that remain of a fête save the memory of two friends to whom the whole world now seems _couleur de rose_. * * * * * "hi, there! wake up! where's suzette? where's the coffee! daylight and not a soul up! _mon dieu_, what a house! hurry up, _mon vieux!_ alice is waiting!" [illustration: three toothless fisherwomen] * * * * * [illustration: smuggler ship] chapter four the smugglers some centuries ago the windows of my house abandoned on the marsh looked out upon a bay gay with the ships of spanish pirates, for in those days pont du sable served them as a secret refuge for repairs. hauled up to the tawny marsh were strange craft with sails of apple-green, rose, vermilion and sinister black; there were high sterns pierced by carved cabin-windows--some of them iron-barred, to imprison ladies of high or low degree and unfortunate gentlemen who fought bravely to defend them. from oaken gunwales glistened slim cannon, their throats swabbed clean after some wholesale murder on the open seas. yes, it must have been a lively enough bay some centuries ago! to-day pont du sable goes to bed without even turning the key in the lock. this is because of a vast army of simple men whose word, in france, is law. to begin with, there are the president of the république and the ministers of war and agriculture, and monsieur the chief of police--a kind little man in paris whom it is better to agree with--and the préfet and the sous-préfet--all the way down the line of authority to the red-faced, blustering _chef de gare_ at pont du sable--and pierre. on off-duty days pierre is my gardener at eleven sous an hour. on these occasions he wears voluminous working trousers of faded green corduroy gathered at the ankles; a gray flannel shirt and a scarlet cravat. on other days his short, wiry body is encased in a carefully brushed uniform of dark blue with a double row of gold buttons gleaming down his solid chest. when on active duty in the customs coast patrol of the république française at pont du sable, he carries a neatly folded cape with a hood, a bayonet, a heavy calibred six-shooter and a trusty field-glass, useful in locating suspicious-looking objects on marsh or sea. on this particular morning pierre was late! i had been leaning over the lichen-stained wall of my wild garden waiting to catch sight of him as he left the ragged end of the straggling village. had i mistaken the day? impossible! it was thursday and i knew he was free. finally i caught sight of him hurrying toward me down the road--not in his working clothes of faded green corduroy, but in the full majesty of his law-enforcing uniform. what had happened? i wondered. had his stern brigadier refused to give him leave? "_bonjour_, pierre!" i called to him as he came within hailing distance. he touched the vizor of his cap in military salute, and a moment later entered my garden. "a thousand pardons, monsieur," he apologized excitedly, labouring to catch his breath. "my artichokes have been waiting for you," i laughed; "they are nearly strangled with weeds. i expected you yesterday." he followed me through a lane of yellow roses leading to the artichoke bed. "what has kept you, pierre?" he stopped, looked me squarely in the eyes, placed his finger in the middle of his spiked moustache, and raised his eyebrows mysteriously. "monsieur must not ask me," he replied. "i have been on duty for forty-eight hours; there was not even time to change my uniform." "a little matter for headquarters?" i ventured indiscreetly, with a nod in the direction of paris. pierre shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "monsieur must ask the semaphore; my lips are sealed." had he been the chief of the secret service just in possession of the whereabouts of an international criminal, he could not have been more uncommunicative. "and monsieur's artichokes?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject. further inquiry i knew was useless--even dangerous. indeed i swallowed my curiosity whole, for i was aware that this simple gardener of mine, in his official capacity, could put me in irons, drag me before my friend the ruddy little mayor, and cast me in jail at bar la rose, had i given him cause. then indeed, as pompanet said, i would be "a _sacré_ vagabond from pont du sable." was it not only the other day a well-dressed stranger hanging about my lost village had been called for by two gendarmes, owing to pierre's watchful eye? and did not the farmer milon pay dearly enough for the applejack he distilled one dark night? i recalled, too, a certain morning when, a stranger on the marsh, i had lighted pierre's cigarette with an honest wax-match from england. he recognized the brand instantly. "they are the best in the world," i had remarked bravely. "yes," he had replied, "but dear, monsieur. the fine is a franc apiece in france." we had reached the artichokes. "_mon dieu!_" exclaimed pierre, glancing at the riot of weeds as he stripped off his coat and, unbuckling his belt with the bayonet, the six-shooter and the field-glass, hung them in the shade upon a convenient limb of a pear tree. he measured the area of the unruly patch with a military stride, stood thinking for a moment, and then, as if a happy thought had struck him, returned to me with a gesture of enthusiasm. "if monsieur will permit me to offer a suggestion--that is, if monsieur approves--i should like to make a fresh planting. ah! i will explain what i mean to monsieur, so monsieur may see clearly my ideas. _voilà!_" he exclaimed. "it is to have the new artichokes planted in three circles--in three circles, monsieur," he went on excitedly, "crossed with the star of the compass," he continued, as the idea rapidly developed in his peasant brain. "then in the centre of the star to plant monsieur's initials in blue and red flowers. _voilà!_ it will be something for monsieur's friends to admire, eh?" he stood waiting tensely for my reply, for i shivered inwardly at the thought of the prospective chromo. "excellent, my good pierre," i returned, not wishing to hurt his feelings. "excellent for the gardens of the tuileries, but my garden is such a simple one." "pardon, monsieur," he said, with a touch of mingled disappointment and embarrassment, "they shall be replanted, of course, just as monsieur wishes." and pierre went to digging weeds with a will while i went back to my own work. at noon pierre knocked gently at my study door. "i must breakfast, monsieur," he apologized, "and get a little sleep. i have promised my brigadier to get back at three." "and to-morrow?" i asked. again the shoulders shrugged under the uniform. "ah, monsieur!" he exclaimed helplessly. "_malheureusement_, to-morrow i am not free; nor the day after. _parbleu!_ i cannot tell monsieur _when_ i shall be free." "i understand, pierre," said i. * * * * * before sundown the next afternoon i was after a hare through a maze of thicket running back of the dunes fronting the open sea. i kept on through a labyrinth of narrow trails--crossing and recrossing each other--the private by-ways of sleek old hares in time of trouble, for the dunes were honeycombed with their burrows. now and then i came across a tent-shaped thatched hut lined with a bed of straw, serving as snug shelters for the coast patrol in tough weather. i had just turned into a tangle of scrub-brush, and could hear the breakers pound and hiss as they swept up upon the hard smooth beach beyond the dunes, when a low whistle brought me to a leisurely halt, and i saw pierre spring up from a thicket a rod ahead of me--a government carbine nestled in the hollow of his arm. i could scarcely believe it was the genial and ever-willing pierre of my garden. he was the hard-disciplined soldier now, under orders. i was thankful he had not sent a bullet through me for not halting more promptly than i did. "what are you doing here?" he demanded, coming briskly toward me along a trail no wider than his feet. instantly my free hand went to my hunting-cap in salute. "after--a--hare!" i stammered innocently. "not so loud," he whispered. "_mon dieu!_ if the brigadier should hear you! come with me," he commanded, laying his hand firmly upon my arm. "there are six of us hidden between here and the fortress. it is well that you stumbled upon me first. they must know who you are. it is not safe for you to be hunting to-day." i had not followed him more than a dozen rods before one of his companions was at my side. "the american," said pierre in explanation, and we passed on down through a riot of stunted growth that choked the sides of a hollow. beyond this rose the top of a low circular fort overgrown with wire-grass--the riot of tangle ceasing as we reached the bottom of the hollow and stood in an open patch before an ancient iron gate piercing the rear of the fort. pierre lifted the latch and we passed through a wall some sixteen feet thick and into a stone-paved courtyard with a broad flight of steps at its farther end sweeping to the top of the circular defence. flanking the sunken courtyard itself were a dozen low vaultlike compartments, some of them sealed by heavy doors. at one of these, containing a narrow window, pierre knocked. the door opened and i stood in the presence of the brigadier bompard. "the american gentleman," announced pierre, relieving me of my gun. the brigadier bowed, looked me over sharply, and bade me enter. "at your service, monsieur," he said coldly, waving his big freckled hand toward a chair drawn up to a fat little stove blushing under a forced draft. "at yours, monsieur," i returned, bowed, and took my seat. then there ensued a dead silence, pierre standing rigid behind my chair, the brigadier reseated back of a desk littered with official papers. for some moments he sat writing, his savage gray eyes scanning the page, the ends of his ferocious moustache twitching nervously as his pen scratched on. back of his heavy shoulders ran a shelf supporting a row of musty ledgers, and above a stout chest in one corner was a rack of gleaming carbines. the silence became embarrassing. still the pen scratched on. was he writing my death-warrant, i wondered nervously, or only a milder order for my arrest? it was a relief when he finally sifted a spoonful of fine blue sand over the document, poured the remaining grains back into their receptacle, puffed out his coarse red jowls, emitted a grunt of approval, and raised his keen eyes to mine. "a thousand pardons, monsieur," i began, "for being where i assure you i would not have been had i known exactly where i was." "so monsieur is fond of the chase of the hare?" he asked, with a grim smile. "so fond, monsieur le brigadier," i replied, "that my enthusiasm has, as you see, led me thoughtlessly into your private territory. i beg of you to accept my sincere apologies." he reached back of him, took down one of the musty ledgers, and began to turn the leaves methodically. from where i sat i saw his coarse forefinger stop under a head-line. "smeeth, berkelek," he muttered, and read on down the page. "citizen of _amérique du nord_. "height--medium. "age--forty-one. "hair--auburn. "eyes--brown. "chin and frontal--square. "no scars." "would your excellency like to see my hunting permit and description?" i ventured. "unnecessary--it is in duplicate here," he returned curtly, and his eyes again reverted to the ledger. then he closed the book, rose, and drawing his chair to the stove planted his big fists on his knees. i began to breathe normally. "so you are a painter?" said he. "yes," i confessed, "but i do not make a specialty of fortresses, your excellency, even in the most distant landscapes." i was grateful he understood, for i saw a gleam of merriment flash in his eyes. "_bon!_" he exclaimed briskly--evidently the title of "excellency" helped. "it is not the best day, however, for you to be hunting hares. are you a good shot, monsieur?" "that is an embarrassing question," i returned. "if i do not miss i generally kill." pierre, who, during the interview, had been standing mute in attention, now stepped up to him and bending with a hurried "pardon," whispered something in his coarse red ear. the brigadier raised his shaggy eyebrows and nodded in assent. "ah! so you are a friend of monsieur le curé!" he exclaimed. "you would not be monsieur le curé's friend if you were not a good shot. _sapristi!_" he paused, ran his hand over his rough jowls, and resumed bluntly: "it is something to kill the wild duck; another to kill a man." "has war been suddenly declared?" i asked in astonishment. a gutteral laugh escaped his throat, he shook his grizzled head in the negative. "a little war of my own," said he, "a serious business, _parbleu!_" "contraband?" i ventured. the coarse mouth under the bristling moustache, four times the size of pierre's, closed with a snap, then opened with a growl. "_sacré mille tonnerres!_" he thundered, slamming his fist down on the desk within reach of him. "they are the devil, those belgians! it is for them my good fellows lose their sleep." then he stopped, and eyeing me shrewdly added: "monsieur, you are an outsider and a gentleman. i can trust you. three nights ago a strange sloop, evidently belgian, from the cut of her, tried to sneak in here, but our semaphore on the point held her up and she had to run back to the open sea. bah! those _sacré_ belgians have the patience of a fox!" "she was painted like one of our fishing-smacks," interposed pierre, now too excited to hold his tongue, "but she did not know the channel." "aye, and she'll try it again," growled the brigadier, "if the night be dark. she'll find it clear sailing in, but a hot road out." "tobacco?" i asked, now fully alive to the situation. the brigadier spat. "of course, as full as she'll float," he answered. he leaned forward and touched me good-humouredly on the shoulder. "i'm short of men," he said hurriedly. "command me," i replied. "i'll do my best. i shall return to-night." and i rose to take my leave, but he instantly raised his hand in protest. "you are under arrest, monsieur," he declared quietly, with a shrug of his shoulders. i looked at him wide-eyed in astonishment. "arrest!" i gasped. "do not be alarmed," he replied. "it will only be temporary, i assure you, but since you have so awkwardly stumbled among us there is no alternative but for me to detain you until this _sacré_ affair is well over. i cannot, at all events, let you return to the village to-night." "but i give you my word of honour, monsieur," i declared, "i shall not open my lips to a soul. besides, i must dine at eight to-night with madame de bréville. your excellency can well understand." "i know you have friends, monsieur; they might be inquisitive; and those friends have servants, and those servants have friends," was his reply. "no, it is better that you stay. pierre, give monsieur a carbine and a place ten metres from your own at sundown; then report to me he is there. now you may go, monsieur." pierre touched me on the shoulder; then suddenly realizing i was under orders and a prisoner, i straightened, saluted the brigadier, and followed pierre out of the fort with the best grace i could muster. "pierre!" i exclaimed hotly, as we stood again in the thicket. "how long since you've held up anything here--contraband, i mean?" for a moment he hesitated, then his voice sank to a whisper. "they say it is all of twenty years, perhaps longer," he confessed. "but to-night monsieur shall see. monsieur is, of course, not exactly a prisoner or he would now be in the third vault from the right." "a prisoner! the devil i'm not? didn't he tell me i was?" i exclaimed. "_mon dieu!_ what will you have, monsieur?" returned pierre excitedly, under his breath. "it is the brigadier's orders. i was afraid monsieur might reply to him in anger. ah, _par exemple!_ then monsieur would have seen a wild bull. oh, la! la! when the brigadier is furious----ah, _ça!_" and he led the way to my appointed ambush without another word. despite my indignation at being thus forced into the service and made a prisoner to boot--however temporary it might be--i gradually began to see the humour of the situation. it was very like a comic opera, i thought, as i lay flat on the edge of the thicket and pried away a small opening in the tangle through which i could look down upon the sweep of beach below me and far out to sea. thus i lay in wait for the smuggling crew to arrive--to be blazed at and perhaps captured. what if they outnumber us? we might all perish then, with no hope of quarter from these men whom we were lying in wait for like snakes in the grass. one thing, however, i was firmly resolved upon, and that was to shoot safely over anything that lay in range except in case of self-defence. i was never of a murderous disposition, and the thought of another's blood on my hands sent a fresh shiver along my prostrate spine. then again the comic-opera side of it struck me. i began to feel more like an extra super in a one-night stand than a real soldier. what, after all, if the smugglers failed us? i was pondering upon the dangerous effect upon the brigadier of so serious a stage wait, when pierre crawled over to me from his ambush ten metres from my own, to leave me my ration of bread and wine. he was so excited by this time that his voice trembled in my ear. "gaston, my comrade, the fifth down the line," he whispered, "has just seen two men prowling on the marsh; they are, without doubt, accomplices. gaston has gone to tell the brigadier." he ran his hand carefully along the barrel of my carbine. "monsieur must hold high," he explained in another whisper, "since monsieur is unaccustomed to the gun of war. it is this little machine here that does the trick." he bent his eyes close to the hind sight and screwed it up to its notch at one hundred and fifty metres. i nodded my thanks, and he left me to my bread and wine and crept cautiously back to his ambush. * * * * * a black night was rapidly settling. above me in the great unfathomable vault of sky not a star glimmered. under the gloom of the approaching darkness the vast expanse of marsh to my left lay silent, desolate, and indistinct, save for its low edge of undulating sand dunes. only the beach directly before me showed plainly, seemingly illumined by the breakers, that gleamed white like the bared teeth of a fighting line of wolves. it was a sullen, cheerless sea, from which the air blew over me damp and raw; the only light visible being the intermittent flash from the distant lighthouse on les trois loups, beyond the marsh. one hour passed--two hours--during which i saw nothing alive and moving save a hare foraging timidly on the beach for his own rations. after a while he hopped back to his burrow in the thicket, a thicket of silence from which i knew at any moment might break forth a murderous fire. it grew colder and colder, i had to breathe lustily into the collar of my jersey to keep out the chill. i began to envy the hare snug in his burrow. thus i held my vigil, and the night wore on. ah! my friend the curé! i mused. was there ever such an indefatigable sportsman? lucky curé! he was not a prisoner, neither had he been pressed into the customs patrol like a hired assassin. at that moment i knew monsieur le curé was snug in his duck-blind for the night, a long two miles from where i lay; warm, and comfortable, with every chance on such a night to kill a dozen fat mallards before his daylight mass. what would my friend madame alice de bréville, and that whole-souled fellow tanrade, think when i did not appear as i had promised, at madame's château, to dine at eight? cold as i was, i could not help chuckling over the fact that it was no fault of mine. i was a prisoner. alice and tanrade would dine together. it would be then a dinner for two. i have never known a woman as discreet as alice. she had insisted that i dine with them. in paris alice might not have insisted, but in the lost village, with so many old women with nothing to talk about save other peoples' affairs! lucky tanrade! i could see from where i lay the distant mass of trees screening her château, and picture to myself my two dear friends _alone_. their chairs--now that my vacant one was the only witness--drawn close together; he holding her soft, responsive little hand between the soup and the fish, between the duck and the salad; then continuously over their dessert and burgundy--she whom he had held close to his big heart that night after dinner in that once abandoned house of mine, when they had gone out together into my courtyard and disappeared in the shadows of the moonlight. dining alone! the very thing i had tried to bring about. but for the stern brigadier we should have been that wretched number--three--to-night at the château. ah, you dear human children, are you conscious and grateful that i am lying out like a vagabond, a prisoner, that you may be alone? i began to wonder, too, what the essence of selfishness, that spoiled and adorable cat of mine, would think when it came her bedtime hour. would suzette, in her anxiety over my absence, remember to give her the saucer of warm milk? yet i knew the essence of selfishness would take care of herself; she would sleep with suzette. catch her lying out on the bare ground like her master when she could curl herself up at the foot of two fuzzy blankets in a tiny room next to the warm kitchen. * * * * * it was after midnight when pierre crawled over to me again, and pointed to a black patch of mussel rocks below. "there are the two men gaston saw," he whispered. "they are waiting to signal the channel to their comrades." i strained my eyes in the direction he indicated. "i cannot see," i confessed. "here, take the glass," said he. "those two humps behind the big one are the backs of men. they have a lantern well hidden--you can see its glow when the glass is steady." i could see it all quite clearly now, and occasionally one of the humps lift a head cautiously above the rock. "she must be lying off close by," muttered pierre, hoarse with excitement. again he hurriedly ran his hand over the breech of my carbine. "the trigger pulls light," he breathed. "courage, monsieur! we have not long to wait now." and again he was gone. i felt like a hired assassin weakening on the verge of a crime. the next instant i saw the lantern hidden on the mussel rocks raised and lowered thrice. it was the signal! again all was darkness save the gleaming line of surf. my heart thumped in my ears. ten minutes passed; then again the lantern was raised, the figures of the two men standing in silhouette against its steady rays. i saw now a small sloop rear itself from the breakers, a short, squat little craft with a ghostly sail and a flapping jib. on she came, leaping and dropping broadside among the combers. the lantern now shone as clearly as a beacon. a sea broke over the sloop, but she staggered up bravely, and with a plunge was swept nearer and nearer the jagged point of rocks awash with spume. braced against the tiller was a man in drenched tarpaulins; two other men were holding on to the shrouds like grim death. on the narrow deck between them i made out a bale-like bundle wrapped in tarpaulin and heavily roped, ready to be cast ashore. a moment more, and the sloop would be on the rocks; yet not a sound came from the thicket. the suspense was sickening. i had once experienced buck-fever, but it was nothing compared to this. the short carbine began to jump viciously under my grip. the sloop was nearly on the rocks! at that critical moment overboard went the bundle, the two men with the lantern rushing out and dragging it clear of the swash. simultaneously, with a crackling roar, six tongues of flame spat from the thicket and we charged out of our ambush and over the crest of the dunes toward the smugglers' craft and its crew, firing as we ran. the fellow next to me stumbled and fell sprawling in the sand. in the panic that ensued i saw the sloop making a desperate effort to put to sea. meanwhile the two accomplices were running like rabbits for the marsh. close to the mysterious bundle their lantern lay smashed and burning luridly in its oil. the brigadier sprang past me swearing like a pirate, while his now thoroughly demoralized henchmen and myself stumbled on, firing at random with still a good hundred yards between us and the abandoned contraband. at that instant i saw the sloop's sail fill and then, as if by a miracle, she slowly turned back to the open sea. above the general din the brigadier's voice rang out, bellowing his orders. by the time the sloop had cleared the breakers his language had become unprintable. he had reached the mussel rocks and stood shaking his clenched fists at the departing craft, while the rest of us crowded about the bundle and the blazing lantern. every one was talking and gesticulating at once as they watched the sloop plunge away in the darkness. "_sacré mille tonnerres!_" roared the brigadier, sinking down on the bundle. then he turned and glared at me savagely. "idiot!" he cried, labouring for his breath. "_espèce d'imbécile. ah! nom d'un petit bonhomme._ you were on the end. why did you not head off those devils with the lantern?" i shrugged my shoulders helplessly in reply. he was in no condition to argue with. "and the rest of you----" he choked in his rage, unable to frame his words. they stood helplessly about, gesticulating their apologies. he sprang to his feet, gave the bundle a sound kick, and snarled out an order. pierre and another jumped forward, and together they shouldered it between them. then the remainder of the valiant guard fell into single file and started back to the fort, the brigadier and myself bringing up the rear. as we trudged on through the sand together he kept muttering to himself. it only occurred to me then that nobody had been hit. by this time even the accomplices were safe. "monsieur," i ventured, as we regained the trail leading to the fort, "it is with the sincerest regret of my heart that i offer you my apologies. true, i might have done better, but i did my best in my inexperience. we have the contraband--at least that is something, eh?" he grew calmer as the thought struck him. "yes," he grumbled, "there are in that bundle at least ten thousand cigars. it is, after all, not so bad." "might i ask," i returned, "when your excellency intends to honour me with my liberty?" he stopped, and to my delight held out his hand to me. "you are free, monsieur," he said roughly, with a touch of his good nature. "the affair is over--but not a word of the manoeuvre you have witnessed in the village. our work here is for the ears of the government alone." as we reached the gate of the fort i saluted him, handed my carbine to pierre in exchange for my shotgun, and struck home in the mist of early dawn. * * * * * the morning after, i was leaning over the lichen-stained wall of my garden caressing the white throat of the essence of selfishness, the events of my night of service still in my mind, when i saw the coast patrol coming across the marsh in double file. as they drew nearer i recognized pierre and his companion, who had shouldered the contraband. the roped bundle was swung on a stout pole between them. presently they left the marsh and gained the road. as the double file of uniformed men came past my wall they returned my salute. pierre shifted his end of the pole to the man behind him and stood at attention until the rest had passed. then the procession went on to inform monsieur the mayor, who lived near the little square where nothing ever happened. pierre turned when they had left and entered my garden. what was he going to tell me now? i wondered, with sudden apprehension. was i to serve another night? "i'll be hanged if i will," i muttered. he approached solemnly and slowly, his bayonet gleaming at his side, the warm sunlight glinting on the buttons of his uniform. when he got near enough for me to look into his eyes he stopped, raised his hand to his cap in salute, and said with a smile: "now, monsieur, the artichokes." [illustration: bundle of contraband] * * * * * [illustration: marianne] chapter five marianne monsieur le curé slid the long chair up to my fire, bent his straight, black body forward, and rubbing his chilled hands briskly before the blazing logs, announced with a smile of content: "marianne is out of jail." "_sacristi!_" i exclaimed, "and in mid-winter! it must be cold enough in that hut of hers by the marsh--poor old girl." "and not a sou to be earned fishing," added the curé. "tell me about this last crime of hers," i asked. monsieur le curé's face grew serious, then again the smile of content spread to the corners of his firm mouth. "oh! nothing very gruesome," he confessed, then after a moment's silence he continued slowly: "her children needed shoes and warm things for the winter. marianne stole sixty _mètres_ of nets from the fishing crew at 'the three wolves'--she is hopeless, my friend." with a vibrant gesture he straightened up in his chair and flashed his keen eyes to mine. "for ten years i have tried to reform her," he declared. "bah!"--and he tossed the stump of his cigarette into the blaze. "you nursed her once through the smallpox," said i, "when no one dared go near her. the mayor told me so. i should think _that_ would have long ago persuaded her to do something for you in return." "we go where we are needed," he replied simply. "she will promise me nothing. one might as well try to make a faithful parishioner of a gipsy as to change marianne for the better." he brought his fist down sharply on the broad arm of his chair. "i tell you," he went on tensely, "marianne is a woman of no morals and no religion--a woman who allows no one to dictate to her save a gendarme with a warrant of arrest. hardly a winter passes but she goes to jail. she is a confirmed thief, a bad subject," he went on vibrantly. "she can drink as no three sailors can drink--and yet you know as well as i do," he added, lowering his voice, "that there is not a mother in pont du sable who is as good to her children as marianne." "they are a brave little brood," i replied. "i have heard that the eldest boy and girl marianne adopted, yet they resemble their mother, with their fair curly hair and blue eyes, as much as do the youngest boys and the little girl." "marianne has had many lovers," returned the curé gravely. "there is not one of that brood of hers that has yet been baptized." an expression of pain crossed his face. "i have tried hard; marianne is impossible." "yet you admit she has her qualities." "yes, good qualities," he confessed, filling a fresh cigarette paper full of tobacco. "good qualities," he reiterated. "she has brought up her children to be honest and she keeps them clean. she has never stolen from her own village--it is a point of honour with her. ah! you do not know marianne as i know her." "it seems to me you are growing enthusiastic over our worst vagabond," i laughed. "i am," replied the curé frankly. "i believe in her; she is afraid of nothing. you see her as a vagabond--an outcast, and the next instant, _parbleu!_ she forces out of you your camaraderie--even your respect. you shake her by the hand, that straight old hag with her clear blue eyes, her square jaw and her hard face! she who walks with the stride of a man, who is as supple and strong as a sailor, and who looks you squarely in the eye and studies you calmly, at times disdainfully--even when drunk." * * * * * it was late when monsieur le curé left me alone by my fire. i cannot say "alone," for the essence of selfishness, was purring on my chest. in this old _normand_ house of mine by the marsh, there comes a silence at this hour which is exhilarating. out of these winter midnights come strange sounds, whirring flights of sea-fowl whistle over my roof, in late for a lodging on the marsh. a heavy peasant's cart goes by, groaning in agony under the brake. when the wind is from the sea, it is like a bevy of witches shrilling my doom down the chimney. "aye, aye, 'tis he," they seem to scream, "the stranger--the s-t-r-a-n-g-e-r." one's mind is alert at this hour--one must be brave in a foreign land. and so i sat up late, smoking a black pipe that gurgled in unison with the purring on my chest while i thought seriously of marianne. i had seen her go laughing to jail two months ago, handcuffed to a gendarme on the back seat of the last car of the toy train. it was an occasion when every one in the lost village came charitably out to have a look. i remembered, too, she sat there as garrulous as if she were starting on a holiday--a few of her old cronies crowded about her. one by one, her children gave their mother a parting hug--there were no tears--and the gendarme sat beside her with a stolid dignity befitting his duty to the _république_. then the whistle tooted twice--a coughing puff of steam in the crisp sunlight, a wheeze of wheels, and the toy train rumbled slowly out of the village with its prisoner. marianne nodded and laughed back at the waving group. "_bon voyage!_" croaked a little old woman, lifting her claw. she had borrowed five francs from the prisoner. "_au revoir!_" laughed back marianne, but the words were faint, for the last car was snaking around the bend. thus marianne went to jail. now that she is back, she takes her return as carelessly and unblushingly as a _demi-mondaine_ does her annual return from dinard. when marianne was eighteen, they tell me, she was the prettiest girl in pont du sable, that is to say, she was prettier than emilienne dagèt at bar la rose, or than berthe pavoisiér, the daughter of the miller at tocqueville, who is now in paris. at eighteen, marianne was slim and blonde; moreover, she was as bold as a hawk, and smiled as easily as she lied. at twenty, she was rated as a valuable member of any fishing crew that put out from the coast, for they found her capable during a catch, and steady in danger, always doing her share and a little more for those who could not help themselves. she is still doing it, for in her stone hut on the edge of the marsh that serves as shelter for her children and her rough old self, she has been charitable and given a winter's lodging to three old wrecks of the sea. there are no beds, but there are bunks filled with marsh-hay; there is no furniture, but there are a few pots and pans, and in one corner of the dirt floor, a crackling fire of drift wood, and nearly always enough applejack for all, and now and then hot soup. marianne wrenches these luxuries, so to speak, out of the sea, often alone and single-handed, working as hard as a gull to feed her young. the curé was right; marianne had her good qualities--i was almost beginning to wonder to myself as i pulled drowsily at the black pipe if her good qualities did not outweigh her bad ones, when the essence of selfishness awakened and yawned. and so it was high time to send this spoiled child of mine to bed. * * * * * marianne called her "_ma belle petite_," though her real name was yvonne--yvonne louise tournéveau. yvonne kept her black eyes from early dawn until dark upon a dozen of the père bourron's cows in her charge, who grazed on a long point of the marsh, lush with salt grass, that lay sheltered back of the dunes fronting the open sea. now and then, when a cow strayed over the dunes on to the hard beach beyond to gaze stupidly at the breakers, the little girl's voice would become as authoritative as a boy's. "_eh ben, tu sais!_" she would shout as she ran to head the straggler off, adding some sound whacks with a stick until the cow decided to lumber back to the rest. "_ah mais!_" yvonne would sigh as she seated herself again in the wire-grass, tucking her firm bronzed legs under a patched skirt that had once served as a winter petticoat for the mère bourron. occasionally a trudging coast guard or a lone hunter in passing would call "_bonjour!_" to her, and since she was pretty, this child of fifteen, they would sometimes hail her with "_Ça va, ma petite!_" and yvonne would flush and reply bravely, "_mais oui, m'sieur, merci._" since she was only a little girl with hair as black as a gipsy's, a ruddy olive skin, fresh young lips and a well-knit, compact body, hardened by constant exposure to the sea air and sun, no one bothered their heads much about her name. she was only a child who smiled when the passerby would give her a chance, which was seldom, and when she did, she disclosed teeth as white as the tiny shells on the beach. there were whole days on the marsh when she saw no one. at noon, when the cracked bell in the distant belfry of the gray church of pont du sable sent its discordant note quavering across the marsh, yvonne drew forth a sailor's knife from where it lay tucked safe within the breast of her coarse chemise, and untying a square of blue cotton cloth, cut in two her portion of peasant bread, saving half the bread and half a bottle of père bourron's thinnest cider for the late afternoon. there were days, too, when marianne coming up from the sea with her nets, stopped to rest beside the child and talk. yvonne having no mother which she could remember, marianne had become a sort of transient mother to her, whom the incoming tide sometimes brought her and whom she would wait for with uncertain expectancy, often for days. one afternoon, early in the spring, when the cows were feeding in the scant slanting shade of the dunes, yvonne fell asleep. she lay out straight upon her back, her brown legs crossed, one wrist over her eyes. she slept so soundly that neither the breeze that had sprung up from the northeast, stirring with every fresh puff the stray locks about her small ears, or the sharp barking of a dog hunting rabbits for himself over the dunes, awakened her. suddenly she became conscious of being grasped in a pair of strong arms, and, awakening with a little scream, looked up into the grinning face of marianne, who straightway gave her a big, motherly hug until she was quite awake and then kissed her soundly on both cheeks, until yvonne laughed over her fright. "_oh, mon dieu!_ but i was frightened," sighed the child, and sat up straight, smoothing back her tumbled hair. "oh! la! la!" she gasped. "they are beauties, _hein!_" exclaimed marianne, nodding to an oozing basketful of mackerel; then, kneeling by the basket, she plunged her red hands under the slimy, glittering mass of fish, lifting and dropping them that the child might see the average size in the catch. "_eh ben!_" declared marianne, "some day when thou art bigger, _ma petite_, i'll take thee where thou canst make some silver. there's half a louis' worth there if there's a sou!" there was a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes, as she bent over her basket again, dressed as she was in a pair of fisherman's trousers cut off at the knees. "one can play the lady on half a louis," she continued, covering her fish from the sun with her bundle of nets. "my man shall have a full bottle of the best to-night," she added, wiping her wet hands across her strong bare knees. "how much 'cake' does that old crab of a bourron pay thee?" she inquired, turning again to the child. "six sous a day, and then my food and lodging," confessed yvonne. "he won't ruin himself," muttered marianne. "they say the girl at the three wolves gets ten," added the child with awe, "but thou knowest how--she must do the washing besides." marianne's square jaw shut hard. she glanced at yvonne's patched skirt, the one that had been the mère bourron's winter petticoat, feeling its quality as critically as a fashionable dressmaker. "_sacristi!_" she exclaimed, examining a rent, "there's one door that the little north wind won't knock twice at before he enters. keep still, _ma petite_, i've got thread and a needle." she drew from her trousers' pocket a leather wallet in which lay four two-sous pieces, an iron key and a sail needle driven through a ball of linen thread. "it is easily seen thou art not in love," laughed marianne, as she cross-stitched the tear. "thou wilt pay ten sous for a ribbon gladly some day when thou art in love." the child was silent while she sewed. presently she asked timidly, "one eats well there?" "where?" "but thou knowest--_there_." "in the prison?" "_mais oui_," whispered yvonne. "of course," growled marianne, "one eats well; it is perfect. _tiens!_ we have the good soup, that is well understood; and now and then meat and rice." "oh!" exclaimed the child in awe. "_mais oui_," assured marianne with a nod, "and prunes." "where is that, the prison?" ventured the child. "it is very far," returned marianne, biting off the thread, "and it is not for every one either," she added with a touch of pride--"only i happen to be an old friend and know the judge." "and how much does it cost a day, the prison?" asked yvonne. "not _that_," replied marianne, snipping her single front tooth knowingly with the tip of her nail. "_mon dieu!_ and they give you all that for nothing?" exclaimed the child in astonishment. "it is _chic_, that, _hein!_" and she nodded her pretty head with decision, "_ah mais oui, alors!_" she laughed. "i must be going," said marianne, abruptly. "my young ones will be wanting their soup." she flattened her back against her heavy basket, slipped the straps under her armpits and rose to her feet, the child passing the bundle of nets to her and helping her shoulder them to the proper balance. "_au revoir, ma belle petite_," she said, bending to kiss the girl's cheek; then with her free hand she dove into her trousers' pocket and drew out a two-sous piece. "_tiens_," she exclaimed, pressing the copper into the child's hand. yvonne gave a little sigh of delight. it was not often she had two sous all to herself to do what she pleased with, which doubles the delight of possession. besides, the mère bourron kept her wages--or rather, count of them, which was cheaper--on the back page of a greasy book wherein were registered the births of calves. "_au revoir_," reiterated marianne, and turned on her way to the village down the trail that wound through the salt grass out to the road skirting the bay. yvonne watched her until she finally disappeared through a cut in the dunes that led to the main road. the marsh lay in the twilight, the curlews were passing overhead bound for a distant mud flat for the night. "_courli! courli!_" they called, the old birds with a rasp, the young ones cheerfully; as one says "_bonsoir_." the cows, conscious of the fast-approaching dark, were moving toward the child. she stood still until they had passed her, then drove them slowly back to the père bourron's, her two-sous piece clutched safe in her hand. it was dark when she let down the bars of the orchard, leading into the farm-yard. here the air was moist and heavy with the pungent odour of manure; a turkey gobbler and four timid hens roosting in a low apple tree, stirred uneasily as the cows passed beneath them to their stable next to the kitchen--a stable with a long stone manger and walls two feet thick. above the stable was a loft covered by a thatched roof; it was in a corner of this loft, in a large box filled with straw and provided with a patchwork-quilt, that yvonne slept. a light from the kitchen window streamed across the muddy court. the père and mère bourron were already at supper. the child bolted the stable door upon her herd and slipped into her place at table with a timid "_bonsoir, m'sieur, madame_," to her masters, which was acknowledged by a grunt from the père bourron and a spasm of coughing from his spouse. the mère bourron, who had the dullish round eye of a pig that gleamed suspiciously when she became inquisitive, had supped well. now and then she squinted over her fat jowls veined with purple, plying her mate with short, savage questions, for he had sold cattle that day at the market at bonville. such evenings as these were always quarrelsome between the two, and as the little girl did not count any more than the chair she sat in, they argued openly over the day's sale. the best steer had brought less than the mère bourron had believed, a shrewd possibility, even after a month's bargaining. when both had wiped their plates clean with bread--for nothing went to waste there--the child got up and brought the black coffee and the decanter of applejack. they at last ceased to argue, since the mère bourron had had the final word. père bourron sat with closed fists, opening one now and then to strengthen his coffee with applejack. being a short, thickset man, he generally sat in his blouse after he had eaten, with his elbows on the table and his rough bullet-like head, with its crop of unkempt hair, buried in his hands. when yvonne had finished her soup, and eaten all her bread, she rose and with another timid "_bonsoir_" slipped away to bed. "leave the brindle heifer tied!" shrilled madame as the child reached the courtyard. "_mais, oui madame_, it is done," answered yvonne, and crept into her box beneath the thatch. * * * * * at sixteen yvonne was still guarding the cows for the bourrons. at seventeen she fell in love. he was a slick, slim youth named jean, with a soapy blond lock plastered under the visor of his leather cap pulled down to his red ears. on fête days, he wore in addition a scarlet neck-tie girdling his scrawny throat. he had watched yvonne for a long time, very much as the snake in the fable saved the young dove until it was grown. and so, yvonne grew to dreaming while the cows strayed. once the père bourron struck at her with a spade for her negligence, but missed. another night he beat her soundly for letting a cow get stalled in the mud. the days on the marsh now became interminable, for he worked for gavelle, the carpenter, a good three _kilomètres_ back of pont du sable and the two could see each other only on fête days when he met her secretly among the dunes or in the evenings near the farm. he would wait for her then at the edge of the woods skirting the misty sea of pasture that spread out below the farm like some vast and silent dry lake, dotted here and there with groups of sleeping cattle. she saw marianne but seldom now, for the latter fished mostly at the three wolves, sharing her catch with a crew of eight fishermen. often they would seine the edge of the coast, their boat dancing off beyond the breakers while they netted the shallow water, swishing up the hard beach--these gamblers of the sea. they worked with skill and precision, each one having his share to do, while one--the quickest--was appointed to carry their bundle of dry clothes rolled in a tarpaulin. marianne seemed of casual importance to her now. we seldom think of our best friends in time of love. yvonne cried for his kisses which at first she did not wholly understand, but which she grew to hunger for, just as when she was little she craved for all she wanted to eat for once--and candy. she began to think of herself, too--of jean's scarlet cravat--of his new shoes too tight for him, which he wore with the pride of a village dandy on fête days and sundays--and of her own patched and pitifully scanty wardrobe. "she has nothing, that little one," she had heard the gossips remark openly before her, time and time again, when she was a child. now that she was budding into womanhood and was physically twice as strong as jean, now that she was conscious of _herself_, she began to know the pangs of vanity. it was about this time that she bought the ribbon, just as marianne had foretold, a red ribbon to match jean's tie, and which she fashioned into a bow and kept in a paper box, well hidden in the straw of her bed. the patched skirt had long ago grown too short, and was now stuffed into a broken window beyond the cow manger to temper the draught from the neck of a sick bull. she wore now, when it stormed, thick woollen stockings and sabots; and another skirt of the mère bourron's fastened around a chemise of coarse homespun linen, its colour faded to a delicious pale mazarine blue, showing the strength and fullness of her body. * * * * * she had stolen down from the loft this night to meet him at the edge of the woods. "where is he?" were his first words as he sought her lips in the dark. "he has gone," she whispered, when her lips were free. "where?" "_eh ben_, he went away with the père detour to the village--madame is asleep." "ah, good!" said he. "_mon dieu!_ but you are warm," she whispered, pressing her cheek against his own. "i ran," he drawled, "the patron kept me late. there is plenty of work there now." he put his arm around her and the two walked deeper into the wood, he holding her heavy moist hand idly in his own. presently the moon came out, sailing high among the scudding clouds, flashing bright in the clear intervals. a white mist had settled low over the pasture below them, and the cattle were beginning to move restlessly under the chill blanket, changing again and again their places for the night. a bull bellowed with all his might from beyond the mysterious distance. he had evidently scented them, for presently he emerged from the mist and moved along the edge of the woods, protected by a deep ditch. he stopped when he was abreast of them to bellow again, then kept slowly on past them. they had seated themselves in the moonlight among the stumps of some freshly cut poplars. "_dis donc_, what is the matter?" he asked at length, noticing her unusual silence, for she generally prattled on, telling him of the uneventful hours of her days. "nothing," she returned evasively. "_mais si; bon dieu!_ there _is_ something." she placed her hands on her trembling knees. "no, i swear there is nothing, jean," she said faintly. but he insisted. "one earns so little," she confessed at length. "ten sous a day, it is not much, and the days are so long on the marsh. if i knew how to cook i'd try and get a place like emilienne." "bah!" said he, "you are crazy--one must study to cook; besides, you are not yet eighteen, the père bourron has yet the right to you for a year." "that is true," confessed the girl simply; "one has not much chance when one is an orphan. listen, jean." "what?" "listen--is it true that thou dost love me?" "surely," he replied with an easy laugh. "listen," she repeated timidly; "if thou shouldst get steady work--i should be content ... to be..." but her voice became inaudible. "_allons!_... what?" he demanded irritably. "to ... to be married," she whispered. he started. "_eh ben! en voilà_ an idea!" he exclaimed. "forgive me, jean, i have always had that idea----" she dried her eyes on the back of her hand and tried hard to smile. "it is foolish, eh? the marriage costs so dear ... but if thou shouldst get steady work..." "_eh ben!_" he answered slowly with his normand shrewdness, "i don't say no." "i'll help thee, jean; i can work hard when i am free. one wins forty sous a day by washing, and then there is the harvest." there was a certain stubborn conviction in her words which worried him. "_eh ben!_" he said at length, "we might get married--that's so." she caught her breath. "swear it, jean, that thou wilt marry me, swear it upon sainte marie." "_eh voilà_, it's done. _oui_, by sainte marie!" she threw her arms about him, crushing him against her breast. "_dieu!_ but thou art strong," he whispered. "did i hurt thee?" "no--thou art content now?" "yes--i am content," she sobbed, "i am content, i am content." he had slipped to the ground beside her. she drew his head back in her lap, her hand pressed hard against his forehead. "_dieu!_ but i am content," she breathed in his ear. he felt her warm tears dropping fast upon his cheek. * * * * * all night she lay in the straw wide awake, flushed, in a sort of fever. at daylight she drove her cows back to the marsh without having barely touched her soup. far across the bay glistened the roof of a barn under construction. an object the size of a beetle was crawling over the new boards. it was jean. "i'm a fool," he thought, as he drove in a nail. then he fell to thinking of a girl in his own village whose father was as rich as the père bourron. "_sacré diable!_" he laughed at length, "if every one got married who had sworn by sainte marie, monsieur le curé would do a good business." * * * * * a month later père bourron sold out a cartful of calves at the market at bonville. it was late at night when he closed his last bargain over a final glass, climbed up on his big two-wheeled cart, and with a face of dull crimson and a glazed eye, gathered up the reins and started swaying in his seat for home. a boy carrying milk found him at daylight the next morning lying face down in the track of his cart, dead, with a fractured skull. before another month had passed, the mère bourron had sold the farm and gone to live with her sister--a lean woman who took in sewing. yvonne was free. free to work and to be married, and she did work with silent ferocity from dawn until dark, washing the heavy coarse linen for a farm, and scrubbing the milk-pans bright until often long after midnight--and saved. jean worked too, but mostly when he pleased, and had his hair cut on fête days, most of which he spent in the café and saw yvonne during the odd moments when she was free. life over the blacksmith's shop, where she had taken a room, went merrily for a while. six months later--it is such an old story that it is hardly worth the telling--but it was long after dark when she got back from work and she found it lying on the table in her rough clean little room--a scrap of paper beside some tiny worsted things she had been knitting for weeks. "i am not coming back," she read in an illiterate hand. she would have screamed, but she could not breathe. she turned again, staring at the paper and gripping the edge of the table with both hands--then the ugly little room that smelt of singed hoofs rocked and swam before her. when she awoke she lay on the floor. the flame of the candle was sputtering in its socket. after a while she crawled to her knees in the dark; then, somehow, she got to her feet and groped her way to the door, and down the narrow stairs out to the road. she felt the need of a mother and turned toward pont du sable, keeping to the path at the side of the wood like a homeless dog, not wishing to be observed. every little while, she was seized with violent trembling so that she was obliged to stop--her whole body ached as if she had been beaten. a sharp wind was whistling in from the sea and the night was so black that the road bed was barely visible. it was some time before she reached the beginning of pont du sable, and turned down a forgotten path that ran back of the village by the marsh. a light gleamed ahead--the lantern of a fishing-boat moored far out on the slimy mud. she pushed on toward it, mistaking its position, in her agony, for the hut of marianne. before she knew it, she was well out on the treacherous mud, slipping and sinking. she had no longer the strength now to pull her tired feet out. twice she sank in the slime above her knees. she tried to go back but the mud had become ooze--she was sinking--she screamed--she was gone and she knew it. then she slipped and fell on her face in a glaze of water from the incoming tide. at this instant some one shouted back, but she did not hear. it was marianne. it was she who had moored the boat with the lantern and was on her way back to her hut when she heard a woman scream twice. she stopped as suddenly as if she had been shot at, straining her eyes in the direction the sound came from--she knew that there was no worse spot in the bay, a semi-floating solution of mud veined with quicksand. she knew, too, how far the incoming tide had reached, for she had just left it at her bare heels by way of a winding narrow causeway with a hard shell bottom that led to the marsh. she did not call for help, for she knew what lay before her and there was not a second to lose. the next instant, she had sprung out on the treacherous slime, running for a life in the fast-deepening glaze of water. "lie down!" she shouted. then her feet touched a solid spot caked with shell and grass. here she halted for an instant to listen--a choking groan caught her ear. "lie down!" she shouted again and sprang forward. she knew the knack of running on that treacherous slime. she leapt to a patch of shell and listened again. the woman was choking not ten yards ahead of her, almost within reach of a thin point of matted grass running back of the marsh, and there she found her, and she was still breathing. with her great strength she slid her to the point of grass. it held them both. then she lifted her bodily in her arms, swung her on her back and ran splashing knee-deep in water to solid ground. "_sacré bon dieu!_" she sobbed as she staggered with her burden. "_c'est ma belle petite!_" * * * * * for weeks yvonne lay in the hut of the worst vagabond of pont du sable. so did a mite of humanity with black eyes who cried and laughed when he pleased. and marianne fished for them both, alone and single-handed, wrenching time and time again comforts from the sea, for she would allow no one to go near them, not even such old friends as monsieur le curé and myself--that old hag, with her clear blue eyes, who walks with the stride of a man, and who looks at you squarely, at times disdainfully--even when drunk. [illustration: sabots] * * * * * [illustration: a normande] chapter six the baron's perfectos strange things happen in my "village of vagabonds." it is not all fisher girls, bohemian neighbours, romance, and that good friend the curé who shoots one day and confesses sinners the next. things from the outside world come to us--happenings with sometimes a note of terror in them to make one remember their details for days. only the other day i had run up from the sea to paris to replenish the larder of my house abandoned by the marsh at pont du sable, and was sitting behind a glass of vermouth on the terrace of the café de la paix when the curtain rose. one has a desire to promenade with no definite purpose these soft spring days, when all paris glitters in the warm sun. the days slip by, one into another--days to be lazy in, idle and extravagant, to promenade alone, seeking adventure, and thus win a memory, if only the amiable glance of a woman's eyes. i was drinking in the tender air, when from my seat on the terrace i recognized in the passing throng the familiar figure of the brazilian banker, the baron santos da granja. the caress of spring had enticed the baron early this afternoon to the boulevard. although he had been pointed out to me but once, there was no mistaking his conspicuous figure as he strode on through the current of humanity, for he stood head and shoulders above the average mortal, and many turned to glance at this swarthy, alert, well-preserved man of the world with his keen black eyes, thin pointed beard and moustache of iron gray. from his patent-leather boots to his glistening silk hat the baron santos da granja was immaculate. suddenly i saw him stop, run his eyes swiftly over the crowded tables and then, though there happened to be one just vacated within his reach, turn back with a look of decision and enter the government's dépôt for tobacco under the grand hotel. i, too, was in need of tobacco, for had not my good little maid-of-all-work, suzette, announced to me only the day before: "monsieur, there are but three left of the big cigars in the thin box; and the ham of the english that monsieur purchased in paris is no more." "it is well, my child," i had returned resignedly, "that ham could not last forever; it was too good." "and if monsieur le curé comes to dinner there is no more kümmel," the little maid had confessed, and added with a shy lifting of her truthful eyes, "monsieur does not wish i should get more of the black cigars at the grocery?" i had winced as i recalled the last box, purchased from the only store in pont du sable, where they had lain long enough to absorb the pungent odour of dried herring and kerosene. of course it was not right that our guests should suffer thus from an empty larder and so, as i have said, i had run up from the sea to replenish it. it was, i confess, an extravagant way of doing one's marketing; but then there was paris in the spring beckoning me, and who can resist her seductive call at such a time? but to my story: i finished my glass of vermouth, and, following the baron's example, entered the government's store, where i discovered him selecting with the air of a connoisseur a dozen thin boxes of rare perfectos. he chatted pleasantly with the clerk who served him and upon going to the desk, opened a russian-leather portfolio and laid before the cashier six crisp, new one-hundred-franc notes in payment for the lot. i have said that the baron was immaculate, and he _was_, even to his money. it was as spotless and unruffled as his linen, as neat, in fact, as were the noble perfectos of his choice, long, mild and pure, with tiny ends, and fat, comforting bodies that guaranteed a quality fit for an emperor; but then the least a bank can do, i imagine, is to provide clean money to its president. as the baron passed out and my own turn at the desk came to settle for my modest provision of havanas, i recalled to my mind the current gossip of the baron's extravagance, of the dinners he had lately given that surprised paris--and paris is not easily surprised. what if he had "sold more than half of his vast estate in brazil last year"? and suppose he was no longer able or willing "to personally supervise his racing stable," that he "had grown tired of the track," etc. nonsense! the press knows so little of the real truth. for me the baron santos da granja a was simply a seasoned man of the world, with the good taste to have retired from its conspicuous notoriety; and good taste is always expensive. his bank account did not interest me. * * * * * i knew her well by sight, for she passed me often in the bois de boulogne when i ran up to paris on just such errands as my present one. she had given me thus now and then glimpses of her feverish life--gleams from the facets, since her success in paris was as brilliant as a diamond. occasionally i would meet her in the shaded alleys, but always in sight of her brougham, which kept pace with her whims at a safe but discreet distance. there was a rare perfection about her lithe, graceful person, an ease and subtlety of line, an allure which was satisfying--from her trim little feet gloved in suède, to the slender nape of her neck, from which sprang, back of the loveliest of little ears, the exquisite sheen of her blonde hair. there were mornings when she wore a faultless tailor-made of plain dark blue and carried a scarlet parasol, with its jewelled handle held in a firm little hand secreted in spotless white kid. i noticed, too, in passing that her eyes were deep violet and exceedingly alert, her features classic in their fineness. once i saw her smile, not at me, but at her fox terrier. it was then that i caught a glimpse of her young white teeth--pearly white in contrast to the freshness of her pink and olive skin, so clear that it seemed to be translucent, and she blushed easily, having lived but a score of springs all told. in the afternoon, when she drove in her brougham lined with dove-gray, the scarlet parasol was substituted by one of filmy, creamy lace, shading a gown of pale mauve or champagne colour. i had heard that she was passionately extravagant, that she seldom, if ever, won at the races--owned a little hotel with a carved façade in the avenue du bois, a villa at dinard, and three fluffy little dogs, who jingled their gold bells when they followed her. she dined at paillard's, sometimes at the café de la paix, rarely at maxim's; skated at the palais de glace on the most respectable afternoons--drank plain water--rolled her own cigarettes--and possessed a small jewel box full of emeralds, which she seldom wore. _voilà!_ a spoiled child for you! there were mornings, too, when, after her tub, as early as nine, she galloped away on her cob to the _bois_ for her coffee and hot _brioche_ at the pré catelan, a romantic little farm with a café and a stableful of mild-eyed cows that provide fresh milk to the weary at daylight, who are trying hard to turn over a new leaf before the next midnight. often she came there accompanied by her groom and the three little dogs with the jingling bells, who enjoyed the warm milk and the run back of the fleet hoofs of her saddle-horse. on this very morning--upon which opens the second act of my drama, i found her sitting at the next table to mine, chiding one of the jingling little dogs for his disobedience. "_eh ben! tu sais!_" she exclaimed suddenly, with a savage gleam in her eyes. i turned and gazed at her in astonishment. it was the first time i had heard her voice. it was her accent that made me stare. "_eh ben! tu sais!_" she repeated, in the patois of the normand peasant, lifting her riding crop in warning to the ball of fluff who had refused to get on his chair and was now wriggling in apology. "who is that lady?" i asked the old waiter emile, who was serving me. "madame is an austrian," he confided to me, bending his fat back as he poured my coffee. "austrian, eh! are you certain, emile?" "_parbleu_, monsieur" replied emile, "one is never certain of any one in paris. i only tell monsieur what i have heard. ah! it is very easy to be mistaken in paris, monsieur. take, for instance, the lady in deep mourning, with the two little girls, over there at the table under the lilac bush." "she is young to be a widow," i interposed, glancing discreetly in the direction he nodded. emile smiled faintly. "she is not a widow, monsieur," he returned, "neither is she as spanish as she looks; she is polish and dances at the folies parisiennes under the name of _la belle gueritta_ from seville." "but her children look french," i ventured. "they are the two little girls of her concierge, monsieur." emile's smile widened until it spread in merry wrinkles to the corners of his twinkling eyes. "in all that lace and velvet?" i exclaimed. "precisely, monsieur." "and why the deep mourning, emile?" "it is a pose, monsieur. one must invent novelties, eh? when one is as good-looking as that. besides, madame's reputation has not been of the best for some time. monsieur possibly remembers the little affair last year in the rue des mathurins? very well, it was she who extracted the hundred thousand francs from the marquis de villiers. madame now gives largely to charity and goes to mass." "blackmail, emile?" "of the worst kind, and so monsieur sees how easily one can be mistaken, is it not so? _sacristi!_ one never knows." "but are you certain you are not mistaken about your austrian, emile?" i ventured. he shrugged his shoulders as if in apology for his opinion, and i turned again to study his austrian. the noses of her little dogs with the jingling bells were now contentedly immersed in a bowl of milk. a moment later i saw her lift her clear violet eyes and catch sight of one of the milkers, who was trying to lead a balky cow through the court by a rope badly knotted over her horns. she was smiling as she sat watching the cow, who now refused to budge. the boy was losing his temper when she broke into a rippling laugh, rose, and going over to the unruly beast, unknotted the rope from her horns and, replacing it by two half hitches with the ease and skill of a sailor, handed the rope back to the boy. "there, you little stupid!" she exclaimed, "she will lead better now. _allez!_" she cried, giving the cow a sharp rap on her rump. "_allez! hup!_" a murmur of surprise escaped emile. "it is not the first time madame has done that trick," he remarked under his hand, as she crossed the courtyard to regain her chair. "she is normande," i declared, "i am certain of it by the way she said '_eh ben!_' and did you not notice her walk back to her table? erect, with the easy, quick step of a fisher girl? the same walk of the race of fisher girls who live in my village," i continued with enthusiastic decision. "there is no mistaking it; it is peculiar to pont du sable, and note, too, her _patois_!" "it is quite possible, monsieur," replied emile, "but it does not surprise me. one sees every one in paris. there are few _grandes dames_ left. when one has been a _garçon de café_, as i have, for over thirty years, one is surprised at nothing; not even----" the tap of a gold coin on the rim of a cold saucer interrupted our talk. the summons was from my lady who had conquered the cow. "_voilà_, madame!" cried emile, as he left me to hasten to her table, where he made the change, slipped the _pourboire_ she gave him into his alpaca pocket, and with a respectful, "_merci bien_, madame," drew back her chair as she rose and summoned her groom, who a moment later stood ready to help her mount. the next instant i saw her hastily withdraw her small foot from the hollow of his coarse hand, and wave to a passing horse and rider. the rider, whose features were half hidden under the turned-down brim of a panama, wheeled his horse, reined up before her, dismounted, threw his rein to her groom and bending, kissed her on both cheeks. she laughed; murmured something in his ear; the panama nodded in reply, then, slipping his arm under her own, the two entered the courtyard. there they were greeted by emile. "madame and i will breakfast here to-day, emile," said the voice beneath the panama. "the little table in the corner and the same pommard." he threw his riding crop on a vacant chair and, lifting his hat, handed it to the veteran waiter. it was the baron santos da granja! * * * * * hidden at the foot of a plateau skirting the desert marshes, two miles above my village of pont du sable, lies in ruins all that remains of the deserted village known as la poche. it is well named "the pocket," since for years it served as a safe receptacle for itinerant beggars and fugitives from justice who found an ideal retreat among its limestone quarries, which, being long abandoned, provided holes in the steep hillside for certain vagabonds, who paid neither taxes to the government, nor heed to its law. there is an old cattle trail that leads to la poche, crossed now and then by overgrown paths, that wind up through a labyrinth of briers, rank ferns and matted growth to the plateau spreading back from the hillside. i use this path often as a short cut home. one evening i had shot late on the marshes and started for home by way of la poche. it was bright moonlight when i reached a trail new to me and approached the deserted village by way of a tangled, overgrown road. the wind had gone down with the rising of the moon, and the intense stillness of the place was such that i could hear about me in the tangle the lifting of a trampled weed and the moving of the insects as my boots disturbed them. the silence was uncanny. under the brilliancy of the moon all things gleamed clear in a mystic light, their shadows as black as the sunken pits of a cave. i pushed on through the matted growth, with the collar of my leather coat buttoned up, my cap pulled down, and my hands thrust in my sleeves, hugging my gun under my arm, for the briars made tough going. presently, i got free of the tangle and out to a grassy stretch of road, once part of the river bed. here and there emerged, from the matted tangle of the hillside flanking it, the ruins of la poche. often only a single wall or a tottering chimney remained silhouetted against the skeleton of a gabled roof; its rafters stripped of tiles, gleaming in the moonlight like the ribs and breastbone of a carcass. if la poche is a place to be shunned by day--at night it becomes terrible; it seems to breathe the hidden viciousness of its past, as if its ruins were the tombs of its bygone criminals. i kept on the road, passed another carcass and drew abreast of a third, which i stepped out of the road to examine. both its floors had long before i was born dropped into its cellar; its threshold beneath my feet was slippery with green slime; i looked up through its ribs, from which hung festoons of cobwebs and dead vines, like shreds of dried flesh hanging from a skeleton. still pursuing my way, i came across an old well; the bucket was drawn up and its chain wet; it was the first sign of habitation i had come across. as my hand touched the windlass, i instinctively gave it a turn; it creaked dismally and a dog barked savagely at the sound from somewhere up the hillside; then the sharp, snappy yelping of other dogs higher up followed. i stopped, felt in my pockets and slipped two shells into my gun, heavily loaded for duck, with the feeling that if i were forced to shoot i would hold high over their heads. as i closed the breech of my gun and clicked back my hammers to be ready for any emergency, the tall figure of a man loomed up in the grassy road ahead of me, his legs in a ray of moonlight, the rest of him in shadow. "does this road lead out to the main road?" i called to him, not being any too sure that it did. "who is there?" he demanded sharply and in perfect french; then he advanced and i saw that the heavy stick he carried with a firm grip was mounted in silver. "a hunter, monsieur," i returned pleasantly, noticing now his dress and bearing. it was so dark where we stood, that i could not yet distinguish his features. "may i ask you, monsieur, whom i have the pleasure of meeting," i ventured, my mind now more at rest. he strode toward me. "my name is de brissac," said he, extending his hand. "forgive me," he added with a good-natured laugh, "if i startled you; it is hardly the place to meet a gentleman in at this hour. have you missed your way?" "no," i replied, "i shot late and took a short cut to reach my home." i pointed in the direction of the marshes while i searched his face which was still shrouded in gloom, in my effort to see what manner of man i had run across. "and have you had good luck?" he inquired with a certain meaning in his voice, as if he was still in doubt regarding my trespass. "not worth speaking of," i returned in as calm a voice as i could muster; "the birds are mostly gone. and do you shoot also, may i ask?" "it is an incorrigible habit with me," he confessed in a more reassured tone. "i have, however, not done so badly of late with the birds; i killed seventeen plovers this morning--a fine lot." here his tone changed. all his former reserve had vanished. "come with me," said he; "i insist; i'll show you what i killed; they make a pretty string, i assure you. you shall see, too, presently, my house; it is the one with the new roof. do you happen to have seen it?" this came with a certain note of seriousness in his voice. "no, but i am certain it must be a luxury in the débris," i laughed; "but," i added, "i am afraid i must postpone the pleasure until another time." i was still undecided as to my course. again his tone changed to one of extreme courtesy, as if he had been quick to notice my hesitation. "i know it is late," said he, "but i must insist on your accepting my hospitality. the main road lies at the end of the plateau, and i will see you safely out to it and on your way home." i paused before answering. under the circumstances, i knew, i could not very well refuse, and yet i had a certain dread of accepting too easily. in france such refusals are sometimes considered as insults. "thank you," i said at last, resolved to see the adventure out; "i accept with pleasure," adding with a laugh and speaking to his shadowy bulk, for i could not yet see his face: "what silent mystery, what an uncanny fascination this place has about it! even our meeting seems part of it. don't you think so?" "yes, there is a peculiar charm here," he replied, in a more cautious tone as he led me into a narrow trail, "a charm that has taken hold of me, so that i bury myself here occasionally; it is a rest from paris." from paris, eh? i thought--then he does not belong to the coast. i edged nearer, determined now to catch a glimpse of his features, the light of the moon having grown stronger. as he turned, its rays illumined his face and at the same instant a curious gleam flashed into his eyes. again the baron da granja stood before me. da granja! the rich brazilian! president of one of the biggest foreign banks in paris. man of the world, with a string of horses famous for years on a dozen race tracks. what the devil was he doing here? had the cares of his bank driven him to such a lonely hermitage as la poche? it seemed incredible, and yet there was not the slightest doubt as to his identity--i had seen him too often to be mistaken. his voice, too, now came back to me. he strode on, and for some minutes kept silent, then he stopped suddenly and in a voice in which the old doubting tones were again audible said: "you are english?" here he barred the path. "no," i answered, a little ill at ease at his sudden change of manner. "american, from new york." "and yet, i think i have seen you in paris," he replied, after a moment's hesitation, his eyes boring into mine, which the light of the moon now made clear to him. "it is quite possible," i returned calmly; "i think i have seen you also, monsieur; i am often in paris." again he looked at me searchingly. "where?" he asked. "at the government's store, buying cigars." i did not intend to go any further. he smiled as if relieved. he had been either trying to place me, or his suspicions had been again aroused, i could not tell which. one thing was certain: he was convinced i had swallowed the name "de brissac" easily. all at once his genial manner returned. "this way, to the right," he exclaimed. "pardon me if i lead the way; the path is winding. my ruin, as i sometimes call it, is only a little farther up, and you shall have a long whiskey and siphon when you get there. you know pont du sable, of course," he continued as i kept in his tracks; the talk having again turned on his love of sport. "somewhat. i live there." this time the surprise was his. "is it possible?" he cried, laying his hand on my shoulder, his face alight. "yes, my house is the once-abandoned one with the wall down by the marsh." "ah!" he burst out, "so you are _the_ american, the newcomer, the man i have heard so much about, the man who is always shooting; and how the devil, may i ask, did you come to settle in pont du sable?" "well, you see, every one said it was such a wretched hole that i felt there must be some good in it. i have found it charming, and with the shooting it has become an old friend. i am glad also to find that you like it well enough to (it was i who hesitated now) to visit it." "yes, to shoot is always a relief," he answered evasively, and then in a more determined voice added, "this way, to the right, over the rocks! come, give me your gun! the stones are slippery." "no, i will carry it," i replied. "i am used to carrying it," and though my voice did not betray me, i proposed to continue to carry it. it was at least a protection against a walking stick with a silver top. my mind being still occupied with his suspicions, his inquiries, and most of all his persistence that i should visit his house, with no other object in view than a whiskey and siphon and a string of plovers. and yet, despite the gruesomeness of the surroundings, while alert as to his slightest move, i was determined to see the adventure through. he did not insist, but turned sharply to the left, and the next instant i stood before the threshold of a low stone house with a new tiled roof. a squat, snug house, the eaves of whose steep gabled roof came down well over its two stories, like the snuffer on a candle. he stepped to the threshold, felt about the door as if in search for a latch, and rapped three times with the flat of his hand. then he called softly: "léa!" "_c'est toi?_" came in answer, and a small hand cautiously opened a heavy overhead shutter, back of which a shaded lamp was burning. "yes, it is all right, it is i," said he. "come down! i have a surprise for you. i have captured an american." there came the sound of tripping feet, the quick drawing of a heavy bolt, and the door opened. my little lady of the pré catelan! not in a tea-gown from the rue de la paix--nothing of that kind whatever; not a ruffle, not a jewel--but clothed in the well-worn garment of a fisher girl of the coast--a coarse homespun chemise of linen, open at the throat, and a still coarser petticoat of blue, faded by the salt sea--a fisher girl's petticoat that stopped at her knees, showing her trim bare legs and the white insteps of her little feet, incased in a pair of heelless felt slippers. for the second time i was treated to a surprise. really, pont du sable was not so dead a village after all. emile was wrong. she was one of my village people. my host did not notice my astonishment, but waved his hand courteously. "_entrez_, monsieur!" he cried with a laugh, and then, turning sharply, he closed the door and bolted it. i looked about me. we were in a rough little room, that would have won any hunter's heart; there were solid racks, heavy with guns, on the walls, a snapping wood fire, and a clean table, laid for dinner, and lastly, the chair quickly drawn to it for the waiting guest. this last they laughingly forced me into, for they both insisted i should dine with them--an invitation which i gladly accepted, for my fears were now completely allayed. we talked of the neighbourhood, of hunting, of paris, of the new play at the nouveautés--i did not mention the bois. one rarely mentions in france having seen a woman out of her own home, although i was sure she remembered me from a look which now and then came into her eyes that left but little doubt in my mind that she vaguely recalled the incident at the pré catelan with the cow. it was a simple peasant dinner which followed. when it was over, he went to a corner cupboard and drew forth a flat box of long perfectos, which i recognized instantly as the same brand of rare havanas he had so extravagantly purchased from the government. if i had had my doubt as to the identity of my man it was at rest now. "you will find them mild," said he with a smile, as he lifted the tinfoil cover. "no good cigar is strong," i replied, breaking the untouched row and bending my head as my host struck a match, my mind more on the scene in the government's shop than the quality of his tobacco. and yet with all the charm that the atmosphere of his place afforded, two things still seemed to me strange--the absence of a servant, until i realized instinctively the incident of the balky cow, and the prompt bolting of the outside door. the first i explained to myself as being due to her peasant blood and her ability to help herself; the second to the loneliness of the place and the characters it sometimes harboured. as for my host, i had to admit, despite my mental queries, that his bearing and manner completely captivated me, for a more delightful conversationalist it would have been difficult to find. not only did he know the art of eliminating himself and amusing you with topics that pleased you, but his cleverness in avoiding the personal was amazingly skilful. his tact was especially accentuated when, with a significant look at his companion, who at once rose from her seat and, crossing the room, busied herself with choosing the liqueurs from a closet in the corner of the room, he drew me aside by the fire, and in a calm, sotto voce said with intense earnestness: "you may think it strange, monsieur, that i invited you, that i was even insistent. you, like myself, are a man of the world and can understand. you will do me a great favour if you will not mention to any one having met either myself or my little housekeeper" (there was not a tremor in his voice), "who, as you see, is a peasant; in fact, she was born here. we are not bothered with either friends or acquaintances here, nor do we care for prowlers; you must excuse me for at first taking you for one. you, of course, know the reputation of la poche." "you could not have chosen a better place to be lost in," i answered, smiling as discreetly as one should over the confession of another's love affair. "moreover, in life i have found it the best policy to keep one's mouth shut. you have my word, monsieur--it is as if we had never met--as if la poche did not exist." "thank you," said he calmly, taking the tiny liqueur glasses from her hands; "what will you have--cognac or green chartreuse?" "chartreuse," i answered quietly. my eye had caught the labels which i knew to be genuine from the grenoble printer. "ah! you knew it--_dieu!_ but it is good, that old chartreuse!" exclaimed my hostess with a rippling laugh as she filled my glass, "we are lucky to find it." then something happened which even now sends a cold chill down my spine. hardly had i raised my glass to my lips when there came a sharp, determined rap at the bolted door, and my host sprang to his feet. for a moment no one spoke--i turned instinctively to look at my lady of the pré catelan. she was breathing with dilated eyes, her lips drawn and quivering, every muscle of her lithe body trembling. he was standing erect, his head thrown back, his whole body tense. one hand gripped the back of his chair, the other was outstretched authoritatively toward us as if to command our silence. again the rapping, this time violent, insistent. "who is there?" he demanded, after what seemed to me an interminable moment of suspense. with this he slipped swiftly through a door leading into a narrow corridor, closed another door at the end of the passage, broke the key in the lock and returned on tiptoe as noiselessly as he left the room. then picking up the lamp he placed it under the table, thus deadening its glow. now a voice rang out, "open in the name of the law." no one moved. he again gripped the back of the chair, his face deathly white, his jaw set, his eyes with a sullen gleam in them. i turned to look at her. her hands were outstretched on the table, her dilated eyes staring straight at the bolt as if her whole life depended on its strength. again came the command to open, this time in a voice that allowed no question as to the determination of the outsider: "open in the name of the law." no one moved or answered. a crashing thud, from a heavy beam, snapped the bolt from its screws, another blow tore loose the door. through the opening and over the débris sprang a short, broad-shouldered man in a gray suit, while three other heavily built men entered, barring the exit. the woman screamed and fell forward on the table, her head buried in her clenched hands. the baron faced the one in gray. "what do you want?" he stammered in the voice of a ghost. "you, pedro maceiö," said the man in the gray suit, in a low, even tone, "for the last trick you will pull off in some years; open up things, do you hear? all of it, and quick." the brazilian did not reply; he stood behind his chair, eyeing sullenly the man in gray, who now held a revolver at a level with his heart. then the man in gray called to one of his men, his eye still on the banker. "break in the door at the end of the passage." with the quickness of a cat, the brazilian grabbed the chair and with a swinging blow tried to fell his assailant and dash past him. the man in gray dodged and pocketed his weapon. the next instant he had his prisoner by the throat and had slammed him against the wall; then came the sharp click of a pair of handcuffs. the banker tripped and fell to the floor. it had all happened so quickly that i was dazed as i looked on. what it was all about i did not know. it seemed impossible that my host, a man whose bank was well known in paris, was really a criminal. were the intruders from the police? or was it a clever ruse of four determined burglars? i began now to gather my wits and think of myself, although so far not one of the intruders had taken the slightest notice of my presence. one of the men was occupied in breaking open the door at the end of the corridor, while another stood guard over the now sobbing, hysterical woman. the fourth had remained at the open doorway. as for the prisoner, who had now regained his feet, he had sunk into the chair he had used in defence and sat there staring at the floor, breathing in short gasps. the man who had been ordered by his chief to break open the door at the end of the corridor, now returned and laid upon the dinner table two engraved metal plates, and a handful of new one-hundred-franc notes; some i noticed from where i sat were blank on one side. with the plates came the acrid stench of a broken bottle of acid. "my god! counterfeiting!" i exclaimed half aloud. the baron rose from his seat and stretched out his linked hands. "she is innocent," he pleaded huskily, lifting his eyes to the woman. i could not repress a feeling of profound pity for him. the man in gray made no reply; instead he turned to me. "i shall escort you, too, monsieur," he remarked coolly. "escort me? _me?_ what have i got to do with it, i'd like to know?" i cried, springing to my feet. "i wish to explain--to make clear to you--_clear_. i want you to understand that i stumbled here by the merest chance; that i never spoke to this man in my life until to-night, that i accepted his hospitality purely because i did not wish to offend him, although i had shot late and was in a hurry to get home." he smiled quietly. "please do not worry," he returned, "we know all about you. you are the american. your house is the old one by the marsh in pont du sable. i called on you this afternoon, but you were absent. i am really indebted to you if you do but know it. by following your tracks, monsieur, we stumbled on the nest we have so long been looking for. permit me to hand you my card. my name is guinard--sous chief of the paris police." i breathed easier--things were clearing up. "and may i ask, monsieur, how you knew i had gone in the direction of la poche?" i inquired. that was still a mystery. "you have a little maid," he replied; "and little maids can sometimes be made to talk." he paused and then said slowly, weighing each word. "yes, that no doubt surprises you, but we follow every clue. you were both sportsmen; that, as you know, monsieur, is always a bond, and we had not long to wait, although it was too dark for us to be quite sure when you both passed me. it was the bolting of the door that clinched the matter for me. but for the absence of two of my men on another scent we should have disturbed you earlier. i must compliment you, monsieur, on your knowledge of chartreuse as well as your taste for good cigars; permit me to offer you another." here he slipped his hand into his pocket and handed me a duplicate of the one i had been smoking. "twelve boxes, maceiö, were there not? not expensive, eh, when purchased with these?" and he spread out the identical bank-notes with which his prisoner had paid for them in the government store on the boulevard. "as for you, monsieur, it is only necessary that one of my men take your statement at your house; after that you are free. "come, maceiö," and he shook the prisoner by the shoulder, "you take the midnight train with me back to paris--you too, madame." * * * * * and so i say again, and this time you must agree with me, that strange happenings, often with a note of terror in them, occur now and then in my lost village by the sea. [illustration: cigar] * * * * * [illustration: soldiers] chapter seven the horrors of war at the very beginning of the straggling fishing-village of pont du sable and close by the tawny marsh stands the little stone house of the mayor. the house, like monsieur le maire himself, is short and sturdy. its modest façade is half hidden under a coverlet of yellow roses that have spread at random over the tiled roof as high as the chimney. in front, edging the road, is a tidy strip of garden with more roses, a wood-pile, and an ancient well whose stone roof shelters a worn windlass that groans in protest whenever its chain and bucket are disturbed. i heard the windlass complaining this sunny morning as i passed on my way through the village and caught sight of the ruddy mayor in his blue blouse lowering the bucket. the chain snapped taut, the bucket gulped its fill, and monsieur le maire caught sight of me. "_ah bigre!_" he exclaimed as he left the bucket where it hung and came forward with both hands outstretched in welcome, a smile wrinkling his genial face, clean-shaven to the edges of his short, cropped gray side-whiskers, reaching well beneath his chin. "come in, come in," he insisted, laying a persuasive hand on my shoulder, as he unlatched his gate. it is almost impossible for a friend to pass the mayor's without being stopped by just such a welcome. the twinkle in his eyes and the hearty genuineness of his greeting are irresistible. the next moment you have crossed his threshold and entered a square, low-ceiled room that for over forty years has served monsieur le maire as living room, kitchen, and executive chamber. he had left me for a moment, as he always does when he welcomes a friend. i could hear from the pantry cupboard beyond the shivery tinkle of glasses as they settled on a tray. he had again insisted, as he always does, upon my occupying the armchair in the small parlour adjoining, with its wax flowers and its steel engraving of napoleon at waterloo; but i had protested as i always do, for i prefer the kitchen. i like its cavernous fireplace with its crane and spit, and the low ceiling upheld by great beams of rough-hewn oak, and the tall clock in the corner, and the hanging copper saucepans, kettles and ladles, kept as bright as polished gold. here, too, is a generous norman armoire with carved oaken doors swung on bar-hinges of shining steel, and a centre-table provided with a small bottle of violet ink, a scratchy pen and an iron seal worked by a lever--a seal that has grown dull from long service in the stamping of certain documents relative to plain justice, marriage, the official recognition of the recently departed and the newly born. above the fireplace hangs a faded photograph of a prize bull, for you must know that monsieur le maire has been for half a generation a dealer in norman cattle. presently he returned with the tray, placing it upon the table within reach of our chairs while i stood admiring the bull. he stopped as he half drew the cork from a fat brown jug, and looked at me curiously, his voice sinking almost to a whisper. "you never were a dealer in beef?" he ventured timidly. i shook my head sadly. "_hélas! hélas!_ never mind," said he. "one cannot be everything. there's my brother-in-law, péquin; he does not know a yearling from a three-year-old. it is he who keeps the little store at saint philippe." the cork squeaked out. he filled the thimble glasses with rare old applejack so skilfully that another drop would have flushed over their worn gilt rims. what a gracious old gentleman he is! if it be a question of clipping a rose from his tidy garden and presenting it to a lady, he does it with such a gentle courtliness that the rose smells the sweeter for it--almost a lost art nowadays. "i saw the curé this morning," he remarked, as we settled ourselves for a chat. "he could not stop, but he waved me an _au revoir_, for he was in a hurry to catch his train. he had been all night in his duck-blind--i doubt if he had much luck, for the wind is from the south. there is a fellow for you who loves to shoot," chuckled the mayor. "some news for him of game?" i inquired. the small eyes of the mayor twinkled knowingly. "_entre nous_," he confided, "he has gone to bonvilette to spray the sick roses of a friend with sulphate of iron--he borrowed my squirt-gun yesterday." "and how far is it to bonvilette?" "_eh ben!_ one must go by the little train to nivelle," explained monsieur le maire, "and from nivelle to bonvilette there lies a good twenty kilometres for a horse. let us say he will be back in three days." "and the mass meanwhile?" i ventured. "_mon dieu!_ what will you have? the roses of his old friend are sick. it is the duty of a curé to tend the sick. besides----" here monsieur le maire leaned forward within reach of my ear, and i caught in whispers something relative to a château and one of the best cellars of bordeaux in france. "naturally," i replied, with a wink, and again my eyes reverted to the prize bull. it is not wise to raise one's voice in so small a village as pont du sable, even indoors. "a pretty beast!" affirmed the mayor, noticing my continued interest in live stock. "and let me tell you that i took him to england in 'eighty-two. _ah, mais oui! hélas! hélas!_ what a trip!" he sighed. "monsieur toupinet--he that has the big farm at saint philippe--and i sailed together the third of october, in , with forty steers. our ship was called _the souvenir_, and i want to tell you, my friend, it wasn't gay, that voyage. _ah, mais non!_ toupinet was sea-sick--i was sea-sick--the steers were sea-sick--all except that _sacré_ brute up there, and he roared all the way from calais to london. _eh ben!_ and would you believe it?" at the approaching statement monsieur le maire's countenance assumed a look of righteous indignation. he raised his fist and brought it down savagely on the table as he declared: "would you believe it? we were _thirty-four hours_ without eating and _twenty-nine hours, mon dieu!_ without drinking!" i looked up in pained astonishment. "and that wasn't all," continued the mayor. "a hurricane struck us three hours out, and we rolled all night in a dog's sea. the steers were up to their bellies in water. aye, but she did blow, and _the souvenir_ had all she could do to keep afloat. the captain was lashed to the bridge all night and most of the next day. neither toupinet nor myself ever expected to see land again, and there we were like calves in a pen on the floor of the cabin full of tobacco-smoke and english, and not a word of english could we speak except 'yes' and 'good morning.'" here monsieur le maire stopped and choked. finally he dried his eyes on the sleeve of his blouse, for he was wheezing with laughter, took a sip from his glass, and resumed: "well, the saints did not desert us. _ah, mais non!_ for about four o'clock in the afternoon the captain sighted su-tum-tum." "sighted what?" i exclaimed. "_eh ben!_ su-tum-tum," he replied. "where had you drifted? to the corean coast?" "_mais non_," he retorted, annoyed at my dullness to comprehend. "we were saved--_comprenez-vous?_--for there, to starboard, lay su-tum-tum as plain as a sheep's nose." "england? impossible!" i returned. "_mais parfaitement!_" he declared, with a hopeless gesture. "_su-tum-tum_," he reiterated slowly for my benefit. "never heard of it," i replied. the next instant he was out of his chair, and fumbling in a drawer of the table extracted a warped atlas, reseated himself, and began to turn the pages. "_eh, voilà!_" he cried as his forefinger stopped under a word along the english coast. "that's su-tum-tum plain enough, isn't it?" "ah! southampton!" i exclaimed. "of course--plain as day." "ah!" ejaculated the mayor, leaning back in his chair with a broad smile of satisfaction. "you see, i was right, su-tum-tum. _eh ben!_ do you know," he said gently as i left him, "when you first came to pont du sable there were times then, my poor friend, when i could not understand a word you said in french." then, as if a sudden thought had struck him, he called me back as he closed the gate. "are those gipsies still camped outside your wall?" he inquired, suddenly assuming the dignity of his office. "_bon dieu!_ they are a bad lot, those vagabonds! if i don't tell them to be off you won't have a duck or a chicken left." "let them stay," i pleaded, "they do no harm. besides, i like to see the light of their camp-fire at night scurrying over my wall." "how many are there?" inquired his excellency. "seven or eight, not counting the dogs chained under the wagons," i confessed reluctantly, fearing the hand of the law, for i have a fondness for gipsies. "but you need not worry about them. they won't steal from me. their wagons are clean inside and out." "_ah, mais!_" sighed the mayor. "it's just like you. you spoil your cat, you spoil your dog, and now you're spoiling these rascals by giving them a snug berth. have they their papers of identity?" "yes," i called back, "the chief showed them to me when he asked permission to camp." "of course," laughed the mayor. "you'll never catch them without them--signed by officials we never can trace." he waved me a cheery _au revoir_ and returned to the well of the groaning windlass while i continued on my way through the village. outside the squat stone houses, nets were drying in the sun. save for the occasional rattle of a passing cart, the village was silent, for these fisher-folk go barefooted. presently i reached the public square, where nothing ever happens, and, turning an iron handle, entered pont du sable's only store. a box of a place, smelling of dried herring, kerosene, and cheese; and stocked with the plain necessities--almost everything, from lard, tea, and big nails to soap, tarpaulins, and applejack. the night's catch of mackerel had been good, and the small room with its zinc bar was noisy with fisher-folk--wiry fishermen with legs and chests as hard as iron; slim brown fisher girls as hardy as the men, capricious, independent and saucy; a race of blonds for the most part, with the temperament of brunettes. old women grown gray and leathery from fighting the sea, and old men too feeble to go--one of these hung himself last winter because of this. it was here, too, i found marianne, dripping wet, in her tarpaulins. "what luck?" i asked her as i helped myself to a package of cigarettes from a pigeonhole and laid the payment thereof on the counter. "_eh ben!_" she laughed. "we can't complain. if the good god would send us such fishing every night we should eat well enough." she strode through the group to the counter to thrust out an empty bottle. "eight sous of the best," she demanded briskly of the mild-eyed grocer. "my man's as wet as a rat--he needs some fire in him and he'll feel as fit as a marquis." a good catch is a tonic to pont du sable. instantly a spirit of good humour and camaraderie spreads through the village--even old scores are forgotten. a good haul of mackerel means a let-up in the daily struggle for existence, which in winter becomes terrible. the sea knows not charity. it massacres when it can and adds you to the line of dead things along its edge where you are only remembered by the ebb and flow of the tide. on blue calm mornings, being part of the jetsam, you may glisten in the sun beside a water-logged spar; at night you become a nonentity, of no more consequence along the wavering line of drift than a rotten gull. but if, like marianne, you have fought skilfully, you may again enter pont du sable with a quicker eye, a harder body, and a deeper knowledge of the southwest gale. * * * * * within the last week pont du sable has undergone a transformation. the dead village is alive with soldiers, for it is the time of the manoeuvres. houses, barns and cow-sheds are filled by night with the red-trousered infantry of the french _république_. by day, the window panes shiver under the distant flash and roar of artillery. the air vibrates with the rip and rattle of musketry--savage volleys, filling the heavens with shrill, vicious waves of whistling bullets that kill at a miraculous distance. it is well that all this murderous fire occurs beyond the desert of dunes skirting the open sea, for they say the result upon the iron targets on the marsh is something frightful. the general in command is in a good humour over the record. despatch-bearers gallop at all hours of the day and night through pont du sable's single street. the band plays daily in the public square. sunburned soldiers lug sacks of provisions and bundles of straw out to five hundred more men bivouacked on the dunes. whole regiments return to the little fishing-village at twilight singing gay songs, followed by the fisher girls. ah! mesdames--voilà du bon fromage! celui qui l'a fait il est de son village! voilà du bon fromage au lait! il est du pays de celui qui l'a fait. three young officers are stopping at monsieur le curé's, who has returned from the sick roses of his friend; and tanrade has a colonel and two lieutenants beneath his roof. as for myself and the house abandoned by the marsh, we are very much occupied with a blustering old general, his aide-de-camp, and two common soldiers; but i tremble lest the general should discover the latter two, for you see, they knocked at my door for a lodging before the general arrived, and i could not refuse them. both of them put together would hardly make a full-sized warrior, and both play the slide-trombone in the band. naturally their artistic temperament revolted at the idea of sleeping in the only available place left in the village--a cow-shed with cows. they explained this to me with so many polite gestures, mingled with an occasional salute at their assured gratefulness should i acquiesce, that i turned them over for safe keeping to suzette, who has given them her room and sleeps in the garret. suzette is overjoyed. dream of dreams! for suzette to have one real live soldier in the house--but to have two! both of these red-eared, red-trousered dispensers of harmony are perfect in deportment, and as quiet as mice. they slip out of my back gate at daylight, bound for the seat of war and slip in again at sundown like obedient children, talk in kitchen whispers to suzette over hot cakes and cider, and go punctually to bed at nine--the very hour when the roaring old general and his aide-de-camp are toasting their gold spurs before my fire. * * * * * the general is tall and broad-shouldered, and as agile as a boy. there is a certain hard, compact firmness about him as if he had been cast in bronze. his alert eyes are either flashing in authority or beaming in gentleness. the same play between dominant roughness and tenderness is true, too, of his voice and manner. "madame," he said, last night, after dinner, as he bent and graciously kissed alice de bréville's hand, "forgive an old savage who pays you homage and the assurance of his profound respect." the next moment my courtyard without rocked with his reprimand to a bungling lieutenant. to-night the general is in an uproar of good humour after a storm, for did not some vagabonds steal the danger-posts intended to warn the public of the location of the firing-line, so that new ones had to be sent for? when the news of the theft reached him his rage was something to behold. i could almost hear the little slide-trombonists shake as far back as suzette's kitchen. fortunately, the cyclone was of short duration--to-night he is pleased over the good work of his men during the days of mock warfare and at the riddled, twisted targets, all of which is child's play to this veteran who has weathered so many real battles. to-night he has dined well, and his big hand is stroking the essence of selfishness who purrs against his medalled chest under a caress as gentle as a woman's. he sings his favourite airs from "faust" and "aïda" with gusto, and roars over the gallant stories of his aide-de-camp, who, being from the south of _la belle france_, is never at a loss for a tale--tales that make the general's medals twinkle merrily in the firelight. it is my first joyful experience as host to the military, but i cannot help being nervous over suzette and the trombonists. "bah! those _sacré_ musicians!" exclaimed the general to-night as he puffed at his cigarette. "if there's a laggard in my camp, you may be sure it is one of those little devils with a horn or a whistle. _mon dieu!_ once during the manoeuvres outside of périgord i found three of them who refused to sleep on the ground--stole off and begged a lodging in a château, _parbleu!_" "ah--indeed?" i stammered meekly. "yes, they did," he bellowed, "but i cured them." i saw the muscles in his neck flush crimson, and tried to change the subject, but in vain. "if they do that in time of peace, they'll do the same in war," he thundered. "naturally," i murmured, my heart in my throat. the aide-de-camp grunted his approval while the general ran his hand over the gray bristles on his scarred head. "favours!" roared the general. "favours, eh? when my men sleep on the ground in rough weather, i sleep with them. what sort of discipline do you suppose i'd have if i did not share their hardships time and time again? winter campaigns, forced marches--twenty-four hours of it sometimes in mountain snow. bah! that is nothing! they need that training to go through worse, and yet those good fellows of mine, heavily loaded, never complain. i've seen it so hot, too, that it would melt a man's boots. it is always one of those imbeciles, then, with nothing heavier to carry than a clarinet, who slips off to a comfortable farm." "_bien entendu, mon général!_" agreed his aide-de-camp tersely as he leaned forward and kindled a fresh cigarette over the candle-shade. happily i noticed at that moment that the cigarette-box needed replenishing. it was an excuse at least to leave the room. a moment later i had tiptoed to the closed kitchen door and stood listening. suzette was laughing. the trombonists were evidently very much at ease. they, too, were laughing. little pleasantries filtered through the crack in the heavy door that made me hold my breath. then i heard the gurgle of cider poured into a glass, followed swiftly by what i took to be unmistakably a kiss. it was all as plain now as su-tum-tum. i dared not break in upon them. had i opened the door, the general might have recognized their voices. meanwhile, silly nothings were demoralizing the heart of my good suzette. she would fall desperately in love with either one or the other of those _sacré_ virtuosos. then another thought struck me! one of them might be suzette's sweetheart, hailing from her own village, the manoeuvres at pont du sable a lucky meeting for them. a few sentences that i now hurriedly caught convinced me of my own denseness in not having my suspicions aroused when they singled out my domain and begged my hospitality. the situation was becoming critical. by the light of the crack i scribbled the following: "get those two imbeciles of yours hidden in the hay-loft, quick. the general wants to see the kitchen," and slipped it under the door, coughing gently in warning. there was an abrupt silence--the sound of suzette's slippered feet--and the scrap of paper disappeared. then heavy, excited breathing within. i dashed upstairs and was down again with the cigarettes before the general had remarked my tardiness to his aide. at midnight i lighted their candles and saw them safely up to bed. then i went to my room fronting the marsh and breathed easier. "her sweetheart from her own village," i said to myself as i blew out my candle. "the other"--i sighed drowsily--"was evidently his cousin. the mayor was right. i have a bad habit of spoiling people and pets." then again my mind reverted to the general. what if he discovered them? my only consolation now was that to-day had seen the end of the manoeuvres, and the soldiers would depart by a daylight train in the morning. i recalled, too, the awkward little speech of thanks for my hospitality the trombonists had made to me at an opportune moment before dinner. finally i fell into a troubled sleep. suzette brought me my coffee at seven. "luckily the general did not discover them!" i exclaimed when suzette had closed the double door of my bedroom. "_mon dieu!_ what danger we have run!" whispered the little maid. "i could not sleep, monsieur, thinking of it." "you got them safely to the haymow?" i inquired anxiously. "oh! _mais oui_, monsieur. but then they slept over the cider-press back of the big casks. monsieur advised the hay-loft, but they said the roof leaked. and had it rained, monsieur--" "see here," i interrupted, eyeing her trim self from head to foot savagely. "you've known that little devil with the red ears before." i saw suzette pale. "confess!" i exclaimed hoarsely, with a military gesture of impatience. "he comes from your village. is it not so, my child?" suzette was silent, her plump hands twisting nervously at her apron pocket. "i am right, am i not? i might have guessed as much when they came." "oh, monsieur!" suzette faltered, the tears welling up from the depths of her clear trustful eyes. "is it not so?" i insisted. "oh! oh! _mon dieu, oui_," she confessed half audibly. "he--he is the son of our neighbor, monsieur jacot." "at saint philippe?" "at saint philippe, monsieur. we were children together, gaston and i. i--i--was glad to see him again, monsieur," sobbed the little maid. "he is very nice, gaston." "when are you to be married?" i ventured after a moment's pause. "_ben--eh ben!_ in two years, monsieur--after gaston finishes his military service. he--has a good trade, monsieur." "soloist?" i asked grimly. "no, monsieur--tailor for ladies. we shall live in paris," she added, and for an instant her eyes sparkled; then again their gaze reverted to the now sadly twisted apron pocket, for i was silent. "no more suzette then!" i said to myself. no more merry, willing little maid-of-all-work! no more hot mussels steaming in a savory sauce! her purée of peas, her tomato farcies, the stuffed artichokes, and her coffee the like of which never before existed, would vanish with the rest. but true love cannot be argued. there was nothing to do but to hold out my hand in forgiveness. as i did so the general rang for his coffee. "_mon dieu!_" gasped suzette. "he rings." and flew down to her kitchen. an hour later the general was sauntering leisurely up the road through the village over his morning cigar. the daylight train, followed rapidly by four extra sections, had cleared pont du sable of all but two of the red-trousered infantry--my trombonists! they had arrived an hour and twenty minutes late, winded and demoralized. they sat together outside the locked station unable to speak, pale and panic-stricken. the first object that caught the general's eye as he slowly turned into the square by the little station was their four red-trousered legs--then he caught the glint of their two brass trombones. the next instant heads appeared at the windows. it was as if a bomb had suddenly exploded in the square. the two trombonists were now on their feet, shaking from head to foot while they saluted their general, whose ever-approaching stride struck fresh agony to their hearts. he was roaring: "_canailles! imbéciles!_ a month of prison!" and "_sacré bon dieu's!_" were all jumbled together. "overslept! overslept, did you?" he bellowed. "in a château, i'll wager. _parbleu!_ where then? out with it!" "_pardon, mon général!_" chattered gaston. "it was in the stone house of the american gentleman by the marsh." * * * * * we lunched together in my garden at noon. he had grown calm again under the spell of the burgundy, but suzette, i feared, would be ill. "come, be merciful," i pleaded. "he is the fiancé of my good suzette; besides, you must not forget that you were all my guests." the general shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "they were lucky to have gotten off with a month!" he snapped. "you saw that those little devils were handcuffed?" he asked of his aide. "yes, my general, the gendarme attended to them." "you were my guests," i insisted. "hold me responsible if you wish." "hold _you_ responsible!" he exclaimed. "but you are a foreigner--it would be a little awkward." "it is my good suzette," i continued, "that i am thinking of." he leaned back in his chair, and for a moment again ran his hands thoughtfully over the bristles of his scarred head. he had a daughter of his own. "the coffee," i said gently to my unhappy suzette as she passed. "_oui! oui_, monsieur," she sighed, then suddenly mustering up her courage, she gasped: "_oh, mon général!_ is it true, then, that gaston must go to jail? _ah! mon dieu!_" "_eh bien_, my girl! it will not kill him, _sapristi!_ he will be a better soldier for it." "be merciful," i pleaded. "_eh bien! eh bien!_" he retorted. "_eh bien!_" and cleared his throat. "forgive them," i insisted. "they overslept. i don't want suzette to marry a jail-bird." again he scratched his head and frowned. suzette was in tears. "um! difficult!" he grumbled. "order for arrest once given--" then he shot a glance at me. i caught a twinkle in his eye. "_eh bien!_" he roared. "there--i forgive them! ah, those _sacré_ musicians!" suzette stood there trembling, unable even to thank him, the colour coming and going in her peasant cheeks. "are they free, general?" i asked. "yes," he retorted, "both of them." "bravo!" i exclaimed. "understand that i have done it for the little girl--and _you_. is that plain?" "perfectly," i replied. "as plain as su-tum-tum!" i added under my breath as i filled his empty glass in gratefulness to the brim. "halt!" shouted the general as the happiest of suzettes turned toward her kitchen. "eh--um!" he mumbled awkwardly in a voice that had suddenly grown thick. then he sprang to his feet and raised his glass. "a health to the bride!" he cried. [illustration: the general] * * * * * [illustration: a formal garden] chapter eight the million of monsieur de savignac the bay of pont du sable, which the incoming tide had so swiftly filled at daylight, now lay a naked waste of oozing black mud. the birds had gone with the receding sea, and i was back from shooting, loafing over my pipe and coffee in a still corner among the roses of my wild garden, hidden behind the old wall, when that customhouse soldier-gardener of mine, pierre, appeared with the following message: "monsieur de savignac presents his salutations the most distinguished and begs that monsieur will give him the pleasure of calling on him _à propos_ of the little spaniel." what an unexpected and welcome surprise! for weeks i had hunted in vain for a thoroughbred. i had never hoped to be given one from the kennels of monsieur de savignac's château. "enchanted, pierre!" i cried--"present my compliments to monsieur de savignac. tell him how sincerely grateful i am, and say that he may expect me to-morrow before noon." i could easily imagine what a beauty my spaniel would be, clean-limbed and alert like the ones in the coloured lithographs. "no wonder," i thought, as pierre left me, "that every peasant for miles around spoke of this good monsieur de savignac's generosity. here he was giving me a dog. to me, his american neighbour, whom he had never met!" as i walked over to the château with pierre the next morning, i recalled to my mind the career of this extraordinary man, whose only vice was his great generosity. when monsieur de savignac was twenty-one he inherited a million francs, acquired a high hat with a straight brim, a standing collar, well open at the throat (in fashion then under napoleon iii.), a flowing cravat--a plush waistcoat with crystal buttons, a plum-coloured broadcloth coat and trousers of a pale lemon shade, striped with black, gathered tight at the ankles, their bottoms flouncing over a pair of patent-leather boots with high heels. he was tall, strong and good-natured, this lucky jacques de savignac, with a weakness for the fair sex which was appalling, and a charm of manner as irresistible as his generosity. a clumsy fencer, but a good comrade--a fellow who could turn a pretty compliment, danced better than most of the young dandies at court, drove his satin-skinned pair of bays through the bois with an easy smile, and hunted hares when the shooting opened with the dogged tenacity of a veteran poacher. when he was twenty-one, the paris that grévin drew was in the splendour of an extravagant life that she was never to see again, and never has. one could _amuse_ one's self then--ah! _dame, oui!_ there is no emperor now to keep paris gay. what suppers at véfour's! what a brilliant life there was in those days under the arcades of the dear old palais royal, the gay world going daily to this mondaine cloister to see and be seen--to dine and wine--to make conquests of the heart and dance daylight quadrilles. paris was ordered to be daily _en fête_ and the host at the tuileries saw to it that the gaiety did not flag. it was one way at least from keeping the populace from cutting one another's throats, which they did later with amazing ferocity. there were in those good old days under louis napoleon plenty of places to gamble and spend the inherited gold. ah! it was rabelaisian enough! what an age to have been the recipient of a million at twenty-one! it was like being a king with no responsibilities. no wonder de savignac left the university--he had no longer any need of it. he dined now at the maison dorée and was seen nightly at the "bal mabille" or the "closerie des lilas," focussing his gold-rimmed monocle on the flying feet and lace _frou-frous_ of "diane la sournoise," or roaring with laughter as he chucked gold louis into the satined lap of some "francine" or "cora" amid the blare of the band, and the flash of jewels strung upon fair arms and fairer necks of woman who went nightly to the "bal mabille" in smart turnouts and the costliest gowns money could buy--and after the last mad quadrille was ended, on he went to supper at bignon's where more gaiety reigned until blue dawn, and where the women were still laughing and merry and danced as easily on the table as on the floor. what a time, i say, to have inherited a million! and how many good friends he had! painters and musicians, actors and wits (and there _were_ some in those days)--no king ever gathered around him a jollier band. it was from one of these henchmen of his that de savignac purchased his château (long since emptied of its furniture)--from a young nobleman pressed hard for his debts, like most young noblemen are--and so the great château close to my village of vagabonds, and known for miles around, became de savignac's. what house parties he gave then!--men and women of talent flocked under his hospitable roof--indeed there was no lack of talent--some of it from the opéra--some of it from the conservatoire, and they brought their voices and their fiddles with them and played and sang for him for days, in exchange for his feudal hospitality--more than that, the painter paul deschamps covered the ceiling of his music room with chubby cupids playing golden trumpets and violins--one adorable little fellow in the cove above the grand piano struggling with a 'cello twice as high as himself, and carin painted the history of love in eight panels upon the walls of the old ballroom, whose frescoes were shabby enough, so i am told, when de savignac purchased them. there were times also when the château was full to overflowing with guests, so that the late comers were often quartered in a low two-story manor close by, that nestled under great trees--a cosey, dear old place covered with ivy and climbing yellow roses, with narrow alleys leading to it flanked by tall poplars, and a formal garden behind it in the niches of whose surrounding wall were statues of psyche and venus, their smooth marble shoulders stained by rain and the drip and ooze of growing things. one of them even now, still lifts its encrusted head to the weather. during the shooting season there were weeks when he and his guests shot daily from the crack of dawn until dark, the game-keepers following with their carts that by night were loaded with hares, partridges, woodcock and quail--then such a good dinner, sparkling with repartee and good wine, and laughter and dancing after it, until the young hours in the morning. one was more solid in those days than now--tired as their dogs after the day's hunt, they dined and danced themselves young again for the morrow. and what do you think they did after the commune? they made him mayor. yes, indeed, to honour him--mayor of hirondelette, the little village close to his estate, and de savignac had to be formal and dignified for the first time in his life--this good bohemian--at the village fêtes, at the important meetings of the municipal council, composed of a dealer in cattle, the blacksmith and the notary. again, in time of marriage, accident or death, and annually at the school exercises, when he presented prizes to the children spic and span for the occasion, with voices awed to whispers, and new shoes. and he loved them all--all those dirty little brats that had been scrubbed clean, and their ruddy cheeks polished like red apples, to meet "monsieur le maire." he was nearing middle life now, but he was not conscious of it, being still a bachelor. there was not as yet, a streak of gray in his well-kept beard, and the good humour sparkled in his merry eyes as of old. the only change that had occurred concerned the million. it was no longer the brilliant solid million of his youth. it was sadly torn off in places--there were also several large holes in it--indeed, if the truth be told, it was little more than a remnant of its once splendid entirety. it had been eaten by moths--certain shrewd old wasps, too, had nested in it for years--not a sou of it had vanished in speculation or bad investment. monsieur de savignac (this part of it the curé told me) was as ignorant as a child concerning business affairs and stubbornly avoided them. he had placed his fortune intact in the bank of france, and had drawn out what he needed for his friends. in the first year of his inheritance he glanced at the balance statement sent him by the bank, with a feeling of peaceful delight. as the years of his generosity rolled on, he avoided reading it at all--"like most optimists," remarked the curé, "he did not wish to know the truth." at forty-six he married the niece of an impoverished old wasp, a gentleman still in excellent health, owing to de savignac's generosity. it was his good wife now, who read the balance statement. for a while after his marriage, gaiety again reigned at the château, but upon a more economical basis; then gradually they grew to entertain less and less; indeed there were few left of the moths and old wasps to give to--they had flown to cluster around another million. most of this pierre, who was leading me through the leafy lane that led to de savignac's home, knew or could have known, for it was common talk in the country around, but his mind to-day was not on de savignac's past, but on the dog which we both were so anxious to see. * * * * * "monsieur has never met monsieur de savignac?" ventured pierre as we turned our steps out of the brilliant sunlight, and into a wooded path skirting the extensive forest of the estate. "not yet, pierre." "he is a fine old gentleman," declared pierre, discreetly lowering his voice. "poor man!" "why _poor_, pierre?" i laughed, "with an estate like this--nonsense!" "ah! monsieur does not know?"--pierre's voice sunk to a whisper--"the château is mortgaged, monsieur. there is not a tree or a field left monsieur de savignac can call his own. do you know, monsieur, he has no longer even the right to shoot over the ground? monsieur sees that low roof beyond with the single chimney smoking--just to the left of the château towers?" i nodded. "that is where monsieur de savignac now lives. it is called the garçonnière." "but the château, pierre?" "it is rented to a peruvian gentleman, monsieur, who takes in boarders." "pierre!" i exclaimed, "we go no farther. i knew nothing of this. i am not going to accept a dog from a gentleman in monsieur de savignac's unfortunate circumstances. it is not right. no, no. go and present my deep regrets to monsieur de savignac and tell him--tell him what you please. say that my rich uncle has just sent me a pair of pointers--that i sincerely appreciate his generous offer, that--" pierre's small black eyes opened as wide as possible. he shrugged his shoulders twice and began twisting thoughtfully the waxed ends of his moustache to a finer point. "pardon, monsieur," he resumed after an awkward pause, "but--but monsieur, by not going, will grieve monsieur de savignac--he will be so happy to give monsieur the dog--so happy, monsieur. if monsieur de savignac could not give something to somebody he would die. ah, he gives everything away, that good monsieur de savignac!" exclaimed pierre. "i was once groom in his stables--_oui_, monsieur, and he married us when he was mayor of hirondelette, and he paid our rent--_oui_, monsieur, and the doctor and...." "we'll proceed, pierre," said i. "a man of de savignac's kind in the world is so rare that one should do nothing to thwart him." we walked on for some distance along the edge of a swamp carpeted with strong ferns. presently we came to a cool, narrow alley flanked and roofed by giant poplars. at the end of this alley a wicket gate barred the entrance to the courtyard of the garçonnière. as we drew nearer i saw that its ancient two-story façade was completely covered by the climbing mass of ivy and yellow roses, the only openings being the louis xiv. windows, and the front door, flush with the gravelled court, bordered by a thick hedge of box. "monsieur the american gentleman for the dog," announced pierre to the boy servant in a blue apron who appeared to open the wicket gate. a moment later the door of the garçonnière opened, and a tall, heavily built man with silver white hair and beard came forth to greet me. i noticed that the exertion of greeting me made him short of breath, and that he held his free hand for a second pressed against his heart as he ushered me across his threshold and into a cool, old-fashioned sitting room, the walls covered with steel engravings, the furniture upholstered in green rep. "have the goodness to be seated, monsieur," he insisted, waving me to an armchair, while he regained his own, back of an old-fashioned desk. "ah! the--little--dog," he began, slowly regaining his breath. "you are all the time shooting, and i heard you wanted one. it is so difficult to get a really--good--dog--in this country. françois!" he exclaimed, "you may bring in the little dog--and, françois!" he added, as the boy servant turned to go--"bring glasses and a bottle of musigny--you will find it on the shelf back of the medoc." then he turned to me: "there are still two bottles left," and he laughed heartily. "bien, monsieur," answered the boy, and departed with a key big enough to have opened a jail. the moment had arrived for me to draw forth a louis, which i laid on his desk in accordance with an old norman custom, still in vogue when you accept as a gift a dog from an estate. "let your domestics have good cheer and wine to-night," said i. "thank you," he returned with sudden formality. "i shall put it aside for them," and he dropped the gold piece into a small drawer of his desk. i did not know until pierre, who was waiting outside in the court, told me afterwards, that his entire staff of servants was composed of the boy with the blue apron and the cook--an old woman--the last of his faithful servitors, who now appeared with a tray of trembling glasses, followed by the boy, the dusty cobwebbed bottle of rare musigny and--my dog! not a whole dog. but a flub-dub little spaniel puppy--very blond--with ridiculously long ears, a double-barrelled nose, a roly-poly stomach and four heavy unsteady legs that got in his way as he tried to navigate in a straight line to make my acquaintance. "_voilà!_" cried de savignac. "here he is. he'll make an indefatigable hunter, like his mother--wait until he is two years old--he'll stand to his day's work beside the best in france----" "and what race is he? may i ask, monsieur de savignac." "gorgon--gorgon of poitou," he returned with enthusiasm. "they are getting as rare now as this," he declared, nodding to the cobwebbed bottle, as he rose, drew the cork, and filled my glass. while we sipped and chatted, his talk grew merry with chuckles and laughter, for he spoke of the friends of his youth, who played for him and sang to him--the thing which he loved most of all, he told me. "once," he confessed to me, "i slipped away and travelled to hungary. ah! how those good gipsies played for me there! i was drunk with their music for two weeks. it is stronger than wine, that music of the gipsies," he said knowingly. again our talk drifted to hunting, of the good old times when hares and partridges were plentiful, and so he ran on, warmed by the rare musigny, reminiscing upon the old days and his old friends who were serious sportsmen, he declared, and knew the habits of the game they were after, for they seldom returned with an empty game-bag. "and you are just as keen about shooting as ever?" i ventured. "i shoot no more," he exclaimed with a shrug. "one must be a philosopher when one is past sixty--when one has no longer the solid legs to tramp with, nor the youth and the digestion to _live_. ah! besides, the life has changed--paris was gay enough in my day. i _lived_ then, but at sixty--i stopped--with my memories. no! no! beyond sixty it is quite impossible. one must be philosophic, eh?" before i could reply, madame de savignac entered the room. i felt the charm of her personality, as i looked into her eyes, and as she welcomed me i forgot that her faded silk gown was once in fashion before i was born, or that madame was short and no longer graceful. as the talk went on, i began to study her more at my ease, when some one rapped at the outer door of the vestibule. she started nervously, then, rising, whispered to françois, who had come to open it, then a moment later rose again and, going out into the hall, closed the door behind her. "thursday then," i heard a man's gruff voice reply brusquely. i saw de savignac straighten in his chair, and lean to one side as if trying to catch a word of the muffled conversation in the vestibule. the next instant he had recovered his genial manner to me, but i saw that again he laboured for some moments painfully for his breath. the door of the vestibule closed with a vicious snap. then i heard the crunch of sabots on the gravelled court, and the next instant caught a glimpse of the stout, brutal figure of the peasant le gros, the big dealer in cattle, as he passed the narrow window of the vestibule. it was _he_, then, with his insolent, bestial face purple with good living, who had slammed the door. i half started indignantly from my chair--then i remembered it was no affair of mine. presently madame returned--flushed, and, with a forced smile, in which there was more pain than pleasure, poured for me another glass of musigny. i saw instantly that something unpleasant had passed--something unusually unpleasant--perhaps tragic, and i discreetly rose to take my leave. without a word of explanation as to what had happened, madame de savignac kissed my dog good-bye on the top of his silky head, while de savignac stroked him tenderly. he was perfectly willing to come with me, and cocked his head on one side. we were all in the courtyard now. "_au revoir_," they waved to me. "_au revoir_," i called back. "_au revoir_," came back to me faintly, as pierre and the doggie and i entered the green lane and started for home. "monsieur sees that i was right, is it not true?" ventured pierre, as we gained the open fields. "monsieur de savignac would have been grieved had not monsieur accepted the little dog." "yes," i replied absently, feeling more like a marauder for having accepted all they had out of their hearts thrust upon me. then i stopped--lifted the roly-poly little spaniel, and taking him in my arms whispered under his silky ear: "we shall go back often, you and i"--and i think he understood. * * * * * a few days later i dropped into madame vinet's snug little café in pont du sable. it was early in the morning and the small room of the café, with barely space enough for its four tables still smelt of fresh soap suds and hot water. at one of the tables sat the peasant in his black blouse, sipping his coffee and applejack. le gros lifted his sullen face as i entered, shifted his elbows, gripped the clean marble slab of his table with both his red hands, and with a shrewd glint from his small, cruel eyes, looked up and grunted. "ah!--_bonjour_, monsieur." "_bonjour_, monsieur le gros," i replied. "we seem to be the only ones here. where's the patronne?" "upstairs, making her bed--another dry day," he muttered, half to himself, half to me. "she will stay dry for some days," i returned. "the wind is well set from the northeast." "_sacristi!_ a dirty time," he growled. "my steers are as dry as an empty cask." "i'd like a little rain myself," said i, reaching for a chair--"i have a young dog to train--a spaniel monsieur de savignac has been good enough to give me. he is too young to learn to follow a scent on dry ground." le gros raised his bull-like head with a jerk. "de savignac gave you a _dog_, did he? and he has a dog to give away, has he?" the words came out of his coarse throat with a snarl. i dropped the chair and faced him. (he is the only man in pont du sable that i positively dislike.) "yes," i declared, "he gave me a dog. may i ask you what business it is of yours?" a flash of sullen rage illumined for a moment the face of the cattle dealer. then he muttered something in his peasant accent and sat glowering into his empty coffee cup as i turned and left the room, my mind reverting to madame de savignac's door which his coarse hand had closed with a vicious snap. * * * * * we took the short cut across the fields often now--my yellow puppy and i. indeed i grew to see these good friends of mine almost daily, and as frequently as i could persuade them, they came to my house abandoned by the marsh. the peruvian gentleman's boarding house had been a failure, and i learned from the curé that the de savignacs were hard pressed to pay their creditors. it was le gros who held the mortgage, i further gleaned. and yet those two dear people kept a brave heart. they were still giving what they had, and she kept him in ignorance as best she could, softening the helplessness of it all, with her gentleness and her courage. in his vague realization that the end was near, there were days when he forced himself into a gay mood and would come chuckling down the lane to open the gate for me, followed by mirza, the tawny old mother of my puppy, who kept her faithful brown eyes on his every movement. often it was she who sprang nimbly ahead and unlatched the gate for me with her paw and muzzle, an old trick he had taught her, and he would laugh when she did it, and tell me there were no dogs nowadays like her. thus now and then he forced himself to forget the swarm of little miseries closing down upon him--forgot even his aches and pains, due largely to the dampness of the vine-smothered garçonnière whose old-fashioned interior smelt of cellar damp, for there was hardly a room in it whose wall paper had escaped the mould. it was not until march that the long-gathering storm broke--as quick as a crackling lizard of lightning strikes. le gros had foreclosed the mortgage. the château of hirondelette was up for sale. when de savignac came out to open the gate for me late that evening his face was as white as the palings in the moonlight. "come in," said he, forcing a faint laugh---he stopped for a moment as he closed and locked the gate--labouring painfully for his breath. then he slipped his arm under my own. "come along," he whispered, struggling for his voice. "i have found another bottle of musigny." a funeral, like a wedding or an accident, is quickly over. the sale of de savignac's château consumed three days of agony. as i passed the "garçonnière" by the lane beyond the courtyard on my way to the last day's sale, i looked over the hedge and saw that the shutters were closed--farther on, a doctor's gig was standing by the gate. from a bent old peasant woman in sabots and a white cap, who passed, i learned which of the two was ill. it was as i had feared--his wife. and so i continued on my way to the sale. as i passed through the gates of the château, the rasping voice of the lean-jawed auctioneer reached my ears as he harangued in the drizzling rain before the steps of the château the group of peasants gathered before him--widows in rusty crêpe veils, shrewd old norman farmers in blue blouses looking for bargains, their carts wheeled up on the mud-smeared lawn. and a few second-hand dealers from afar, in black derbys, lifting a dirty finger to close a bid for mahogany. close to this sordid crowd on the mud-smeared lawn sat le gros, his heavy body sunk in a carved and gilded arm-chair that had once graced the boudoir of madame de savignac. as i passed him, i saw that his face was purple with drink. he sat there the picture of insolent ignorance, this pig of a peasant. at times the auctioneer rallied the undecided with coarse jokes, and the crowd roared, for they are not burdened with delicacy, these norman farmers. "_allons! allons!_ my good ladies!" croaked the auctioneer. "forty sous for the lot. a bed quilt for a princess and a magnificent water filter de luxe that will keep your children well out of the doctor's hands. _allons!_ forty sous, forty-one--two?" a merchant in hogs raised his red, puffy hand, then turned away with a leer as the shrill voice of a fisher woman cried, "forty-five." "sold!" yelped the auctioneer--"sold to madame the widow dupuis of hirondelette," who was now elbowing her broad way through the crowd to her bargain which she struggled out with, red and perspiring, to the mud-smeared lawn, where her eldest daughter shrewdly examined the bedquilt for holes. i turned away when it was all over and followed the crowd out through the gates. le gros was climbing into his cart. he was drunk and swearing over the poor result of the sale. de savignac was still in his debt--and i continued on my way home, feeling as if i had attended an execution. half an hour later the sharp bark of my yellow puppy greeted me from beyond my wall. as i entered my courtyard, he came to me wriggling with joy. suddenly i stopped, for my ear caught the sound of a tail gently patting the straw in the cavernous old stable beyond my spaniel's kennel. i looked in and saw a pair of eyes gleaming like opals in the gloom. then the tawny body of mirza, the mother, rose from the straw and came slowly and apologetically toward me with her head lowered. "suzette!" i called, "how did she get here?" "the boy of monsieur de savignac brought her an hour ago, monsieur," answered the little maid. "there is a note for monsieur. i have left it on the table." i went in, lighted the fire, and read the following: "the garÇonniÈre, _saturday_. "take her, my friend. i can no longer keep her with me. you have the son, it is only right you should have the mother. we leave for paris to-morrow. we shall meet there soon, i trust. if you come here, do not bring her with you. i said good-bye to her this morning. "jacques de savignac." it was all clear to me now--pitifully clear--the garçonnière had gone with the rest. * * * * * on one of my flying trips to paris i looked them up in their refuge, in a slit of a street. here they had managed to live by the strictest economy, in a plain little nest under the roof, composed of two rooms and a closet for a kitchen. one night, early in june, after some persuasion, i forced him to go with me to one of those sparkling _risquée_ little comedies at the palais royal which he loved, and so on to supper at the café de la paix, where that great gipsy, boldi, warms the heart with his fiddle. the opera was just out, when we reached our table, close to the band. beauty and the beast were arriving, and wraps of sheen and lace were being slipped from fair shoulders into the fat waiting hands of the garçons, while the busy maître d'hôtel beamed with his nightly smile and jotted down the orders. the snug supper room glittered with light, clean linen and shining glass. now that the theatres were out, it had become awake with the chatter with which these little midnight suppers begin--suppers that so often end in confidences, jealousy and even tears, that need only the merriest tone of a gipsy's fiddle to turn to laughter. boldi is an expert at this. he watches those to whom he plays, singling out the one who needs his fiddle most, and to-night he was watching de savignac. we had finished our steaming dish of lobster, smothered in a spiced sauce that makes a cold dry wine only half quench one's thirst, and were proceeding with a crisp salad when boldi, with a rushing crescendo slipped into a delicious waltz. de savignac now sat with his chin sunk heavily in his hands, drinking in the melody with its spirited accompaniment as the cymballist's flexible hammers flew over the resonant strings, the violins following the master in the red coat, with that keen alertness with which all real gipsies play. i realized now, what the playing of a gipsy meant to him. by the end of the waltz de savignac's eyes were shining. boldi turned to our table and bowed. "play," said i, to him in my poor hungarian (that de savignac might not understand, for i wished to surprise him) "a real czardas of your people--ah! i have it!" i exclaimed. "play the legend and the mad dance that follows--the one that racz laczi loved--the legend of the young man who went up the mountain and met the girl who jilted him." boldi nodded his head and grinned with savage enthusiasm. he drew his bow across the sobbing strings and the legend began. under the spell of his violin, the chatter of the supper room ceased--the air now heavy with the mingled scent of perfume and cigars, seemed to pulsate under the throb of the wild melody--as he played on, no one spoke--the men even forgetting to smoke; the women listening, breathing with parted lips. i turned to look at de savignac--he was drunk and there was a strange glitter in his eyes, his cheeks flushed to a dull crimson, but not from wine. boldi's violin talked--now and then it wept under the vibrant grip of the master, who dominated it until it dominated those to whom it played. the young man in the legend was rushing up the mountain path in earnest now, for he had seen ahead of him the girl he loved--now the melody swept on through the wooing and the breaking of her promise, and now came the rush of the young man down to the nearest village to drown his chagrin and forget her in the mad dance, the "czardas," which followed. as the czardas quickened until its pace reached the speed of a whirlwind, de savignac suddenly staggered to his feet--his breath coming in short gasps. "sit down!" i pleaded, not liking the sudden purplish hue of his cheeks. "let--me--alone," he stammered, half angrily. "it--is so good--to--be alive again." "you shall not," i whispered, my eye catching sight of a gold louis between his fingers. "you don't know what you are doing--it is not right--this is my dinner, old friend--_all of it_, do you understand?" "let--me--alone," he breathed hoarsely, as i tried to get hold of the coin--"it is my last--my last--my last!"--and he tossed the gold piece to the band. it fell squarely on the cymballum and rolled under the strings. "bravo!" cried a little woman opposite, clapping her warm, jewelled hands. then she screamed, for she saw monsieur de savignac sway heavily, and sink back in his seat, his chin on his chest, his eyes closed. i ripped open his collar and shirt to give him breath. twice his chest gave a great bound, and he murmured something i did not catch--then he sank back in my arms--dead. during the horror and grim reality of it all--the screaming women, the physician working desperately, although he knew all hope was gone--while the calm police questioned me as to his identity and domicile, i shook from head to foot--and yet the worst was still to come--i had to tell madame de savignac. [illustration: spilled bottle of wine] * * * * * [illustration: the man with the gun] chapter nine the man with the gun it is at last decided! the kind and sympathetic minister of agriculture has signed the official document opening the shooting-season for hares and partridges in _la belle france_, to-morrow, sunday, the thirtieth of september. thrice happy hunters!--they who had begun to grumble in their cafés over the rumour that the opening of the shooting-season might be postponed until the second or even third sunday in october. my good friend the mayor of pont du sable has just handed me my hunting-permit for the coming year bearing the stamp of the _république française_, the seal of the prefecture, the signature of the préfet, and including everything, from the colour of my hair and complexion to my height, age, birth and domicile. on the back of this important piece of paper i read as follows: that the permit must be produced at the demand of all agents authorized by law. that it is prohibited to shoot without it, or upon lands without the consent of the proprietor having the right--or outside of the season fixed by the laws of the préfets. furthermore: the father--the mother--the tutor--the masters, and guardians are civilly responsible for the misdemeanours committed while shooting by their infants--wards--pupils, or domestics living with them. and finally: that the hunter who has lost his permit cannot resume again the exercise of the hunt until he has obtained and paid for a new one, twenty-eight francs and sixty centimes. to-morrow, then, the jolly season opens. "_vive la république!_" it is a season, too, of crisp twilights after brilliant days, so short that my lost village is plunged in darkness as early as seven, and goes to bed to save the candle--the hour when the grocer's light gleaming ahead of me across the slovenly little public square becomes the only beacon in the village; and, guided by it, i pick my way in the dark along the narrow thoroughfare, stumbling over the laziest of the village dogs sprawled here and there in the road outside the doorways of the fishermen. across one of these thresholds i catch a glimpse to-night of a tired fisher girl stretched on her bed after her long day at sea. beside the bed a very old woman in a white cotton cap bends over her bowl of soup by the wavering light of a tallow dip. "_bonsoir_, monsieur!" croaks a hoarse voice from the dark. it is marianne. she has fished late. at seven-thirty the toy train rumbles into pont du sable, stops for a barefooted passenger, and rumbles out again through the village--crawling lest it send one of the laziest dogs yelping to its home. the headlight on the squat locomotive floods the way ahead, suddenly illumining the figure of a blinking old man laden with nets and three barelegged children who scream, "_bonsoir_, monsieur," to the engineer. what glorious old days are these! the wealth of hedged fields---the lush green grass, white with hoar frost at daybreak--the groups of mild-eyed cows and taciturn young bulls; in all this brilliant clearness of sea air, sunshine and norman country spreading its richness down to the very edge of the sea, there comes to the man with the gun a sane exhilaration--he is alive. on calm nights the air is pungent and warm with the perfume of tons of apples lying heaped in the orchards, ready for the cider-making, nights, when the owls hoot dismally under a silver moon. when the wind veers to the north it grows cold. on such nights as these "the essence of selfishness" seeks my fireside. she is better fed than many other children in the lost village beyond my wall. and spoiled!--_mon dieu!_ she is getting to be hopeless. ah, you queen of studied cruelty and indifference! you, with your nose of coral pink, your velvet ears that twitch in your dreams, and your blue-white breast! you, who since yesterday morning have gnawed to death two helpless little birds in my hedge which you still think i have not discovered! and yet i still continue to feed you by hand piecemeal since you disdain to dine from my best china, and suzette takes care of you like a nurse. _eh bien!_ some day, do you hear, i shall sell you to the rabbit-skin man, who has a hook for a hand, and the rest of you will find its way to some cheap table d'hôte, where you will pass as ragout of rabbit henri iv. under a thick sauce. what would you do, i should like to know, if you were the vagabond cat who lives back in the orchard, and whose four children sleep in the hollow trunk of the tree and are content with what their mother brings them, whether it be plain mole or the best of grasshopper. eh, mademoiselle? open those topaz eyes of yours--suzette is coming to put you to bed. the trim little maid entered, crossed noiselessly in the firelight to my chair, and, laying a sealed note from my friend the baron beneath the lamp, picked up the sleepy cat and carried her off to her room. the note was a delightful surprise. "_cher monsieur_: will you make me the pleasure and the honour to come and do the _ouverture_ of the hunt at my château to-morrow, sunday--my auto will call for you about six of the morning. we will be about ten guns, and i count on the amiability of my partridges and my hares to make you pass a beautiful and good day. will you accept, dear sir, the assurance of my sentiments the most distinguished?" it was nice of the baron to think of me, for i had made his acquaintance but recently at one of tanrade's dinners, during which, i recall, the baron declared to me as he lifted his left eyebrow over his cognac, that the hunt--_la chasse_--"was always amusing, and a great blessing to men, since it created the appetite of the wolf and was an excuse to get rid of the ladies." he told me, too, as he adjusted his monocle safely in the corner of his aristocratic aquiline nose, that his favourite saint was st. hubert. he would have liked to have known him--he must have been a _bon garçon_, this patron saint of hunting. "ah! _les femmes!_" he sighed, as he straightened his erect torso, that had withstood so many parisian years, against the back of his chair. "ah! _les femmes!_ but in zee fields zey cannot follow us? _hein?_" he laughed, lapsing into his broken english. "zey cannot follow us through zee hedges, ovaire zee rough grounds, in zee rains, in zee muds. nevaire take a woman hunting," he counselled me sotto voce beneath his vibrant hand, for alice de bréville was present. "one can _nevaire_ make love and kill zee agile little game at zee same time. _par exemple!_ you whispaire somezing in madame's leetle ear and brrrh! a partridge--_que voulez-vous, mon cher?_" he concluded, with a shrug. "it is quite impossible--_quite_ impossible." i told him leisurely, as we sipped our liqueur, of the hunting in my own country, of the lonely tramps in the wilderness following a line of traps in the deep snow, the blind trails, the pork sandwich melted against the doughnuts at noon, leaking lean-tos, smoky fires, and bad coffee. "_parbleu!_" he roared. "you have not zee rendezvous? you have not zee hunting breakfast? i should be quite ill--you hunt like zee arabs--like zee gipsies--ah, yes, i forget--zee warm sandwich and zee native nuts." he tapped the table gently with his rings, smiling the while reminiscently into his glass, then, turning again to me, added seriously: "it is not all zee play--zee hunt. i have had zee legs broken by zee fatigue. zee good breakfast is what you say 'indispensable' to break zee day. zee good stories, zee camaraderie, zee good kind wine--_enfin tout!_ but"--and again he leaned nearer--"but _not zee_ ladies--_nevaire_--only zee memories." i repeat, it was nice of the baron to think of me. i could easily picture to myself as i reread his note his superb estate, that stronghold of his ancestors; the hearty welcome at its gates; the gamekeepers in their green fustians; the pairs of perfectly trained dogs; the abundance of partridges and hares; and the breakfast in the old château, a feast that would be replete with wit and old burgundy. how splendid are these norman autumns! what exhilarating old days during this season of dropping apples, blue skies, and falling leaves! days when the fat little french partridges nestle in companies in the fields, shorn to stubble after the harvest, and sleek hares at sunrise lift their long ears cautiously above the dew-bejeweled cobwebs along the ditches to make sure that the green feeding-patch beyond is safe from the man and the gun. fat, garrulous monsieur toupin of the village becomes under the spell of madame vinet's best cognac so uproarious when he has killed one of these sleek, strong-limbed hares, that madame is obliged to draw the turkey-red curtain over the window of her small café that monsieur toupin may not be seen by his neighbours. "suzette," i called, "my candle! i must get a good night's sleep, for to-morrow i shoot with the baron." "_tiens!_" exclaimed the little maid. "at the grand château?" and her frank eyes opened wide. "ah, _mais_--but monsieur will not have to work hard for a partridge there." "and so you know the château, my little one?" "ah, _mais oui_, monsieur! is it not at la sapinière near les roses? my grandfather was gardener there when i was little. i passed the château once with my mother and heard the guns back of the great wall. monsieur will be content--ah, _mais oui_!" "my coffee at five-thirty promptly, _ma petite_!" "_bien_, monsieur." and suzette passed me my lighted candle, the flame of which rose brilliantly from its wick. "that means good luck, monsieur," said she, pointing to the candle-flame, as my foot touched the winding stairs. "nonsense!" i laughed, for i am always amused at her peasant belief in superstitions. once, i remember, i was obliged to send for the doctor--suzette had broken a mirror. "ah, _mais si_," declared suzette, with conviction, as she unlatched her kitchen door. "when the wick burns like that--ah, _ça!_" and with a cheery _bonsoir_ she closed the door behind her. i had just swallowed my coffee when the siren of the baron's automobile emitted a high, devilish wail, and subsided into a low moan outside my wall. the next instant the gate of the court flew open, and i rushed out, to greet, to my surprise, tanrade in his shooting-togs, and--could it be true? monsieur le curé. "you, too?" i exclaimed in delight. "yes," he smiled and added, with a wink: "i could not refuse so gamy an invitation." "and i would not let him," added tanrade. "quick! where are your traps? we have a good forty kilometres ahead of us; we must not keep the baron waiting." and the composer of ballets rushed into the house and shouldered my valise containing a dry change. "you shall have enough partridges to fill your larder for a month," i heard him tell suzette, and he did not forget to pat her rosy cheek in passing. suzette laughed and struggled by him, her firm young arms hugging my gun and shell-case. before i could stop him, the curé, in his black soutane, had clambered nimbly to the roof of the big car and was lashing my traps next to tanrade's and his own. at this instant i started to take a long breath of pure morning air--and hesitated, then i caught the alert eye of the chauffeur, who was grinning. "what are you burning? fish oil?" said i. "_mon dieu_, monsieur----" began the chauffeur. "cheese," called down the curé, pointing to a round paper parcel on the roof of the limousine. "tanrade got it at daylight; woke up the whole village getting it." "had to," explained tanrade, as suzette helped him into his great coat. "the baron is out of cheese; he added a postscript to my invitation praying that i would be amiable enough to bring one. _eh voilà!_ there it is, and real cheese at that. come, get in, quick!" and he opened the door of the limousine, the interior of which was lined in gray suède and appointed with the daintiest of feminine luxuries. "look out for that row of gold bottles back of you, you brute of a farmer!" tanrade counseled me, as the curé found his seat. "if you scratch those monograms the baroness will never forgive you." then, with a wave to suzette, we swept away from my house by the marsh, were hurled through pont du sable, and shot out of its narrowest end into the fresh green country beyond. it was so thoroughly chic and parisian, this limousine. only a few days ago it had been shopping along the rue de la paix, and later rushing to the cool bois de boulogne carrying a gracious woman to dinner; now it held two vagabonds and a curé. we tore on while we talked enthusiastically of the day's shooting in store for us. the curé was in his best humour. how he does love to shoot and what a rattling good shot he is! neither tanrade nor myself, and we have shot with him day in and day out on the marsh and during rough nights in his gabion, has ever beaten him. on we flew, past the hamlet of fourche-la-ville, past javonne, past les roses. _sacristi!_ i thought, what if the gasoline gave out or the spark refused to sparkle, what if they had----why worry? that cheese was strong enough to have gotten us anywhere. suddenly we slowed down, hastily consulted a blue iron sign at the crossroad, and swung briskly to the right. a noble forest and the roofs and _tourelles_ of the château now loomed ahead of us. we turned into a clean, straight road, flanked by superb oaks leading to an ancient stone gateway. a final wail from the siren, the gates swung open, and we came to a dead stop in front of the baron, four setter dogs, and a group of gentlemen immaculately attired for the hunt. from their tan-leather leggings to their yellow dogskin gloves and gleaming guns, they were faultless. while the baron greeted us, his guests stood waiting to be presented; their formal bow would have done credit to a foreign embassy during an imperial audience. the next moment we were talking as naturally together and with as much camaraderie as if we had known each other for years. "make yourselves at home, my children!" cried the baron. "_vous êtes chez vous_; the ladies have gone to paris." it was not such a very grand place, this estate of the baron, after all. it had an air about it of having seen better days, but the host was a good fellow, and his welcome genuine, and we were all happy to be there. no keepers in green fustians, no array of thoroughbred dogs, but instead four plain setters with a touch of shepherd in them. the château itself was plain and comfortable within and scarred by age without. some of the little towers had lost their tops, and the extensive wall enclosing the snug forest bulged dangerously in places. "you will see," explained the baron to me in his fluent french, as our little party sauntered out into the open fields to shoot, "i do not get along very well with my farmer. i must tell you this in case he gives us trouble to-day. he has the right, owing to a stupid lease my aged aunt was unwise enough to sign with him some years ago, to exclude us from hunting over many fields contiguous to my own; above all, we cannot put foot in his harvest." "i see," i returned, with a touch of disappointment, for i knew the birds were where the harvest was still uncut. "there are acres of grain going to seed beyond us which he would rather lose than have me hunt over," the baron confessed. "bah! we shall see what the _canaille_ will do, for only this morning he sent me word threatening to break up the hunt. nothing would please him better than have us all served with a _procès-verbal_ for trespassing." i confess i was not anxious to be hauled before the court of the country-seat time after time during a trial conducted at a snail's pace and be relieved of several hundred francs, for this is what a _procès-verbal_ meant. it was easily seen that the baron was in a no more tranquil state of mind himself. "you are all my guests!" he exclaimed, with sudden heat. "that _sacré_ individual will deal with _me_. it is _i_ who am alone responsible," he generously added. "ah! we shall see. if you meet him, don't let him bulldoze you. don't show him your hunting permit if he demands it, for what he will want is your name. i have explained all this to the rest." "_eh bien!_ my dear friends," he called back to the others as we reached a cross-road, "we shall begin shooting here. half of you to the right--half to the left!" "what is the name of your farmer?" i inquired, as we spread out into two slowly moving companies. "le bour," returned the baron grimly as the breech of his gun snapped shut. the vast cultivated plain undulating below us looked like the patchwork-quilt of a giantess, stitched together with well-knit hedges. there were rectangles of apple-green clover, canary-yellow squares of mustard, green pastures of ochre stubble, rich green strips of beets, and rolling areas of brown-ribbed furrows freshly plowed. time after time we were obliged to pass around companies of partridges that had taken refuge under the idiotic lease of the aged aunt. it was exasperating, for, from the beginning of the shoot, every bird seemed to know where it was safe from the gleaming guns held so skilfully by the _messieurs_ in the yellow dogskin gloves. by eleven o'clock there were barely a score of birds in the game-bags when there should have been a hundred. at the second cross road, the right and left party convened. it was what le bour had been waiting for. a sour old man in a blue blouse now rose up out of a hedge in which he had hidden himself, and came glowering toward us. as he drew nearer i saw that his gun swung loosely in his hand and was at full cock, its muzzle wavering unpleasantly over us as he strode on. his mean old eyes glittered with rage, his jaw trembled under a string of oaths. his manner was that of a sullen bull about to charge. there was no mistaking his identity--it was le bour. "_procès-verbal_ for all of you," he bellowed; "you, monsieur le baron, and you, monsieur le vicomte," he snapped, as the baron advanced to defend his guests. "i saw you cross my buckwheat," he declared pointing an ugly finger at the vicomte. "you lie!" shouted the baron, before the vicomte could find his words. "i forbid you to open your head to my guests. not one of these gentlemen has set foot in your harvest. what right have _you_ to carry a gun? where is your hunting permit?" thundered the baron. "where's your commission as guard, that you should have the insolence to threaten us with a _procès-verbal_." "ah!" exclaimed the baron, as the permit was not forthcoming, "i thought as much. i appoint you witness, monsieur le curé, the fellow has no permit." and we swelled the merriment with a forced sputter of ridicule. "come, my friends, we shall leave this imbecile to himself," laughed the baron. le bour sprang past him and confronted us. "_eh ben_, my fine gentlemen," he snarled, "you'll not get away so easily. i demand, in the name of the law, your hunting permits. come, _allons_! all of you!" at the same instant he tore open his blouse and displayed, to our dismay, an oval brass plaque bearing his name and the number . "there!" cried the old man, white and trembling with rage. "there's my full commission as guard." my companion with the gloves next to me fidgeted nervously and coughed. i saw the vicomte turn a little pale. tanrade shrugged his shoulders. monsieur le curé's face wore an expression of dignified gravity. not once, however, had le bour's eyes met his own. it was evident that he reverently excluded the curé from the affair. the vicomte looked uncomfortable enough. the truth was, he was not known to be at the hunt. the vicomtesse was shrewd when it came to the question of his whereabouts. a _procès-verbal_ meant publicity; naturally the vicomtesse would know. it might even reach the adorable ears of mademoiselle rosalie, of the _corps de ballet_, who imagined the vicomte safe with his family. the baron was fuming, but he did not speak. "your permits!" reiterated le bour, flourishing his license. there was an awkward silence; not a few in the party had left their permits at home. "_pouf!_" exclaimed the baron. "enough of this! _en route_, my friends!" "_eh, bien!_" growled the farmer. "you refuse to produce your permits on demand of a guard. it shall be stated," he threatened, "in the _procès-verbal_." then le bour turned on his muddy heel and launched a parting volley at the baron denouncing his château and everything connected with him. "do not forget the time you stole the ducks of my uncle," cried the baron, shaking a clenched fist at the old man, "or the morning--" but his words were lost on le bour, who had disappeared in the hedge. by eleven-thirty we had killed some two dozen birds and three hares; and as we were now stricken with "the appetite of the wolf," we turned back to the château for breakfast. here a sponge and a rub-down sent us in gay spirits down to the billiard-room, where a bottle of port was in waiting--a rare bottle for particular occasions. it was "the last of a dozen," explained the baron as we touched glasses, sent to the château by napoleon in payment for a night's lodging during one of his campaigns. "the very time, in fact," he added, "when the little towers lost their tops." under the spell of the emperor's port the vicomte regained his nerves, and even the unpleasant incident of the morning was half forgotten while the piano in the historic salon rang merrily under tanrade's touch until we filed in to luncheon. it was as every french shooting-luncheon is intended to be--a pleasant little fête full of good cheer and understanding; the good soup, the decanters of burgundy, the clean red-and-white checkered napkins and cloth, the heavy family silver, the noiseless old servants--and what an appetite we had! what a _soufflé_ of potatoes, and such chicken smothered in cream! and always the "good kind wine," until the famous cheese that tanrade had waked up pont du sable in procuring was passed quickly and went out to the pantry, never to return. ah, yes! and the warm champagne without which no french breakfast is complete. over the coffee and liqueurs, the talk ran naturally to gallantry. "ah, _les femmes_! the memories," as the baron had said. "you should have seen babette deslys five years ago," remarked one of our jolly company when the baron had left the room in search of some milder cigars. i saw the vicomte raise his eyebrows in subtle warning to the speaker, who, like myself, knew the baron but slightly. if he was treading upon delicate ground he was unconscious of it, this _bon vivant_ of a parisian; for he continued rapidly in his enthusiasm, despite a second hopeless attempt of the vicomte to check him. "you should have seen babette in the burlesque as phryne at the variétés--_une merveille, mon cher!_" he exclaimed, addressing the sous-lieutenant on his right, and he blew a kiss to the ceiling. "the complexion of a rosebud and amusing! ah--la! la!" "i hear her debts ran close to a million," returned the lieutenant. "she was feather-brained," continued the _bon vivant_, with a blasé shrug. "she was a good little quail with more heart than head! poor babette!" "take care!" cautioned the vicomte pointblank, as the baron re-entered with the box of milder havanas. and thus the talk ran on among these men of the world who knew paris as well as their pockets; and so many babettes and francines and other careless little celebrities whose beauty and extravagance had turned peace and tranquillity into ruin and chaos. at last the jolly breakfast came to an end. we rose, recovered our guns from the billiard-table, and with fresh courage went forth again into the fields to shoot until sunset. during the afternoon we again saw le bour, but he kept at a safe distance watching our movements with muttered oaths and a vengeful eye, while we added some twenty-odd partridges to the morning's score. * * * * * toward the end of the afternoon, a week later, at pont du sable, tanrade and the curé sat smoking under my sketching-umbrella on the marsh. the curé is far from a bad painter. his unfinished sketch of the distant strip of sea and dunes lay at my feet as i worked on my own canvas while the sunset lasted. tanrade was busy between puffs of his pipe in transposing various passages in his latest score. now and then he would hesitate, finger the carefully thought out bar on his knee, and again his stub of a pencil would fly on through a maze of hieroglyphics that were to the curé and myself wholly unintelligible. suddenly the curé looked up, his keen gaze rivetted upon two dots of figures on bicycles speeding rapidly toward us along the path skirting the marsh. "hello!" exclaimed the curé, and he gave a low whistle. "the gendarmes!" there was no mistaking their identity; their gold stripes and white duck trousers appeared distinctly against the tawny marsh. the next moment they dismounted, left their wheels on the path, and came slowly across the desert of wire-grass toward us. "_diable!_" muttered tanrade, under his breath, and instantly our minds reverted to le bour. the two officials of the law were before us. "we regret to disturb you, messieurs," began the taller of the two pleasantly as he extracted a note-book from a leather case next to his revolver. "but"--and he shrugged his military shoulders--"it is for the little affair at hirondelette." "which one of us is elected?" asked tanrade grimly. "ah! _bon dieu!_" returned the tall one; half apologetically. "a _procès-verbal_ unfortunately for you, monsieur tanrade. read the charge," he said to the short one, who had now unfolded a paper, cleared his throat, and began to read in a monotonous tone. "monsieur gaston emile le bour, agriculturist at hirondelette, charges monsieur charles louis ernest tanrade, born in paris, soldier of the thirteenth infantry, musician, composer, with flagrant trespass in his buckwheat on hectare number seven, armed with the gun of percussion on the thirtieth of september at ten-forty-five in the morning." "i was _not_ in his _sacré_ buckwheat!" declared tanrade, and he described the entire incident of the morning. "take monsieur's denial in detail," commanded the tall one. his companion produced a small bottle of ink and began to write slowly with a scratchy pen, while we stood in silence. "kindly add your signature, monsieur," said the tall one, when the bottle was again recorked. tanrade signed. the gendarmes gravely saluted and were about to withdraw when tanrade asked if he was "the only unfortunate on the list." "ah, _non_!" confessed the tall one. "there is a similar charge against monsieur le vicomte--we have just called upon him. also against monsieur le baron." "and what did they say?" "_eh bien_, monsieur, a general denial, just as monsieur has made." "the affair is ridiculous," exclaimed tanrade hotly. "that must be seen," returned the tall one firmly. again we all saluted and they left us, recovered their bicycles, and went spinning off back to pont du sable. "_nom d'un chien!_" muttered tanrade, while the curé and i stared thoughtfully at a clump of grass. "why didn't he get me?" i ventured, after a moment. "foreigner," explained tanrade. "you're in luck, old boy--no record of identity, and how the devil do you suppose le bour could pronounce your name?" half an hour later i found the vicomte, who lived close to our village. he was pacing up and down his salon in a rage. "i was _not_ in the buckwheat!" he declared frantically. "do you suppose i have nothing better to do, my friend, than see this wretched business out at the county-seat? the vicomtesse is furious. we were to leave, for a little voyage in italy, next week. ah, that young son of the baron! he is the devil! _he_ is responsible for this--naturally." and he fell again to pacing the room. i looked blankly at the vicomte. "son? what young son?" i asked. the vicomte stopped, with a gesture of surprise. "ah! _sapristi!_ you do not know?" he exclaimed. "you do not know that babette deslys is le bour's daughter? that the baron's son ran away with her and a hundred thousand francs? that the hundred thousand francs belonged to le bour? _sapristi!_ you did not know _that_?" [illustration: sign: chasse gardeÉ] * * * * * [illustration: the yellow car] chapter ten the bells of pont du sable the big yellow car came ripping down the road--a clean hard ribbon of a road skirting the tawny marsh that lay this sparkling august morning under a glaze of turquoise blue water at high tide. with a devilish wail from its siren, the yellow car whizzed past my house abandoned by the marsh. i was just in time, as i raised my head above the rambling wall of my courtyard, to catch sight of my good friend the curé on the back seat, holding on tight to his saucer-like hat. in the same rapid glance i saw the fluttering ends of a bottle-green veil, in front of the curé's nose and knew germaine was driving. "lucky curé!" i said to myself, as i returned to my half-finished sketch, "carried off again to luncheon by one of the dearest of little women." no wonder during his lonely winters, when every villa or château of every friend of his for miles around is closed, and my vagabond village of pont du sable rarely sees a parisian, the curé longs for midsummer. it is his gayest season, since hardly a day passes but some friend kidnaps him from his presbytery that lies snug and silent back of the crumbling wall which hides both his house and his wild garden from the gaze of the passer-by. he is the kind of curé whom it is a joy to invite--this straight, strong curé, who is french to the backbone; with his devil-may-care geniality, his irresistible smile of a comedian, his quick wit of an irishman, and his heart of gold. to-day germaine had captured him and was speeding him away to a jolly luncheon of friends at her villa, some twenty kilometres below pont du sable--germaine with her trim, lithe figure and merry brown eyes, eyes that can become in a flash as calm and serious as the curé's, and in turn with her moods (for germaine is a pretty collection of moods) gleam with the impulsive devilry of a _gamine_; germaine, who teases an old vagabond painter like myself, by daubing a purple moon in the middle of my morning sketch, adds a dab on my nose when i protest, and the next instant embraces me, and begs my forgiveness. i cannot conceive of anyone not forgiving germaine, beneath whose firm and delicate beauty lies her warm heart, as golden in quality as the curé's. ah! it is gay enough in midsummer with germaine and such other good bohemians as alice de bréville, tanrade, and his reverence to cheer my house abandoned by the marsh. i heard the yellow car tearing back to pont du sable late that night. it slowed down as it neared my walled domain, and with a wrenching grunt stopped in front of my gate. the next instant the door of my den opened and in rushed the curé. "all of us to luncheon to-morrow at the three wolves!" he cried, flinging his hat on the floor; then bending, with a grin of satisfaction over the lamp chimney, he kindled the end of a fat cigarette he had rolled in the dark. his eyes were snapping, while the corners of his humorous mouth twitched in a satisfied smile. he strode up and down the room for some moments, his hands clasped behind him, his strong, sun-tanned face beaming in the glow of the shaded lamplight, while he listened to my delight over the pleasant news he had brought. "ah! they are good to me, these children of mine," he declared with enthusiasm. "germaine tells me there is a surprise in store for me and that i am not to know until to-morrow, at luncheon. beyond that, she would tell me nothing, the little minx, except that i managed to make her confess that alice was in the secret." he glanced at his watch, "ah!" he ejaculated, "i must be getting to bed; you, too, my old one, for we must get an early start in the morning, if we are to reach the three wolves by noon." he recovered his hat from the floor, straightened up, brushed the cigarette ashes from the breast of his long black soutane, shiny from wear, and held out his strong hand. "sleep well," he counselled, "for to-morrow we shall be _en fête_." then he swung open my door and passed out into the night, whistling as he crossed my courtyard a _café chantant_ air that germaine had taught him. a moment later, the siren of the yellow car sent forth its warning wail, and he was speeding back to his presbytery under the guidance of germaine's chauffeur. * * * * * the curé was raking out the oysters; he stood on the sandy rim of a pool of clear sea-water that lay under the noonday sun like a liquid emerald. as monsieur le curé plunged in his long rake and drew it back heavy with those excellent bivalves for which the restaurant at the three wolves has long been famous, his tall black figure, silhouetted against the distant sea and sky, reminded me of some great sea-crow fishing for its breakfast. to the right of him crouched the restaurant, a low wooden structure, with its back to the breakers. it has the appearance of being cast there at high tide, its zigzag line of tiled roofs drying in the air and sun, like the scaled shell of some stranded monster of the sea. there is a cavernous old kitchen within, resplendent in shining copper--a busy kitchen to-day, sizzling in good things and pungent with the aroma of two tender young chickens, basting on a spit, a jolly old kitchen, far more enticing than the dingy long dining-room adjoining it, whose walls are frescoed in panels representing bottle-green lobsters, gaping succulent clams, and ferocious crabs sidling away indignantly from nets held daintily by fine ladies and their gallants, in costumes that were in vogue before the revolution. even when it pours, this cheerless old dining-room at the three wolves is deserted, since there are half a score of far cosier little round pavilions for lovers and intimate friends, built over the oyster pools. beyond them, hard by the desolate beach, lie the rocks known as the three wolves. in calm weather the surf smashes over their glistening backs--at low water, as it happened to be to-day, the seethe of the tide scurried about their dripping bellies green with hairy sea-weed. now and then came cheery ripples of laughter from our little pavilion, where germaine and alice de bréville were arranging a mass of scarlet nasturtiums, twining their green leaves and tendrils amongst the plates of _hors d'oeuvres_ and among the dust-caked bottles of chablis and burgundy--alice, whose dark hair and olive skin are in strong contrast to germaine's saucy beauty. they had banished tanrade, who had offered his clumsy help--and spilled the sardines. he had climbed on the roof and dropped pebbles down on them through the cracks and had later begged forgiveness through the key-hole. now he was yelling like an indian, this celebrated composer of ballets, as he swung a little peasant maid of ten in a creaky swing beyond the pool--a dear little maid with eyes as dark as alice's, who screamed from sheer delight, and insisted on that good fellow playing all the games that lay about them, from _tonneau_ to _bilboquet_. together, the curé and i carried the basket, now plentifully filled with oysters back to the kitchen, while tanrade was hailed from the pavilion, much to the little maid's despair. "_dépêchez-vous!_" cried alice, who had straightway embraced her exiled tanrade on his return and was now waving a summons to the curé and myself. "_bon_," shouted back the curé. "_allons, mes enfants, à table_--and the one who has no appetite shall be cast into the sea--by the heels," added his reverence. what a breakfast followed! such a rushing of little maids back and forth from the jolly kitchen with the great platters of oysters. what a sole smothered in a mussel sauce! what a lobster, scarlet as the cap of a cardinal and garnished with crisp romaine! and the chickens! and the mutton! and the _soufflé_ of potatoes, and the salad of shrimps--_mon dieu!_ what a luncheon, "sprayed," as the french say, with that rare old chablis and mellow burgundy! and what laughter and camaraderie went with it from the very beginning, for to be at table with friends in france is to be _en fête_--it is the hour when hearts are warmest and merriest. ah, you dear little women! you who know just when to give those who love you a friendly pressure of the hand, or the gift of your lips if needs be, even in the presence of so austere a personage as monsieur le curé. you who understand. you who are tender or merry with the mood, or contrary to the verge of exasperation--only to caress with the subtle light of your eyes and be forgiven. it was not until we had reached our coffee and liqueur, that the surprise for the curé was forthcoming. hardly had the tiny glasses been filled, when the clear tone of the bell ringing from the ancient church of the three wolves made us cease our talk to listen. alice turned to the curé; it was evidently the moment she had been waiting for. "listen," said alice softly--"how delicious!" "it is the bell of ste. marie," returned the curé. even tanrade was silent now, for his reverence had made the sign of the cross. as his fingers moved i saw a peculiar look come into his eyes--a look of mingled disappointment and resignation. again alice spoke: "your cracked bell at pont du sable has not long to ring, my friend," she said very tenderly. "one must be content, my child, with what one has," replied the curé. alice leaned towards him and whispered something in his ear, germaine smiling the while. i saw his reverence give a little start of surprise. "no, no," he protested half aloud. "not that; it is too much to ask of you with all your rehearsals at the bouffes parisiennes coming." "_parbleu!_" exclaimed alice, "it will not be so very difficult--i shall accomplish it, you shall see what a concert we shall give--we shall make a lot of money; every one will be there. it has the voice of a frog, your bell. _dieu!_ what a fuss it makes over its crack. you shall have a new one--two new ones, _mon ami_, even if we have to make bigger the belfry of your little gray church to hang them." the curé grew quite red. i saw for an instant his eyes fill with tears, then with a benign smile, he laid his hand firmly over alice's and lifting the tips of her fingers, kissed them twice in gratefulness. he was very happy. he was happy all the way back in germaine's yellow car to pont du sable. happy when he thrust his heavy key in the rusty lock of the small door that let him into his silent garden, cool under the stars, and sweet with the scent of roses. * * * * * a long winter has passed since that memorable luncheon at the three wolves. our little pavilion over the emerald pool will never see us reunited, i fear. a cloud has fallen over my good friend the curé, a cloud so unbelievable, and yet so dense, if it be true, and so filled with ominous mutterings of thunder and lightning, crime, defalcation, banishment, and the like, that i go about my work dazed at the rumoured situation. they tell me the curé still says mass, and when it is over, regains the presbytery by way of the back lane skirting the marsh. i am also told that he rarely even ventures into his garden, but spends most of his days and half of his nights alone in his den with the door locked, and strict orders to his faithful old servant marie, who adores him, that he will see no one who calls. for days i have not laid eyes on him--he who kept his napkin tied in a sailor's knot in my cupboard and came to breakfast, luncheon, or dinner when he pleased, waking up my house abandoned by the marsh with his good humour, joking with suzette, my little maid-of-all-work, until her fair cheeks grew the rosier, and rousing me out of the blues with his quick wit and his hearty laugh. it seems impossible to me that he is guilty of what he is accused of, yet the facts seem undeniable. only the good go wrong, is it not so? the bad have become so commonplace, they do not attract our attention. now the ways of the curé were always just. i have never known him to do a mean thing in his life, far less a dishonest one. i have known him to give the last few sous he possessed to a hungry fisherwoman who needed bread for herself and her brood of children and content himself with what was left among the few remaining vegetables in his garden. there are days, too, when he is forced to live frugally upon a peasant soup and a pear for dinner, and there have been occasions to my knowledge, when the soup had to be omitted and his menu reduced to a novel, a cigarette and the pear. it is a serious matter, the separation of the state from the church in france, since it has left the priest with the munificent salary of four hundred francs a year, out of which he must pay his rent and give to the poor. once we dined nobly together upon two fat sparrows, and again we had a blackbird for dinner. he had killed it that morning from his window, while shaving, for i saw the lather dried on the stock of his duck gun. monsieur le curé is ingenious when it comes to hard times. again, there are days when he is in luck, when some generous parishioner has had the forethought to restock his larder. upon such bountiful occasions he insists on tanrade and myself dining with him at the presbytery as long as these luxuries last, refusing to dine with either of us until there is no more left of his own to give. the last time i saw him, i had noticed a marked change in his reverence. he was moody and unshaven, and his saucerlike hat was as dusty and spotted as his frayed soutane. only now and then he gave out flashes of his old geniality and even they seemed forced. i was amazed at the change in him, and yet, when i consider all i have heard since, i do not wonder much at his appearance. tanrade tells me (and he evidently believes it) that some fifteen hundred francs, raised by alice's concert and paid over to the curé to purchase the bells for his little gray church at pont du sable, have disappeared and that his reverence refuses to give any account. despite his hearty bohemian spirit, tanrade, like most musicians, is a dreamer and as ready as a child to believe anything and anybody. being a master of the pianoforte and a composer of rare talent, he can hardly be called sane. and yet, though i have seen him enthusiastic, misled, moved to tears over nothing, indignant over an imaginary insult, or ready to forgive any one who could be fool enough to be his enemy, i have never known him so thoroughly upset or so positive in his convictions as when the other morning, as i sat loafing before my fire, he entered my den. "it is incredible, _mon vieux_, incredible!" he gasped, throwing himself disconsolately into my arm-chair. "i have just been to the presbytery. not only does he refuse to give an account of the money, but he declines to offer any explanation beyond the one that he "spent it." moreover, he sits hunched up before his stove in his little room off the kitchen, chewing the end of a cigarette. why, he didn't even ask me to have a drink--the curé, _mon ami_--our curé--_mon dieu_, what a mess! ah, _mon dieu!_" he sank his chin in his hands and gazed at me with a look of utter despair. i regarded him keenly, then i went to the decanter and poured out for him a stiff glass of applejack. "drink that," said i, "and get normal." with an impetuous gesture he waved it away. "no, not now!" he exclaimed, "wait until i tell you all--nothing until i tell you." "go on, then," i returned, "i want to hear all about this wretched business. go slow and tell it to me from top to bottom. i am not as convinced of the curé's guilt as you are, old boy. there may be nothing in it more than a pack of village lies; and if there is a vestige of the truth, we may, by putting our heads together, help matters." he started to speak, but i held up my hand. "one thing before you proceed," i declared with conviction. "i can no more believe the curé is dishonest than alice or yourself. it is ridiculous to presume so for a moment. i have known the curé too well. he is a prince. he has a heart as big as all outdoors. look at the good he's done in this village! there is not a vagabond in it but will tell you he is as right as rain. ask the people he helps what they think of him, they'll tell you 'he's just the curé for pont du sable.' _voilà!_ that's what they'll tell you, and they mean it. all the gossip in the world can't hurt him. here," i cried, forcing the glass into his hand, "get that down you, you maker of ballets, and proceed with the horrible details, but proceed gently, merrily, with the right sort of beat in your heart, for the curé is as much a friend of yours as he is of mine." tanrade shrugged his broad shoulders, and for some moments sipped his glass. at length, he set it down on the broad table at his elbow, and said slowly: "you know how good alice is, how much she will do for any one she is fond of--for a friend, i mean, like the curé. very well, it is not an easy thing to give a concert in paris that earns fifteen hundred francs for a curé whom, it is safe to say, no one in the audience, save germaine, alice and myself had ever heard of. it was a veritable _tour de force_ to organize. you were not there. i'm glad you were not. it was a dull old concert that would not have amused you much--lassive fell ill at the last moment, delmar was in a bad humour, and the quartet had played the night before at a ball at the Élysée and were barely awake. yet in spite of it the theatre was packed; a chic audience, too. frambord came out with half a column in the _critique des arts_ with a pretty compliment to alice's executive energy, and added 'that it was one of the rare soirées of the season.' he must have been drunk when he wrote it. i played badly--i never can play when they gabble. it was as garrulous as a fish market in front. _enfin!_ it was over and we telegraphed his reverence the result; from a money standpoint it was a '_succès fou_.'" tanrade leaned back and for a few seconds gazed at the ceiling of my den. "where every penny has gone," he resumed, with a strained smile, "_dieu sait!_ there is no bell, not even the sound of one, _et voilà!_" he turned abruptly and reached for his glass, forgetting he had drained it. a fly was buzzing on its back in the last drop. and then we both smiled grimly, for we were thinking of monsieur le curé. i rang the bell of the presbytery early the next morning, by inserting my jackknife, to spare my fingers, in a loop at the end of a crooked wire which dangles over the rambling wall of the curé's garden. the door itself is of thick oak, and framed by stones overgrown with lichens--a solid old playground for nervous lizards when the sun shines, and a favourite sticking place for snails when it rains. i had to tug hard on the crooked wire before i heard a faint jingle issuing in response from the curé's cavernous kitchen, whose hooded chimney and stone-paved floor i love to paint. now came the klop-klop of a pair of sabots--then the creak of a heavy key as it turned over twice in the rusty lock, and his faithful marie cautiously opened the garden door. i do not know how old marie is, there is so little left of this good soul to guess by. her small shrunken body is bent from age and hard work. her hands are heavy--the fingers gnarled and out of proportion to her gaunt thin wrists. she has the wrinkled, leathery face of some kindly gnome. she opened her eyes in a sort of mute appeal as i inquired if monsieur le curé was at home. "ah! my poor monsieur, his reverence will see no one"--she faltered--"_ah! mais_"--she sighed, knowing that i knew the change in her master and the gossip thereof. "my good marie," i said, persuasively patting her bony shoulder, "tell his reverence that i _must_ see him. old friends as we are--" "_bon dieu, oui!_" she exclaimed after another sigh. "such old friends as you and he--i will go and see," said she, and turned bravely back down the path that led to his door while i waited among the roses. a few moments later marie beckoned to me from the kitchen window. "he will see you," she whispered, as i crossed the stone floor of the kitchen. "he is in the little room," and she pointed to a narrow door close by the big chimney, a door provided with old-fashioned little glass panes upon which are glued transparent chromos of wild ducks. i knocked gently. "_entrez!_" came a tired voice from within. i turned the knob and entered his den--a dingy little box of a room, sunk a step below the level of the kitchen, with a smoke-grimed ceiling and corners littered with dusty books and pamphlets. he was sitting with his back to me, humped up in a worn arm-chair, before his small stove, just as tanrade had found him. as i edged around his table--past a rack holding his guns, half-hidden under two dilapidated game bags and a bicycle tyre long out of service, he turned his hollow eyes to mine, with a look i shall long remember, and feebly grasped my outstretched hand. "come," said i, "you're going to get a grip on yourself, _mon ami_. you're going to get out of this wretched, unkempt state of melancholia at once. tanrade has told me much. you know as well as i do, the village is a nest of gossip--that they make a mountain out of a molehill; if i were a pirate chief and had captured this vagabond port, i'd have a few of those wagging tongues taken out and keel-hauled in the bay." he started as if in pain, and again turned his haggard eyes to mine. "i don't believe there's a word of truth in it," i declared hotly. "there--_is_," he returned hoarsely, trembling so his voice faltered--"i am--a thief." he sat bolt-upright in his chair, staring at me like a man who had suddenly become insane. his declaration was so sudden and amazing, that for some moments i knew not what to reply, then a feeling of pity took possession of me. he was still my friend, whatever he had done. i saw his gaze revert to the crucifix hanging between the steel engravings of two venerable saints, over the mantel back of the stove--a mantel heaped with old shot bags and empty cartridge shells. "how the devil did it happen?" i blurted out at length. "you don't mean to say you stole the money?" "spent it," he replied half inaudibly. "how spent it? on yourself?" "no, no! thank god--" "how, then?" he leaned forward, his head sunk in his hands, his eyes riveted upon mine. "there is--so--much--dire--need of money," he said, catching his breath between his words. "we are all human--all weak in the face of another's misery. it takes a strong heart, a strong mind, a strong body to resist. there are some temptations too terrible even for a priest. i wish with all my heart that alice had never given it into my hands." i started to speak, but he held up his arms. "do not ask me more," he pleaded--"i cannot tell you--i am ill and weak--my courage is gone." "is there any of the money left?" i ventured quietly, after waiting in vain for him to continue. "i do not know," he returned wearily, "most of it has gone--over there, beneath the papers, in the little drawer," he said pointing to the corner; "i kept it there. yes, there is some left--but i have not dared count it." again there ensued a painful silence, while i racked my brain for a scheme that might still save the situation, bad as it looked. in the state he was in, i had not the heart to worry out of him a fuller confession. most of the fifteen hundred francs was gone, that was plain enough. what he had done with it i could only conjecture. had he given it to save another i wondered. some man or woman whose very life and reputation depended upon it? had he fallen in love hopelessly and past all reasoning? there is no man that some woman cannot make her slave. it was not many years ago, that a far more saintly priest than he eloped to belgium with a pretty seamstress of les fosses. then i thought of germaine!--that little minx, badly in debt--perhaps? no, no, impossible! she was too clever--too honest for that. "have you seen alice?" i broke our silence with at length. he shook his head wearily. "i could not," he replied, "i know the bitterness she must feel toward me." at that moment marie knocked at the door. as she entered, i saw that her wrinkled face was drawn, as with lowered eyes she regarded a yellow envelope stamped with the seal of the _république française_. with a trembling hand she laid it beside the curé, and left the room. the curé started, then he rose nervously to his feet, steadying himself against the table's edge as he tore open the envelope, and glanced at its contents. with a low moan he sank back in his chair.--"go," he pleaded huskily, "i wish to be alone--i have been summoned before the mayor." * * * * * never before in the history of the whole country about, had a curé been hauled to account. pont du sable was buzzing like a beehive over the affair. along its single thoroughfare, flanked by the stone houses of the fishermen, the gossips clustered in groups. from what i caught in passing proved to me again that his reverence had more friends than enemies. it was in the mayor's kitchen, which serves him as executive chamber as well, that the official investigation took place. with the exception of the municipal council, consisting of the baker, the butcher, the grocer, and two raisers of cattle, none were to be admitted at the mayor's save tanrade, myself and alice de bréville, whose presence the mayor had judged imperative, and who had been summoned from paris. tanrade and i had arrived early--the mayor greeting us at the gate of his trim little garden, and ushering us to our chairs in the clean, well-worn kitchen, with as much solemnity as if there had been a death in the house. here we sat, under the low ceiling of rough beams and waited in a funereal silence, broken only by the slow ticking of the tall clock in the corner. it was working as hard as it could, its brass pendulum swinging lazily toward three o'clock, the hour appointed for the investigation. monsieur le maire to-day was no longer the genial, ruddy old raiser of cattle, who stops me whenever i pass his gate with a hearty welcome. he was all mayor to-day, clean shaven to the raw edges of his cropped gray side-whiskers with a look of grave importance in his shrewd eyes and a firm setting of his wrinkled upper lip, that indicated the dignity of his office; a fact which was further accentuated by his carefully brushed suit of black, a clean starched collar and the tri-coloured silk sash, with gold tassels, which he is forced to gird his fat paunch with, when he either marries you or sends you to jail. the clock ticked on, its oaken case reflecting the copper light from the line of saucepans hanging beside it on the wall. presently, the municipal council filed in and seated themselves about a centre table, upon which lay in readiness the official seal, pen, ink and paper. being somewhat ill at ease in his starched shirt, the florid grocer coughed frequently, while the two cattle-raisers in their black blouses, talked in gutteral whispers over a bargain in calves. through the open window, screened with cool vines, came the faint murmur of the village--suddenly it ceased. i rose, and going to the window, looked up the street. the curé was coming down it, striding along as straight as a savage, nodding to those who nodded to him. an old fisherwoman hobbled forth and kissed his hand. young and old, gamblers of the sea, lifted their caps as he passed. "the census of opinion is with him," i whispered to tanrade, as i regained my chair. "he has his old grit with him, too." the next instant, his reverence strode in before us--firm, cool, and so thoroughly master of himself that a feeling of intense relief stole over me. "i have come," he said, in a clear, even voice, "in answer to your summons, monsieur le maire." the mayor rose, bowed gravely, waved the curé to a chair opposite the municipal council, and continued in silence the closely written contents of two official documents containing the charge. the stopping of an automobile at his gate now caused him to look up significantly. madame de bréville had arrived. as alice entered every man in the room rose to his feet. never had i seen her look lovelier, gowned, as she was, in simple black, her dark hair framing her exquisite features, pale as ivory, her sensitive mouth tense as she pressed tanrade's hand nervously, and took her seat beside us. for an instant, i saw her dark eyes flash as she met the steady gaze of the curé's. "in the name of the _république française_," began the mayor in measured tones. the curé folded his arms, his eyes fixed on the open door. "pardon me," interrupted alice, "i wish it to be distinctly understood before you begin, monsieur le maire, that i am here wholly against my will." the curé turned sharply. "you have summoned me," continued alice, "and there was no alternative but to come--i know nothing in detail concerning the charge against monsieur le curé, nor do i wish to take any part whatever in this unfortunate affair. it is imperative that i return to paris in time to play to-night, i beg of you that you will let me go at once." there was a polite murmur of surprise from the municipal council. the curé sprang to his feet. "alice, my child!" he cried, "look at me." her eyes met his own, her lips twitching nervously, her breast heaving. "i wish _you_ to judge me before you go," he pleaded. "they accuse me of being a thief;" his voice rose suddenly to its full vibrant strength; "they do not know the truth." alice leaned forward, her lips parted. "god only knows what this winter has been," declared his reverence--"empty nets--always empty nets." he struck the table with his clenched fist. "empty nets!" he cried, "until i could bear it no longer. my children were in dire need; they came to you," he declared, turning to the mayor, "and you refused them." the mayor shrugged his shoulders with a grunt of resentment. "i gave what i could, while it lasted, from the public fund," he explained frankly; "there were new roads to be cut." "roads!" shouted the curé. "what are roads in comparison to illness and starvation? they came to me," he went on, turning to alice, "little children--mothers, ill, with little children and not a sou in the house, and none to be earned fishing. old men crying for bread for those whom they loved. i grew to hate the very thought of the bells; they seemed to me a needless luxury among so much misery." his voice rose until it rang clear in the room. "i gave it to them," he cried out. "there in my little drawer lay the power to save those who were near death from sickness, from dirt, from privation!" alice's ringless white hands were clenched in her lap. "and i saw, as i gave," continued the curé, "the end of pain and of hunger--little by little i gave, hoping somehow to replace it, until i dared give no more." he paused, and drew forth from the breast of his soutane a small cotton sack that had once held his gun wads. "here is what is left, gentlemen," said he, facing the municipal council; "i have counted it at last, four hundred and eighty francs, sixty-five centimes." there were tears now in alice's eyes; dark eyes that followed the curé's with a look of tenderness and pain. the mayor sat breathing irritably. as for the municipal council, it was evident to tanrade and myself, that not one of these plain, red-eared citizens was eager to send a priest to jail--it was their custom occasionally to go to mass. "marianne's illness," continued the curé, "was an important item. you seemed to consider her case of typhoid as a malady that would cure itself if let alone. marianne needed care, serious care, strong as she was. the girl, yvonne, she saved from drowning last year, and her baby, she still shelters among her own children in her hut. they, too, had to be fed; for marianne was helpless to care for them. there was the little boy, too, of the gavons--left alone, with a case of measles well developed when i found him, on the draughty floor of a loft; the mother and father had been drunk together for three days at bar la rose. and there were others--the mère gailliard, who would have been sold out for her rent, and poor old varnet, the fisherman; he had no home, no money, no friends; he is eighty-four years old. most of the winter he slept in a hedge under a cast-off sail. i got him a better roof and something for his stomach, monsieur le maire." he paused again, and drew out a folded paper from his pocket. "here is a list of all i can remember i have given to, and the amounts as near as i can recall them," he declared simply. again he turned to alice. "it is to you, dear friend, i have come to confess," he continued; "as for you, gentlemen, my very life, the church i love, all that this village means to me, lies in your hands; i do not beg your mercy. i have sinned and i shall take the consequences--all i ask you to do is to judge fairly the error of my ways." monsieur le curé took his seat. "it is for you, madame de bréville, to decide," said the mayor, after some moments conference with the council, "since the amount in question was given by your hand." alice rose--softly she slipped past the municipal council of pont du sable, until she stood looking up into the curé's eyes; then her arms went about his strong neck and she kissed him as tenderly as a sister. "child!" i heard him murmur. "we shall give another concert," she whispered in his ear. [illustration: bell] * * * * * [illustration: the miser--garron] chapter eleven the miser--garron we've had a drowning at pont du sable. drownings are not infrequent on this rough norman coast of france. only last december five able fishermen went down within plain sight of the dunes in a roaring white sea that gave no quarter. this gale by night became a cyclone; the sea a driving hell of water, hail and screaming wind. the barometer dropped to twenty-eight. the wind blew at one hundred and twenty kilometers an hour. six fishing boats hailing from boulogne perished with their crews. their women went by train to calais, still hoping for news, and returned weeping and alone. at boulogne the waves burst in spray to a height of forty feet over the breakwater--small wonder that the transatlantic liner due there to take on passengers, signalled to her plunging tender already in danger--"going through--no passengers--" and proceeded on her way to new york. the sea that night killed with a blow. this latest drowning at pont du sable was a tragedy--or rather, the culmination of a series of tragedies. "suicide?" "_non_--_mon ami_--wait until you hear the whole truth of this plain tale." on my return from shooting this morning, suzette brought me the news. the whole fishing village has known it since daylight. it seems that the miser, garron--garron's boy--garron's woman, julie, and another woman who nobody seems to know much about, are mixed up in the affair. garron's history i have known for months--my good friend the curé confided to me much concerning the unsavory career of this vagabond of a miser, whose hut is on the "great marsh," back of pont du sable. garron and i hailed "_bonjour_" to each other through the mist at dawn one morning, as i chanced to pass by his abode, a wary flight of vignon having led me a fruitless chase after them across the great marsh. at a distance through the rifts of mist i mistook this isolated hut of garron's for a _gabion_. as i drew within hailing distance of its owner i saw that the hut stood on a point of mud and wire grass that formed the forks of the stream that snakes its way through the centre of this isolated prairie, and so on out to the open sea, two kilometers beyond. as shrewd a rascal as garron needed just such a place to settle on. as he returned my _bonjour_, his woman, julie, appeared in the low doorway of the hut and grinned a greeting to me across the fork of the stream. she impressed me as being young, though she was well on in the untold forties. her mass of fair hair--her ruddy cheeks--her blue eyes and her thick strong body, gave her the appearance of youthful buxomness. life must be tough enough with a man like garron. with the sagacity of an animal he knew the safety of the open places. by day no one could emerge from the far horizon of low woodland skirting the great marsh, without its sole inhabitant noting his approach. by night none but as clever a poacher as garron could have found his way across the labyrinth of bogs, ditches and pitfalls. both the hut and the woman cost garron nothing; both were a question of abandoned wreckage. garron showed me his hut that morning, inviting me to cross a muddy plank as slippery as glass, with which he had spanned the stream, that he might get a closer look at me and know what manner of man i was. he did not introduce me to the woman, and i took good care, as i crossed his threshold and entered the dark living-room with its dirt floor, not to force her acquaintance, but instead, ran my eye discreetly over the objects in the gloom--a greasy table littered with dirty dishes, a bed hidden under a worn quilt and a fireplace of stones over which an iron pot of soup was simmering. beyond was another apartment, darker than the one in which i stood--a sort of catch-all for the refuse of the former. the whole of this disreputable shack was built of the wreckage of honest ships. it might have been torn down and reassembled into some sort of a decent craft. part of a stout rudder with its heavy iron hinges, served as the door. for years it had guided some good ship safe into port--then the wreck occurred. for weeks after--months, perhaps--it had drifted at sea until it found a resting place on the beach and was stolen by garron to serve him as a strong barrier. garron had a bad record--you saw this in his small shifty black eyes, that evaded your own when you spoke to him, and were riveted upon you the moment your back was turned. he was older than the woman--possibly fifty years of age, when i first met him, and, though he lived in the open, there was a ghastly pallor in his hard face with its determined, square jaw--a visage well seamed by sin--and crowned by a shock of black hair streaked with gray. in body he was short, with unusually broad shoulders and unnaturally long arms. physically he was as strong as an ape, yet i believe the woman could easily have strangled him with her bare hands. garron had been a hard drinker in his youth, a capable thief and a skilful poacher. his career in civilization ended when he was young and--it is said--good-looking. some twenty-five years ago--so the curé tells me--garron worked one summer for a rich cattle dealer named villette, on his farm some sixty kilometers back of the great marsh. villette was one of those big, silent normans, who spoke only when it was worth while, and was known for his brusqueness and his honesty. he was a giant in build--a man whose big hands and feet moved slowly but surely; a man who avoided making intimate friendships and was both proud and rich--proud of his goods and chattels--of his vast grazing lands and his livestock--proud too, of his big stone farmhouse with its ancient courtyard flanked by his stone barns and his entrance gate whose walls were as thick as those of some feudal stronghold; proud, too, of his wife--a plump little woman with a merry eye and whom he never suspected of being madly infatuated with his young farm hand, garron. their love affair culminated in an open scandal. the woman lacked both the shrewdness and discretion of her lover; he had poached for years and had never been caught;--it is, therefore, safe to say he would as skilfully have managed to evade suspicion as far as the woman was concerned, had not things gone from bad to worse. villette discovered this too late; garron had suddenly disappeared, leaving madame to weather the scandal and the divorce that followed. more than this, young garron took with him ten thousand francs belonging to the woman, who had been fool enough to lend him her heart--a sum out of her personal fortune which, for reasons of her own, she deemed it wisest not to mention. with ten thousand francs in bank notes next his skin, garron took the shortest cut out of the neighbourhood. he travelled by night and slept by day, keeping to the unfrequented wood roads and trails secreted between the thick hedges, hidden by-ways that had proved their value during the guerilla warfares that were so successfully waged in normandy generations ago. three days later garron passed through the modest village of hirondelette, an unknown vagabond. he looked so poor that a priest in passing gave him ten sous. "courage, my son," counselled the good man--"you will get work soon. try the farm below, they are in need of hands." "may you never be in want, father," garron strangled out huskily in reply. then he slunk on to the next farm and begged his dinner. the bank notes no longer crinkled when he walked; they had taken the contour of his hairy chest. every now and then he stopped and clutched them to see if they were safe, and twice he counted and recounted them in a ditch. with the great marsh as a safe refuge in his crafty mind, he passed by the next sundown back of pont du sable; slept again in a hedge, and by dawn had reached the marsh. most of that day he wandered over it looking for a site for his hut. he chose the point at the forks of the stream--no one in those days, save a lone hunter ever came there. moreover, there was another safeguard. the great marsh was too cut up by ditches and bogs to graze cattle on, hence no one to tend them, and the more complete the isolation of its sole inhabitant. having decided on the point, he set about immediately to build his hut. the sooner housed the better, thought garron, besides, the packet next his chest needed a safe hiding place. for days the curlews, circling high above the marsh, watched him snaking driftwood from the beach up the crooked stream to the point at the forks. the rope he dragged them with he stole from a fisherman's boat picketed for the night beyond the dunes. when he had gathered a sufficient amount of timber he went into pont du sable with three hares he had snared and traded them for a few bare necessities--an old saw, a rusty hammer and some new nails. he worked steadily. by the end of a fortnight he had finished the hut. when it was done he fashioned (for he possessed considerable skill as a carpenter) a clever hiding place in the double wall of oak for his treasure. then he nailed up his door and went in search of a mate. * * * * * he found her after dark--this girl to his liking--at the _fête_ in the neighbouring village of avelot. she turned and leered at him as he nudged her elbow, the lights from the merry-go-round she stood watching illumining her wealth of fair hair and her strong young figure silhouetted against the glare. garron had studied her shrewdly, singling her out in the group of village girls laughing with their sweethearts. the girl he nudged he saw did not belong to the village--moreover, she was barefooted, mischievously drunk, and flushed with riding on the wooden horses. she was barely eighteen. she laughed outright as he gripped her strong arm, and opened her wanton mouth wide, showing her even, white teeth. in return for her welcome he slapped her strong waist soundly. "_allons-y_--what do you say to a glass, _ma belle_?" ventured garron with a grin. "_eh ben!_ i don't say no," she laughed again, in reply. he felt her turn instinctively toward him--there was already something in common between these two. he pushed her ahead of him through the group with a certain familiar authority. when they were free of the crowd and away from the lights his arm went about her sturdy neck and he crushed her warm mouth to his own. "_allons-y_--" he repeated--"come and have a glass." they had crossed in the mud to a dingy tent lighted by a lantern; here they seated themselves on a rough bench at a board table, his arm still around her. she turned to leer at him now, half closing her clear blue eyes. when he had swallowed his first thimbleful of applejack he spat, and wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand, while the girl grew garrulous under the warmth of the liquor and his rough affection. again she gave him her lips between two wet oaths. no one paid any attention to them--it was what a _fête_ was made for. for a while they left their glasses and danced with the rest to the strident music of the merry-go-round organ. it was long after midnight when garron paid his score under the tent. she had told him much in the meantime--there was no one to care whom she followed. she told him, too, she had come to the _fête_ from a hamlet called les forêts, where she had been washing for a woman. the moon was up when they took the highroad together, following it until it reached the beginning of pont du sable, then garron led the way abruptly to the right up a tangled lane that ran to an old woodroad that he used to gain the great marsh. they went lurching along together in comparative silence, the man steadying the girl through the dark places where the trees shut out the moon. garron knew the road as well as his pocket--it was a favourite with him when he did not wish to be seen. now and then the girl sang in a maudlin way: "_entrez, entrez, messieurs, c'est l'amour qui vous attend._" it was gray dawn when they reached the edge of the great marsh that lay smothered under a blanket of chill mist. "it is over there, my nest," muttered garron, with a jerk of his thumb indicating the direction in which his hut lay. again he drew her roughly to him. "_dis donc, toi!_" he demanded brusquely: "how do they call you?" it had not, until then, occurred to him to ask her name. "_eh ben_--julie," she replied. "it's a _sacré_ little name i never liked. _eh, tu sais_," she added slowly--"when i don't like a thing--" she drew back a little and gazed at him sullenly--"_eh ben_--i am like that when i don't like a thing." her flash of temper pleased him--he had had enough of the trustful kitten of villette's. "come along," said he gruffly. "_dis donc, toi_," she returned without moving. "it is well understood then about my dress and the shoes?" "_mais oui! bon dieu!_" replied the peasant irritably. he was hungry and wanted his soup. he swore at the chill as he led the way across the marsh while she followed in his tracks, satisfied with his promise of the dress and shoes. she wanted a blue dress and she had seen the shoes that pleased her some months before in the grocery at pont du sable when a dog and she had dragged a fisherwoman in her cart for their board and lodging. by the time they reached the forks of the stream the rising sun had melted the blanket of the mist until it lay over the desolate prairie in thin rifts of rose vapour. it was thus the miser, garron, found his mate. * * * * * julie proved to be a fair cook, and the two lived together, at the beginning, in comparative peace. although it was not until days after the _fête_ at avelot that she managed to hold him to his promise about the blue dress, he sent her to pont du sable for her shoes the day after their arrival on the marsh--she bought them and they hurt her. the outcome of this was their first quarrel. "_sacré bon dieu!_" he snarled--"thou art never content!" then he struck her with the back of his clenched fist and, womanlike, she went whimpering to bed. neither he nor she thought much of the blow. her mind was on the shoes that did not fit. when she was well asleep and snoring, he ran his sinewy arm in the hole he had made in the double wall--lifted the end of a short, heavy plank, caught it back against a nail and gripped the packet of bank notes that lay snug beneath it. satisfied they were safe and his mate still asleep, he replaced the plank over his fortune--crossed the dirt floor to his barrier of a door, dropped an iron rod through two heavy staples, securely bolting it--blew out the tallow dip thrust in the neck of an empty bottle, and went to bed. months passed--months that were bleak and wintry enough on the marsh for even a hare to take to the timber for comfort. during most of that winter garron peddled the skins of rabbits he snared on the marsh, and traded and bought their pelts, and he lived poor that no one might suspect his wealth. he and his mate rose, like the wild fowl, with the sun and went to bed with it, to save the light of the tallow dip. though i have said she could easily have strangled him with her hands, she refrained. twice, when she lay half awake she had seen him run his wiry arm in the wall--one night she had heard the lifting of the heavy plank and the faint crinkling sound of the package as he gripped it. she had long before this suspected he had money hidden. julie was no fool! with the spring the marsh became more tenable. the smallest song birds from the woods flitted along the ditches; there were days, too, when the desolate prairie became soft--hazy--and inviting. at daybreak, the beginning of one of these delicious spring days, garron, hearing a sharp cry without, rose abruptly and unbolted his barrier. he would have stepped out and across his threshold had not his bare foot touched something heavy and soft. he looked down--still half asleep--then he started back in a sort of dull amazement. the thing his foot had touched was a bundle--a rolled and well-wrapped blanket, tied with a stout string. the sharp cry he had heard he now realized, issued from the folds of the blanket. garron bent over it, his thumb and forefinger uncovering the face of a baby. "_sacristi!_" he stammered--then leaned back heavily against the old rudder of a door. julie heard and crawled out of bed. she was peering over his shoulder at the bundle at his feet before he knew it. garron half wheeled and faced her as her breath touched his coarse ear. "_eh bien!_ what is it?" he exclaimed, searching vainly for something else to say. "_eh ben! Ça! nom de dieu!_" returned his mate nodding to the bundle. "it is pretty--that!" "_tu m'accuses, hein?_" he snarled. "they do not leave bundles of that kind at the wrong door," she retorted in reply, half closing her blue eyes and her red hands. "_allons! allons!_" he exclaimed with heat, still at a loss for his words. with her woman's instinct she brushed past him and started to pick up the bundle, but he was too quick for her and drew her roughly back, gripping her waist so sharply that he felt her wince. "it does not pass like that!" he cried sharply. "_eh ben!_ listen to me. i'm too old a rat to be made a fool of--to be tricked like that!" "tricked!" she laughed back--"no, my old one--it is as simple as _bonjour_, and since it is thine thou wilt keep it. thou'lt--keep what thou--" the pent-up rage within him leaped to his throat: "it does not pass like that!" he roared. with his clenched fist he struck her squarely across the mouth. he saw her sink limp to the ground, bleeding, her head buried between her knees. then he picked up the child and started with it across the plank that spanned the fork of the stream. a moment later, still dizzy from the blow, she saw him dimly, making rapidly across the marsh toward a bend in the stream. then the love of a mother welled up within her and she got to her feet and followed him. "stay where thou art!" he shouted back threateningly. the child in his arms was screaming. she saw his hand cover its throat--the next moment she had reached him and her two hands were about his own in a grip that sent him choking to his knees. the child rolled from his arms still screaming, and the woman who was strangling garron into obedience now sank her knee in his back until she felt him give up. "_assez!_" he grunted out when he could breathe. "_eh ben!_ i am like _that_ when i don't like a thing!" she cried, savagely repeating her old words. he looked up and saw a dangerous gleam in her eyes. "_ah, mais oui alors!_" she shouted defiantly. "since it is thine thou wilt keep it!" garron did not reply. she knew the fight was out of him and picked up the still screaming baby, which she hugged to her breast, crooning over it while garron got lamely to his feet. without another word she started back to the hut, garron following his mate and his son in silence. * * * * * years passed and the boy grew up on the marsh, tolerated by garron and idolized and spoiled by julie--years that transformed the black-eyed baby into a wiry, reckless young rascal of sixteen with all the vagabond nature of his father--straight and slim, with the clear-cut features of a gypsy. a year later the brother of madame villette, a well-known figure on the paris bourse, appeared and after a satisfactory arrangement with garron, took the boy with him to paris to be educated. it was hard on julie, who adored him. her consent was not even asked, but at the time she consoled herself with the conviction, however, that the good fortune that had fallen to the lot of the baby she had saved, was for the best. the uncle was rich--that in itself appealed strongly to her peasant mind. that, and her secret knowledge of garron's fortune, for she had discovered and counted it herself and, motherlike, told the boy. * * * * * in paris the attempt to educate jacques baptiste garron was an expensive experiment. when he went to bed at all it was only when the taverns and cafés along the "boul-miche" closed before dawn. even then he and his band of idle students found other retreats and more glasses in the all-night cafés near the halles. and so he ate and drank and slept and made love to any little outcast who pleased him--one of these amiable _petites femmes_--the inside of whose pocketbook was well greased with rouge--became his devoted slave. she was proud of this handsome devil-may-care "type" of hers and her jealousy was something to see to believe. little by little she dominated him until he ran heavily in debt. she even managed the uncle when the nephew failed--she was a shrewd little brat--small and tense as wire, with big brown eyes and hair that was sometimes golden and sometimes a dry titian red, according to her choice. once, when she left him for two days, garron threatened to kill himself. "_pauvre gosse!_" she said sympathizingly on her return--and embraced him back to sanity. the real grain of saneness left in young garron was his inborn love of a gun. it was the gun which brought him down from paris, back to the great marsh now and then when the ducks were on flight. he had his own _gabion_ now at the lower end of the bay at pont du sable, in which he slept and shot from nights when the wind was northeast--a comfortable, floating box of a duck-blind sunk in an outer jacket of tarred planks and chained to a heavy picket driven in the mud and wire grass, for the current ran dangerously strong there when the tide was running out. late in october young garron left paris suddenly and the girl with the titian hair was with him. he, like his father, needed a safe refuge. pressed by his creditors he had forged his uncle's name. the only way out of the affair was to borrow from julie to hush up the matter. it did not occur to him at the time how she would feel about the girl; neither did he realize that he had grown to be an arrogant young snob who now treated julie, who had saved his life, and pampered him, more like a servant than a foster-mother. the night young garron arrived was at the moment of the highest tides. the four supped together that night in the hut--the father silent and sullen throughout the meal and julie insanely jealous of the girl. later old garron went off across the marsh in the moonlight to look after his snares. when the three were alone julie turned to the boy. for some moments she regarded him shrewdly. she saw he was no longer the wild young savage she had brought up; there was a certain nervous, blasé feebleness about his movements as he sat uneasily in his chair, his hands thrust in the pockets of his hunting coat, his chin sunk on his chest. she noticed too, the unnatural redness of his lips and the haggard pallor about his thin, sunken cheeks. "_eh ben, mon petit_--" she began at length. "it is a poor place to get fat in, your paris! they don't feed you any too well--_hein?_--those grand restaurants you talk so much about. pouf!" "_penses-tu?_" added the girl, since garron did not reply. instead he lighted a fresh cigarette, took two long puffs from it, and threw it on the floor. the girl, angered at his silence and lack of courage, gave him a vicious glance. "_hélas!_" sighed julie, "you were quicker with your tongue when you were a baby." "_ah zut!_" exclaimed the girl in disgust. "he has something to tell you--" she blurted out to julie. "_eh ben!_ what?" demanded julie firmly. "i need some money," muttered the boy doggedly. "i _need it!!_" he cried suddenly, gaining courage in a sort of nervous hysteria. julie stared at him in amazement, the girl watching her like a lynx. "_bon dieu!_" shouted julie. "and it is because of _that_ you sit there like a sick cat! listen to me, my little one. eat the good grease like the rest of us and be content if you keep out of jail." the boy sank lower in his chair. "it will be jail for me," he said, "unless you help me. give me five hundred francs. i tell you i am in a bad fix. _sacré bon dieu!_--you _shall_ give it to me!" he cried, half springing from his chair. "shut up, thou," whispered the girl--"not so fast!" "do you think it rains money here?" returned julie, closing her red fists upon the table, "that all you have to do is to ask for it? _ah, mais non, alors!_" the boy slunk back in his chair staring at the tallow dip disconsolately. the girl gritted her small teeth--somehow, she felt abler than he to get it out of julie in the end. "you stole it, _hein?_" cried julie, "like your father. name of a dog! it is the same old trick that, and it brings no good. _allons!_" she resumed after a short pause. "_dépêche toi!_ get out for your ducks--i'm going to bed." "give me four hundred," pleaded the boy. "not a sou!" cried julie, bringing her fist down on the greasy table, and she shot a jealous glance at the girl. without a word, young garron rose dejectedly, got into his goatskin coat, picked up his gun and, turning, beckoned to the girl. "go on!" she cried; "i'll come later." "he is an infant," said she to julie, when young garron had closed the door behind him. "he has no courage. you know the fix we are in--the commissaire of police in paris already has word of it." julie did not reply; she still sat with her clenched fists outstretched on the table. "he has forged his uncle's check," snapped the girl. julie did not reply. "_ah, c'est comme ça!_" sneered the girl with a cool laugh--"and when he is in jail," she cried aloud, "_eh, bien--quoi?_" "he will not have _you_, then," returned julie faintly. "ah----" she exclaimed. she slipped her tense little body into her thick automobile coat and with a contemptuous toss of her chin passed out into the night, leaving the door open. "jacques!" she called shrilly--"jacques!--_attends._" "_bon!_" came his voice faintly in reply from afar on the marsh. after some moments julie got slowly to her feet, crossed the dirt floor of the hut and closing the door dropped the bar through the staples. then for the space of some minutes she stood by the table struggling with a jealous rage that made her strong knees tremble. she who had saved his life, who had loved him from babyhood--she told herself--and what had he done for her in return? the great paris that she knew nothing of had stolen him; paris had given him _her_--that little viper with her red mouth; paris had ruined him--had turned him into a thief like his father. silently she cursed his uncle. then her rage reverted again to the girl. she thought too, of her own life with garron--of all its miserly hardships. "they have given me nothing--" she sobbed aloud--"nothing." "five hundred francs would save him!" she told herself. she caught her breath, then little by little again the motherly warmth stole up into her breast deadening for the moment the pain of her jealousy. she straightened to her full height, squaring her broad shoulders like a man and stepped across to the wall. "it is as much mine as it is his," she said between her teeth. she ran her arm into the hole in the wall, lifted the heavy plank and drew out a knitted sock tied with a stout string. from the toe she drew out garron's fortune. "he shall have it--the _gosse_--" she said, "and the rest--is as much mine as it is his." she thrust the package in her breast. half an hour later julie stood, scarcely breathing, her ear to the locked door of his _gabion_. "a pretty lot you came from," she overheard the girl say, "that old cat would sooner see you go to jail." the rest of her words were half lost in the rush and suck of the tide slipping out from the _gabion's_ outer jacket of boards. the heavy chain clinked taut with the pull of the outgoing tide, then relaxed in the back rush of water. "bah!" she heard him reply, "they are pigs, those peasants. i was a fool to have gone to them for help." "you had better have gone to the old man," taunted the girl, "as i told you at first." "he is made of the same miserly grizzle as she," he retorted hotly. again the outrush of the tide drowned their words. julie clenched her red fists and drew a long breath. a sudden frenzy seized her. before she realized what she was doing, she had crawled in the mud on her hands and knees to the heavy picket. here she waited until the backward rush again slackened the chain, then she half drew the iron pin that held the last link. half drew it! had the girl been alone, she told herself, she would have given her to the ebb tide. julie rose to her feet and turned back across the marsh, unconscious that the last link was nearly free and that the jerk and pull of the outgoing tide was little by little freeing the pin from the link. she kept on her way, towards a hidden wood road that led down to the marsh at the far end of pont du sable and beyond. she was done with the locality forever. garron's money was still in her breast. * * * * * at the first glimmer of dawn the next morning, the short, solitary figure of a man prowled the beach. he was hatless and insane with rage. in one hand he gripped an empty sock. he would halt now and then and wave his long, ape-like arms--cursing the deep strip of sea water that prevented him from crossing to the hard desert of sand beyond--far out upon which lay an upturned _gabion_. within this locked and stranded box lay two dead bodies. crabs fought their way eagerly through the cracks of the water-sprung door, and over it, breasting the salt breeze, slowly circled a cormorant--curious and amazed at so strange a thing at low tide. [illustration: the upturned gabion] * * * * * [illustration: game birds on the marsh] chapter twelve midwinter flights one dines there much too well. this snug restaurant des rois stands back from the grand boulevard in a slit of a street so that its ancient windows peer out askance at the gay life streaming by the corner. the burgundy at "les rois" warms the soul, and the chablis! ah! where else in all paris is there such chablis? golden, sound and clear as topaz. chablis, i hold, should be drank by some merry blonde whose heart is light; burgundy by a brunette in a temper. the small café on the ground floor is painted white, relieved by a frieze of gilded garlands and topped by a ceiling frescoed with rosy nymphs romping in a smoked turquoise sky. between five and seven o'clock these midwinter afternoons the café is filled with its _habitués_--distinguished old frenchmen, who sip their absinthe leisurely enough to glance over the leading articles in the conservative _temps_ or the slightly gayer _figaro_. upstairs, by means of a spiral stairway, is a labyrinth of narrow, low-ceiled corridors leading to half a dozen stuffy little _cabinets particuliers_, about whose faded lambrequins and green velveted chairs there still lurks the scent of perfumes once in vogue with the gallants, beaux and belles of the second empire. alice de bréville, tanrade, and myself, are dining to-night in one of these _intime_ little rooms. the third to the left down the corridor. _sapristi!_ what a change in tanrade. he is becoming a responsible person---he has even grown neat and punctual--he who used to pound at the door of my house abandoned by the marsh at pont du sable, an hour late for dinner, dressed in a fisherman's sea-going overalls of brown canvas, a pair of sabots and a hat that any passing vagabond might have discarded by the roadside. i could not help noticing carefully to-night his new suit of black broadcloth, with its standing collar, buttoned up under his genial chin. his black hair is neatly combed and his broad-brimmed hat that hangs over my own on the wall, is but three days old. thus had this _bon garçon_ who had won the prix de rome been transformed---and alice was responsible, i knew, for the change. who would not change anything for so exquisite and dear a friend as alice? she, too, was in black, without a jewel--a gown which her lithe body wore with all its sveltness--a gown that matched her dark eyes and hair, accentuating the clean-cut delicacy of her features and the ivory clearness of her olive skin. she was a very merry alice to-night, for her long engagement at the bouffes parisiennes was at an end. and she had been making the best of her freedom by keeping tanrade hard at work over the score of his new ballet. they are more in love with each other than ever--so much so that they insist on my dining with them, and so these little dinners of three at "les rois" have become almost nightly occurrences. it is often so with those in love to be generous to an old friend--even lovers have need of company. we were lingering over our coffee when the talk reverted to the new ballet. "it is done, _ma chérie_," declared tanrade, in reply to an imperative inquiry from alice. "bavière shall have the whole of the second act to-morrow." "and the ballet in the third?" she asked sternly, lifting her brilliant eyes. "_eh, voilà!_" laughed that good fellow, as he drew forth from his pocket a thin roll of manuscript and spread it out before her, that she might see--but it was not discreet for me to continue, neither is it good form to embrace before the old _garçon de café_, who at that moment entered apologetically with the liqueurs--as for myself, i have long since ceased to count in such tender moments of reward, during which i am of no more consequence than a faithful poodle. again the garçon entered, this time with smiling assurance, for he brought me a telegram forwarded from my studio by my concierge. i opened the despatch: the next instant i jumped to my feet. "read!" i cried, poking the blue slip under tanrade's nose, "it's from the curé." "howling northeast gale"--tanrade read aloud--"duck and geese--come midnight train, bring two hundred fours, one hundred double zeros for ten bore." "_vive le curé!_" i shouted, "the good old boy to let us know. a northeast gale at last--a howler," he says. "he is charming--the curé," breathed alice, her breast heaving--"charming!" she repeated in a voice full of suppressed emotion. tanrade did not speak. he had let the despatch slip to the floor and sat staring at his glass. "you'll come, of course," i said with sudden apprehension, but he only shook his head. "what! you're not going?" i exclaimed in amazement. "we'll kill fifty ducks a night--it's the gale we've been waiting for." i saw the sullen gleam that had crept into alice's eyes soften; she drew near him--she barely touched his arm: "go, _mon cher_!" she said simply--"if you wish." he lifted his head with a grim smile, and i saw their eyes meet. i well knew what was passing in his mind--his promise to her to work--more than this, i knew he had not the heart to leave her during her well-earned rest. "_ah! les hommes!_" alice exclaimed, turning to me impetuously--"you are quite crazy, you hunters." i bowed in humble apology and again her dark eyes softened to tenderness. "_non_--forgive me, _mon ami_," she went on, "you are sane enough until news comes of those wretched little ducks, then, _mon dieu!_ there is no holding you. everything else goes out of your head; you become as mad as children rushing to a fête. is it not so?" still tanrade was silent. now and then he gave a shrug of his big shoulders and toyed with his half empty glass of liqueur. _sapristi!_ it is not easy to decide between the woman you love and a northeast gale thrashing the marsh in front of my house abandoned. he, like myself, could already picture in his mind's eye duck after duck plunge out of the night among our live decoys. my ears, like his own, were already ringing with the roar of the guns from the _gabions_--i could not resist a last appeal. "come," i insisted--"both of you--no--seriously--listen to me. there is plenty of dry wood in the garret; you shall have the _chambre d'amis_, dear friend, and this brute of a composer shall bunk in my room--we'll live, and shoot and be happy. suzette will be overjoyed at your coming. let me wire her to have breakfast ready for us?" alice laughed softly: "you are quite crazy, my poor friend," she said, laying her white hand on my shoulder. "you will freeze down there in that stone house of yours. oh, la! la!" she sighed knowingly--"the leaks for the wind--the cold bedrooms, the cold stone floors--b-r-r-h-h!" tanrade straightened back in his chair: "no," said he, "it is impossible; bavière can not wait. he must have his score. the rehearsals have been delayed long enough as it is--go, _mon vieux_, and good luck to you!" again the old garçon entered, this time with the timetable i had sent him for in a hurry. "_voilà_, monsieur!" he began excitedly, his thumbnail indicating the line--"the . , as monsieur sees, is an express--monsieur will not have to change at lisieux." "_bon!_" i cried--"quick--a taxi-auto." "_bien_, monsieur--a good hunt to monsieur," and he rushed out into the narrow corridor and down the spiral stairs while i hurried into my coat and hat. tanrade gripped my hand: "shoot straight!" he counselled with a smile. alice gave me her cheek, which i reverently kissed and murmured my apologies for my insistence in her small ear. then i swung open the door and made for the spiral stairs. at the bottom step i stopped short. i had completely forgotten i should not return until after new year's, and i rushed back to wish them a _bonne année_ in advance, but i closed the door of the stuffy little _cabinet particulier_ quicker than i opened it, for her arms were about the sturdy neck of a good comrade whose self-denial made me feel like the mad infant rushing to the fête. "_bonne année, mes enfants!_" i called from the corridor, but they did not hear. ten minutes later i reached my studio, dumped three hundred cartridges into a worn valise and caught the . with four minutes to spare. * * * * * _enfin!_ it is winter in earnest! the northeast gale gave, while it lasted, the best shooting the curé and i have ever had. then the wind shifted to the southwest with a falling barometer, and the flights ceased. again, for three days, the norman coast has been thrashed by squalls of driving snow. the wild geese are honking in v-shaped lines to an inland refuge for the white sea is no longer tenable. curlews cry hoarsely over the frozen fields. it is tough enough lying hidden in my sand pit on the open beach beyond the dunes, where i crack away at the ricketing flights of fat gray plover and beat myself to keep warm. fuel is scarce and there is hardly a sou to be earned fishing in such cruel weather as this. the country back of my house abandoned by the marsh is now stripped to bare actualities--all things are reduced to their proper size. houses, barns and the skeletons of leafless trees stand out, naked facts in the landscape. the orchards are soggy in mud and the once green feathery lane back of my house abandoned, is now a rough gash of frozen pools and rotten leaves. birds twitter in the thin hedges. i would never have believed my wild garden, once so full of mystery--gay flowers, sunshine and droning bees, to be so modest in size. a few rectangles of bare, frozen ground, and a clinging vine trembling against the old wall, is all that remains, save the scraggly little fruit trees green with moss. beyond, in a haze of chill sea mist, lie the woodlands, long undulating ribbons of gray twigs crouching under a leaden sky. in the cavernous cider press whose doors creak open within my courtyard père bordier and a boy in eartabs, are busy making cider. if you stop and listen you can hear the cider trickling into the cask and père bordier encouraging the patient horse who circles round and round a great stone trough in which revolve two juggernauts of wooden wheels. the place reeks with the ooze and drip of crushed apples. the giant screw of oak, the massive beams, seen dimly in the gloomy light that filters through a small barred window cut through the massive stone wall, gives the old pressoir the appearance of some feudal torture chamber. blood ran once, and people shrieked in such places--as these. * * * * * to-morrow begins the new year and every peasant girl's cheeks are scrubbed bright and her hair neatly dressed, for to-morrow all france embraces--so the cheeks are rosy in readiness. "_tiens_, mademoiselle!" exclaims the butcher's boy clattering into my kitchen in his sabots. _eh, voilà!_ my good little maid-of-all-work, suzette, has been kissed by the butcher's boy and a moment later by père bordier, who has left the cider press for a steaming bowl of _café au lait_; and ten minutes later by the mère péquin who brings the milk, and then in turn by the postman--by her master, by the boy in eartabs and by every child in the village since daylight for they have entered my courtyard in droves to wish the household of my house abandoned a happy new year, and have gone away content with their little stomachs filled and two big sous in their pockets. and now an old fisherman enters my door. it is the père varnet--he who goes out with his sheep dog to dig clams, since he is eighty-four and too old to go to sea. "_ah, malheur!_" he sighs wearily, lifting his cap with a trembling hand as seamed and tough as his tarpaulin. "ah, the bad luck," he repeats in a thin, husky voice. "i would not have deranged monsieur, but _bon dieu_, i am hungry. i have had no bread since yesterday. it is a little beast this hunger, monsieur. there are no clams--i have searched from the great bank to tocqueville." it is surprising how quick suzette can heat the milk. the old man is now seated in her kitchen before a cold duck of the curé's killing and hot coffee--real coffee with a stiff drink of applejack poured into it, and there is bread and cheese besides. like hungry men, he eats in silence and when he has eaten he tells me his dog is dead--that woolly sheep dog of his with a cast in one fishy green eye. "_oui_, monsieur," confided the old man, "he is dead. he was all i had left. it is not gay, monsieur, at eighty-four to lose one's last friend--to have him poisoned." "who poisoned him?" i inquired hotly--"was it bonvin the butcher? they say it was he poisoned both of madame vinet's cats." "_eh, ben!_" he returned, and i saw the tears well up into his watery blue eyes--"one should not accuse one's neighbours, but they say it was he, monsieur--they say it was in his garden that hector found the bad stuff--there are some who have no heart, monsieur." "bonvin!" i cried, "so it was that pig who poisoned him, eh? and you saved his little girl the time the _belle marie_ foundered." "_oui_, monsieur--the time the _belle marie_ foundered. it is true i did--we did the best we could! had it not been for the fog and the ebb tide i think we could have saved them all." he fell to eating again, cutting into the cheese discreetly--this fine old gentleman of the sea. it is a pity that some one has not poisoned bonvin i thought. a short thick fellow, is bonvin, with cheeks as red as raw chops and small eyes that glitter with cruelty. bonvin, whose youngest child--a male, has the look and intelligence of a veal and whose mother weighs one hundred and five kilos--a fact which bonvin is proud of since his first wife, who died, was under weight despite the fact that the bonvins being in the business, eat meat twice daily. i have always believed the veal infant's hair is curled in suet. its face grows purple after meals. * * * * * a rough old place is my village of vagabonds in winter, and i am glad alice did not come. poor tanrade--how he would have enjoyed that northeast gale! * * * * * two weeks later there came to my house abandoned by the marsh such joyful news that my hand trembled as i realized it--news that made my heart beat quicker from sudden surprise and delight. as i read and reread four closely written pages from tanrade and a corroborative postscript from alice, leaving no doubt as to the truth. "suzette! suzette!" i called. "come quick--_eh! suzette!_" i heard her trim feet running to me from the garden. the next instant she opened the door of my den and stood before me, her blue eyes and pretty mouth both open in wonder at being so hurriedly summoned. "what is the matter, monsieur?" she exclaimed panting, her fresh young cheeks all the rosier from her run. "monsieur tanrade and madame de bréville are going to be married," i announced as calmly as i could. "_hélas!_" gasped suzette. "_et voilà--et voilà!_" i cried, throwing the letter back on the table, while i squared my back to the blazing fire of my den and waited for the little maid's astonishment to subside. suzette did not speak. "it is true, nevertheless," i added with enthusiasm, "they are to be married in pont du sable. we shall have a fête such as there never was. ah! you will have plenty of cooking to do, _mon enfant_. run and find monsieur le curé--he must know at once." suzette did not move--without a word she buried her face in her apron and burst into tears: "oh, monsieur!" she sobbed. "oh, monsieur! it is true--that--i--i--have--no luck!" i looked at her in astonishment. "_eh, bien!_ my child," i returned--"and it is thus you take such happy news?" "_ah, mon dieu!_" sobbed the little maid--"it is--true--i--have no luck." "what is the matter suzette--tell me?" i pleaded. never had i seen her so brokenhearted, even on the day she smashed the mirror. i saw her sway toward me like the child she was. "there--there--_mais voyons!_" i exclaimed in a vain effort to stop her tears--"_mais voyons!_ come, you must not cry like that." little by little she ceased crying, until her sobbing gave way to brave little hiccoughs, then, at length, she opened her eyes. "suzette," i whispered--the thought flashing through my mind, "is it possible that _you_ love monsieur tanrade?" i saw her strong little body tremble: "no, monsieur," she breathed, and the tears fell afresh. "tell me the truth, suzette." "i have told monsieur the--the--truth," she stammered bravely with a fresh effort to strangle her sobs. "you do not love monsieur tanrade, my child?" "no, monsieur--i--i--was a little fool to have cried. it was stronger than i--the news. the marriage is so gay, monsieur--it is so easy for some." "ah--then you do love some one?" "_oui_, monsieur--" and her eyes looked up into mine. "who?" "gaston, monsieur--as always." "gaston, eh! the little soldier i lodged during the manoeuvres--the little trombonist whom the general swore he would put in jail for missing his train. _sapristi!_ i had forgotten him--and you wish to marry him, suzette?" she nodded mutely in assent, then with a hopeless little sigh she added: "_hélas_--it is not easy--when one has nothing one must work hard and wait--_ah, mon dieu!_" "sit down, my little one," i said. "i have something serious to think over." she did as i bade her, seating herself in silence before the fire. i have never regarded suzette as a servant--she has always been to me more like a child whom i was responsible for. what would my house abandoned by the marsh have been without her cheeriness, and her devotion, i thought, and what would it be when she was gone? no other suzette would ever be like her--and her cooking would vanish with the rest. _diable!_ these little marriages play the devil with us at times. and yet, if any one deserved to be happy it was suzette. i realized too, all that her going would mean to me, and moreover that her devotion to her master was such that if i should say "stay" she would have stayed on quite as if her own father had counselled her. as i turned toward her sitting humbly in the chair, i saw she was again struggling to keep back her tears. it was high time for me to speak. i seated myself beside her upon the arm of the chair and took her warm little hands in mine. "you shall marry your gaston, suzette," i said, "and you shall have enough to marry on even if i have to sell the big field and the cow that goes with it." she started, trembling violently, then gave a little gasp of joy. "oh, monsieur! and it is true?" she cried eagerly. "yes, my child--there shall be two weddings in pont du sable! now run and tell monsieur le curé." * * * * * monsieur le curé ran too, when he heard the news--straight to my house abandoned, by the short cut back of the village. "_eh bien! eh bien!_" he exclaimed as he burst into my den, his keen eyes shining. "it is too good to be true--and not a word to us about it until now! _ah, les rosses! ah, les rosses!_" he repeated with a broad grin of delight as he eagerly read tanrade's letter, telling him that the banns were published; that he was to marry them in the little gray church with the new bells and that but ten days remained before the wedding. he began pacing the floor, his hands clasped behind him--a habit he had when he was very happy. "and suzette?" i asked, "has she told you?" "yes," he returned with a nod. "she is a good child--she deserves to be happy." then he stopped and inquired seriously--"what will you do without her?" "one must not be selfish," i replied with a helpless shrug. "suzette has earned it--so has tanrade. it was his unfinished opera that was in the way: alice was clever." he crossed to where i stood and laid his hand on my shoulder, and though he did not open his lips i knew what was passing in his mind. "charity to all," he said softly at length. "it is so good to make others happy! courage, _mon petit_--the price we pay for love, devotion--friendship, is always a heavy one." suddenly his face lighted up. "have you any idea?" he exclaimed, "how much there is to do and how little time to do it in? let us prepare!" and thus began the busiest week the house abandoned had ever known, beginning with the curé and i restocking the garret with dry wood while suzette worked ferociously at house cleaning, and every detail of the wedding breakfast was planned and arranged for--no easy problem in my lost village in midwinter. if there was a good fish to be had out of the sea we knew we could rely on marianne to get it. even the old fisherman, varnet, went off with fresh courage in search for clams and good madame vinet opened her heart and her wine cellar. it was the curé who knew well a certain dozen of rare burgundy that had lain snug beneath the stairs of madame vinet's small café--a vintage the good soul had come into possession of the first year of her own marriage and which she ceded to me for the ridiculously low price of twenty sous the bottle, precisely what it had cost her in her youth. * * * * * it is over, and i am alone by my fire. as i look back on to-day--their wedding day--it seems as if i had been living through some happy dream that has vanished only too quickly and out of which i recall dimly but half its incidents. that was a merry procession of old friends that marched to the ruddy mayor's where there was the civil marriage and some madeira, and so on to the little gray church where monsieur le curé was waiting--that musty old church in which the tall candles burned and monsieur le curé's voice sounded so grave and clear. and we sat together, the good old general and i, and in front of us were alice's old friend germaine, chic and pretty in her sables, and blondel, who had left his unfinished editorial and driven hard to be present, and beside him in the worn pew sat the marquis and marquise de clamard, and the rest of the worn pews were filled with fisherfolk and marianne sat on my left, and old père varnet with suzette beyond him--and every one's eyes were upon alice and tanrade, for they were good to look upon. and it was over quickly, and i was glad of it, for the candle flames had begun to form halos before my eyes. and so we went on singing through the village amid the booming of shotguns in honour of the newly wed, to the house abandoned. and all the while the new bells that alice had so generously regiven rang lustily from the gray belfry--rang clear--rang out after us, all the way back to the house abandoned and were still ringing when we sat down to our jolly breakfast. "let them ring!" cried the curé. "i have two old salts of the sea taking turns at the rope," he confided in my ear. "ring on!" he cried aloud, as we lifted our glasses to the bride--"ring loud--that the good god may hear!" and how lovely the room looked, for the table was a mass of roses fresh from paris, and the walls and ceiling were green with mistletoe and holly. moreover, the old room was warm with the hearts of friends and the cheer from blazing logs that crackled merrily up the blackened throat of my chimney. and there were kisses with this feast that came from the heart; and sound red wine that went to it. and later, the courtyard was filled with villagers come to congratulate and to drink the health of the bride and groom. * * * * * they are gone. and the thrice-happy suzette is dreaming of her own wedding to come, for it is long past midnight and i am alone with my wise old cat--"the essence of selfishness," and my good and faithful spaniel whom i call "mr. bear," for he looks like a young cinnamon, all save his ears. if poor de savignac were alive he would hardly recognize the little spaniel puppy he gave me, he has grown so. he has crept into my arms, big as he is, awakening jealousy in "the essence of selfishness"--for she hates him--besides, we have taken her favourite chair. poor mr. bear--who never troubles her---- "and _you_--beast whom i love--another hiss out of you, another flattening of your ears close to your skull, and you go straight to bed. there will be no suzette to put you there soon, and there is now no alice, nor tanrade to spoil you. they are gone, pussy kit." one o'clock--and the fire in embers. i rose and mr. bear followed me out into the garden. the land lay still and cold under millions of stars. high above my chimney came faintly the "honk, honk," of a flock of geese. i closed my door, bolted the inner shutter, lighted my candle and motioned to mr. bear. the essence of selfishness was first on the creaky stairs. she paused half way up to let mr. bear pass, her ears again flat to her skull. then i took them both to my room where they slept in opposite corners. * * * * * lost village by the tawny marsh. lost village, indeed, to-night! in which were hearts i loved, good comrades and sound red wine--hark! the rush of wings. i must be up at dawn. it will help me forget----sleep well, mr. bear! the end [illustration: village] * * * * * popular copyright books at moderate prices any of the following titles can be bought of your bookseller at the price you paid for this volume anna the adventuress. by e. phillips oppenheim. ann boyd. by will n. harben. at the moorings. by rosa n. carey. by right of purchase. by harold bindloss. carlton case, the. by ellery h. clark. chase of the golden plate. by jacques futrelle. cash intrigue, the. by george randolph chester. delafield affair, the. by florence finch kelly. dominant dollar, the. by will lillibridge. elusive pimpernel, the. by baroness orczy. ganton & co. by arthur j. eddy. gilbert neal. by will n. harben. girl and the bill, the. by bannister merwin. girl from his town, the. by marie van vorst. glass house, the. by florence morse kingsley. highway of fate, the. by rosa n. carey. homesteaders, the. by kate and virgil d. boyles. husbands of edith, the. george barr mccutcheon. inez. 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wrenching growl madame alice de breville's[bréville's] automobile whined up to my door. the next page : swapped words fixed to-night the general is an in[in an] uproar of good humour page : spurious quote removed this country. ["]françois!" he exclaimed, "you may bring in the little dog--and, françois!" page : typo corrected business out at the county-seat? the vicomtess[e] is furious. we were to leave, for a little voyage page : quote added "all of us to luncheon to-morrow at the three wolves!["] he cried, flinging his hat on page : quote added morning, if we are to reach the three wolves by noon.["] he recovered his hat from the floor, page : typo corrected smiling assurance, for be[he] brought me a telegram forwarded from my studio by my concierge. page : spurious comma removed; typo corrected gone away content with their little stomachs[,] filled and two big sous in their pockets. and ten minutes later by the mère pequin[péquin] who brings the milk, and then in turn