JZABETH W CHAMPNEY
 

 
 * /f /
 
 By ELIZABETH W, CHAMPNEY 
 
 ROMANCE OP THE FEUDAL CHATEAUX. 
 
 ROMANCE OF THE RENAISSANCE CHA- 
 TEAUX. 
 
 ROMANCE OF THE BOURBON CHATEAUX. 
 ROMANCE OF THE FRENCH ABBEYS. 
 ROMANCE OF THE ITALIAN VILLAS. 
 ROMANCE OF ROMAN VILLAS.
 
 ROMANCE OF 
 THE FRENCH ABBEYS 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIZABETH W. CHAMPNEY 
 
 AUTHO* OF " ROMANCE OF TM FEUDAL CHATEAUX," ETC. 
 
 The Child Saint Louis Giving Alms at the 
 Portal of the Abbey of Saint Denis. 
 
 From the painting by V. Lesur. 
 (By permission of Neurdein.) 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 Cbe fmicherbocher press 
 1909
 
 ROMANCE OF 
 THE FRENCH ABBEYS 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIZABETH W. CHAMPNEY 
 
 AUTHOR OF " ROMANCE OF THE FEUDAL CHATEAUX," ETC. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 Cbe ftnicfeerbocfter press 
 
 1909
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1905 
 
 BY 
 ELIZABETH W. CHAMPNEY 
 
 Published, September, 1905 
 
 Reprinted, December, 1905 ; January, 1906 
 
 February, 1907 ; July, 1909 
 
 tCbe -fcntcfccrbocher prces, Hew
 
 me 
 
 5 143042 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF 
 
 MY HUSBAND 
 
 WHO PLANNED THIS VOLUME 
 
 AND TO MY SON, WHO AIDED IN EXECUTING THE WORK 
 
 IT IS LOVINGLY AND GRATEFULLY DEDICATED BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR
 
 PREFACE 
 
 (SCATTERED throughout the length and 
 ^ breadth of France, almost forgotten in 
 their out - of - the - way nooks, the abbeys, 
 though forsaken and ruinous, still afford fas- 
 cinating shrines of pilgrimage to the thought- 
 ful tourist. 
 
 The architect will find in them the entire 
 development of the Romanesque and Gothic 
 styles and the first dawn of the Renaissance. 
 He will feel a brother's pride in the achieve- 
 ments of the architect monks of Cluny, who 
 travelled even into other nations building the 
 abbeys of their order, as well as in the en- 
 gineering exploits of that other brotherhood 
 who wore the red hammer embroidered upon 
 their sleeves, the Freres Pontifes, or bridge- 
 builders, who spanned great rivers with for- 
 tified bridges which endure to this day, that 
 pilgrims might journey to the Holy Land, and 
 while constructing the Pont Saint Esprit, 
 which crosses the Rhone, believed that the 
 divine Son of the Carpenter laboured with 
 them. He will trace the history of stained
 
 VI 
 
 Preface 
 
 glass in the shattered windows of the abbeys, 
 and that of goldsmithry and enamelling in 
 the chalices and reliquaries preserved in the 
 museums as precious examples of the riches 
 which once filled their "tresors." He will 
 admire in their grilles the noble craft of the 
 iron-worker, in their choir stalls that of the 
 wood-carver, and in their tombs the art of 
 the sculptor. The spoils of the scriptoria in 
 the National Library of Paris alone will 
 awaken wonder at the immense patience and 
 skill of the illuminators; and though France 
 can boast of no painter-monks to rank with 
 Fra Angelico and Fra Lippo Lippi, her debt to 
 her monasteries in the department of letters 
 is deeper than that of Italy. They were the 
 first universities, their monks the first his- 
 torians, and they furnished a refuge not alone 
 for saddened and penitent hearts, but a career 
 for refined and scholarly minds. 
 
 Of such absorbing interest is the art of the 
 abbeys that the connoisseur may be par- 
 doned indifference to their creators, should 
 he say of them with Browning : 
 
 " They might chirp and chaffer, come and go, 
 
 For pleasure or profit the men alive, 
 My business was hardly with them I trow, 
 But with empty cells of the human hive;
 
 Preface vii 
 
 " With the chapter-room, the cloister porch, 
 
 The church's apsis, aisle or nave, 
 Its crypt one fingers along with a torch, 
 Its face set full for the sun to shave." 
 
 The empty hives are themselves fast pass- 
 ing from the scene. The massive walls of 
 masonry, which neither the disintegrating 
 forces of nature nor the fierce hatred of re- 
 ligious wars has been able utterly to demolish, 
 are being turned to secular uses. The sup- 
 pression of the religious orders, decreed at 
 the time of the French Revolution, has at 
 last been very thoroughly effected. Distil- 
 leries, factories, barracks, prisons have been 
 established in some of the noble buildings; 
 some have been entirely razed, often the 
 chapel only subsists as the present parish 
 church; others serve as quarries for the 
 neighbourhood, and only a few are protected 
 by the government as historical monuments 
 or are lovingly cherished by private owners. 
 
 Certain itineraries found especially delight- 
 ful by the author in different vagrant summers, 
 in Provence, Savoy, Burgundy, Isle de France, 
 and Normandy, are outlined in the last chap- 
 ter of this volume ; but the present age is one 
 of change, and he who would see even the 
 ruins of the abbeys must act quickly.
 
 viii Preface 
 
 The student of history, the lover of the 
 great drama of human life, will find in them 
 an interest different from that of the artist, 
 an irresistible desire to reconstruct in im- 
 agination the state of society, the mood of 
 mind, and form of faith which not only reared 
 them, but made them in their time a bene- 
 ficent influence. He will tell us how it hap- 
 pened that at the close of the "Dark Ages," 
 the year 1000 A.D., dawned a true millen- 
 nium, and with the incredible spread of 
 monasticism and the building of many hund- 
 red abbeys * a tidal wave, not alone of re- 
 ligious revival, but of civilisation, swept over 
 France. He will explain how, in an age 
 brutal and unscrupulous beyond our concep- 
 tion, persecutors and tyrants stood suddenly 
 abashed before the denunciation of the Church, 
 
 1 The Benedictines alone at the time of their greatest 
 prosperity boasted thirty-seven thousand monasteries, of 
 which a great part were in France. 
 
 The Monasticon Gallicarum, a book written in 1645 by 
 Dom Michel Germain, a Benedictine of the Congregation of 
 Saint Maur, gives plates of one hundred and sixty-eight great 
 French abbeys of his order and time. 
 
 We sketch the marvellous history of the Abbey of Cluny, 
 with its hundreds of dependent abbeys, and of its rival 
 Oitaux. In less than twenty-five years after the founding 
 of the latter abbey it sent out sixty thousand Cistercian 
 monks, and in 1790 three thousand six hundred monasteries 
 acknowledged her rule.
 
 Preface 
 
 IX 
 
 and kings like Robert II., in fear of her judg- 
 ments, gave up their best beloved at her 
 mandate, while Jezebels such as Queen Ber- 
 trade retired to lives of humiliation in 
 convents. 
 
 We Protestants may at first say, patronis- 
 ingly: 
 
 There 's something in that ancient superstition,. 
 Which, erring as it is, our fancy loves; 
 
 but as we study the development of the sys- 
 tem we must acknowledge that in its begin- 
 ning at least it was divine. 
 
 It is not within the scope of the present 
 volume to tell how the good fruit ripened and 
 rotted, how Pope Leo X. placed in the hands- 
 of Francis I. the power of nominating his. 
 favourites as commendatory abbots, and how 
 the evil grew so that in 1788 there were fifteen 
 thousand ecclesiastical sinecures under royal 
 appointment, and abbots were sovereign 
 princes and sybarites took the places of saints 
 until, as Dante foretold, the flood came and 
 destroyed them all. 1 The author is neither 
 
 " The walls for abbeys reared are turned to 
 . . . . Jordan was turned back 
 And a less wonder. Thus the refluent sea 
 May at God's pleasure work amendment here." 
 
 Paradiso, Canto XXXII.
 
 x Preface 
 
 archaeologist nor sociologist, but a trovkre of 
 romance. She has brought back from her 
 pilgrimages only a few incidents which have 
 moved her in the history of her best-loved 
 abbeys: legends of the Saints Bernard and 
 Francis from Clairvaux and the Abbey of 
 Montmajour; a tale of chivalrous adventure 
 from a Commandery of the Knights Hos- 
 pitallers ; the story of the ambition of one of 
 the artisan monks of Cluny; an echo of the 
 horror of the Inquisition which still lingers 
 about the dungeon walls of Carcassonne, and 
 the portal of Saint Ouen; the tradition of 
 the flowering of a woman's love in the Gothic 
 arches of the abbey church of Brou ; a fantasy 
 from Saint Denis of the childhood of Saint 
 Louis; a burlesque from the playwrights of 
 the miracle spectacles from Fecamp; chron- 
 icles of passions which wrapped like flames 
 the abbey fortresses of Vezelay and Mont 
 Saint Michel during the strife of Huguenot 
 .and Leaguer; and from the lovely ruin of 
 Saint Wandrille a story of the revival of faith 
 in the Jesuit missions at the time when France 
 was most faithless. 
 
 If she is asked what romance can be found 
 in communities which strove to eliminate the 
 eternal feminine, she can only cite Hallam,
 
 Preface XL 
 
 who finds that love plays but a subordinate 
 r61e in mediaeval romances, which, he asserts,, 
 repose equally on three columns chivalry,, 
 gallantry, and religion. 
 
 And are not such ambitions as the love of 
 achievement and of fame in scholarship and 
 in art, the love of power, and the love of: 
 struggle for the mere joy of the fight such' 
 enthusiasms as devotion to one's abbey and 
 one's order, or purely to humanity emotions, 
 as worthy of the soul of man, and as interest- 
 ing to the observer in their development as- 
 the love of woman ? 
 
 Moreover, that love was not always want- 
 ing. Often it existed so purified from pas- 
 sion that it became a mystical sentiment, 
 supernatural and transcendent. Sometimes- 
 alas! (though not so frequently as cavillers 
 would have us believe) human nature was. 
 too frail for such sublime renunciation, and 
 tragedies like that of Abe"lard and He"loise, as. 
 well as the pathetic self-sacrifice of nobler 
 souls, point the moral of these tales that the 
 mistake of monasticism was celibacy.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 MM 
 
 PREFACE iii 
 
 CRAFTKB 
 
 I. THE GOLDEN MYSTERY i 
 
 (An Episode in the History of the Abbey 
 of Vezelay) 
 
 II. THE MASTERPIECE OP FRERE PLACIDE . 35 
 (A Story of One of the Artisan-Monks of 
 Cluny) 
 
 III. THE WOLF OF SAINT FRANCIS . . 50 
 (From the Chronicles of the Abbey of 
 Montmajour) 
 
 IV. THE VISION OF SAINT BERNARD . . 75 
 (A Legend of Clairvaux) 
 
 V. THE TAPESTRIES OF BOURGANEUF . . 98 
 (How They Came to the Commanders of 
 the Knights Hospitallers) 
 
 VI. INTRA MUROS 120 
 
 (Being the Adventures of a Red Box) 
 
 VII. VER VERT 154 
 
 (A More Complete Account of Gresset's 
 Parrot, His Naughty Conversation, 
 and How in the End Good was 
 Wrought Thereby) 
 
 VIII. THE ABBEY CHURCH OF BROU . .179
 
 xiv Contents 
 
 CHAPTER PACK 
 
 IX. THE FLAGEOLET OF SAINT BRUNO . 188 
 
 (A Legend of La Grande Chartreuse) 
 
 X. FLEUR D'EPINE 210 
 
 (An Incident in the Boyhood of Saint 
 Louis) 
 
 XI. THE GREEN DRAGON OF FECAMP . .226 
 
 XII. MADEMOISELLE DE FOLLEVILLE . . 236 
 (Showing How Montgomery Came to 
 Mont Saint Michel) 
 
 XIII. A FUGITIVE ABBOT .... 281 
 (A Romance of the Abbey of Saint 
 Wandrille) 
 
 XIV. THE SIN OF ABBOT NICOLAS . . .318 
 XV. ABBEY PILGRIMAGES .... 337 
 
 APPENDIX: NOTES, AND AUTHORITIES 
 
 CONSULTED 393
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PHOTOGRAVURES 
 
 Pag? 
 
 The Child Saint Louis Giving Alms at 
 the Portal of the Abbey of Saint 
 Denis Frontispiece 
 
 (For text see page 222) 
 
 From the painting by V. Lesur 
 
 (By permission of Neurdein) 
 
 The Vision of Saint Bernard . . 90 
 
 From the painting by Filippino Lippi 
 (By permission of V. Jacquier) 
 
 The Gift of Jewels .... 116 
 
 From the tapestry in the Cluny Museum 
 (By permission of Paul Robert) 
 
 Bernard Delicieux Liberating the Pris- 
 oners 144 
 
 From the painting by Jean Paul Laurens 
 (By permission of Neurdein) 
 
 Tomb of Philibert le Beau, in the Church 
 
 of Brou 182
 
 xvi Illustrations 
 
 Pae 
 
 Saint Bruno Receiving the Design for the 
 
 Monastery of La Grande Chartreuse 200 
 
 From the painting by E. Le Sueur in the Louvre 
 (By permission of Dornach, Paris) 
 
 The Return of the Missionary . . 312 
 
 From the painting by Vibert 
 
 Joan of Arc 326 
 
 From a painting by E. W. Joy 
 (By permission of Neurdein) 
 
 The Excommunication of Robert the Pious 340 
 
 Front a painting by Jean Paul Lauren*
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 OTHER THAN PHOTOGRAVURE 
 
 Pagt 
 
 General View of Vezelay . . 6 
 
 Fortified Gate, Vezelay . . . 6 
 
 Wing of Cluny Palace at Paris . . 42 
 
 (By permission of Levy et Fils) 
 
 Entrance of Cluny Palace at Paris . . 42 
 
 (By permission of Levy et Fils) 
 
 Grille of Abbey Church of Saint Ouen, at 
 
 Rouen 44 
 
 St. Francis Preaching to the Wolves . 68 
 
 From the painting by Luc Olivier Merson 
 
 The Wolf of St. Francis ... 70 
 
 From a painting by Luc Olivier Merson 
 
 Tomb of Philippe Pot 98 
 
 Formerly at the Abbey of Citeaux, now in the Louvre
 
 xviii Illustrations 
 
 Pag, 
 
 Pierre D'Aubusson .... no 
 The Tower of Zizim .... no 
 
 "The Tones of the Organ Charmed the 
 
 Beasties of the Wood." . .114 
 
 (By permission of Paul Robert) 
 
 Walls of Carcassonne .... 120 
 
 (By permission of Neurdein) 
 
 Ver Vert at the Convent of the Visitan- 
 
 dines 158 
 
 From an old print, permission of Longmans, 
 Green & Co. 
 
 Mistletoe Border in color 174 
 
 From the "Livre d'Heures" of Anne de Bre- 
 tagne in the Bibliotheque National at Paris. The 
 illuminations were executed by Jean Bourdichon 
 in the early part of the sixteenth century. 
 
 Rood Screen in the Church of Brou . 180 
 Margaret of Austria .... 186 
 
 Statues on her tomb in the Church of Brou 
 
 Monastery of La Grande Chartreuse . 106 
 
 (By permission of Neurdein) 
 
 The Needle 202 
 
 (By permission of Neurdein)
 
 Illustrations xix 
 
 Page 
 
 Approach to the Monastery of La Grande 
 
 Chartreuse 202 
 
 (By permission of Neurdein) 
 
 The Building 0} the Church . . 212 
 
 Front an old print 
 
 The Vase of Suger . . . . 212 
 
 From " L'Art Gothique" by Louis Gonse 
 
 Twelfth Century Glass. Abbey of St. 
 
 Denis . . . In color 2l6 
 
 From a water-colour of the window 
 by John Sanford Humphreys 
 
 Old Abbey Church of Fecamp . . 228 
 
 Statue of the Monk Vincelli, Inventor of 
 
 the Benedictine Elixir . . . 236 
 
 (By permission of Neurdein) 
 
 Chateau of Lion-sur-Mer . . . 260 
 
 Entrance to the Abbey of Mont Saint 
 
 Michel 270 
 
 The Sands from the Roof of the Abbey of 
 
 Mont Saint Michel . . . . 280 
 
 Monumental Gateway in the Style of the 
 
 1 8th Century, Louis XV. . . 282 
 
 (By permission of Neurdein)
 
 xx Illustrations 
 
 Page 
 
 Gateway, i$th Century, Abbey of Saint 
 
 Wandrille 282 
 
 (By permission of Neurdein) 
 
 Gate of the Virgin, Saint Wandrille . 290 
 
 (By permission of Neurdein) 
 
 Ruins of Church of the Abbey of Saint 
 
 Wandrille ..... 290 
 
 (By permission of Neurdein) 
 
 Cloister of Saint Wandrille . . . 310 
 
 (By permission of Neurdein) 
 
 Cloister, VAbbaye de la Vigne . . 
 Ruins of the Abbey of Jumieges . . 
 
 (By permission of Levy et Fits) 
 
 Tomb at the Abbey of Clermont . . 318 
 Abbey Church of Saint Ouen, Rouen . 334 
 
 (By permission of Levy et Fils) 
 
 UAbbaye aux Dames, Caen . . . 334 
 
 Ruins of the Abbey of Valmont, near 
 
 Fecamp ..... 336 
 
 (By permission of Neurdein) 
 
 Ruins of Abbey of Valmont Interior .
 
 Illustrations xxi 
 
 Page 
 
 Ruins of the Abbey of La Victoire . . 
 
 (By permission of Neurdein) 
 
 Donjon of the Chateau of Montbazon . 348 
 
 (By permission of Neurdein) 
 
 L'Abbe" de Ranee* ..... 356 
 Romance of the Comte de Comminges . 356 
 
 From an engraving by Risen 
 
 Palace of the Pope Gelase, at the Abbey of 
 
 Cluny ...... 366 
 
 Cloister of the Abbey of Fontfroide . 370 
 
 (By permission of Paul Robert) 
 
 Cloister of the Abbey of Moissac . . 370 
 Chapter House of the Abbey of Vezelay . 384 
 
 (By permission of Neurdein) 
 
 Church of La Madeleine, A bbey of Vezelay 386 
 
 From " Villes du Departement de I' Yonne " by 
 Victor Petit 
 
 Church of the Abbey of La Chaise Dieu . 386 
 
 (By permission of Neurdein)
 
 ROMANCE OF 
 THE FRENCH ABBEYS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 THE GOLDEN MYSTERY 
 
 <<r PHAT is what all the wise ones called it, 
 * Madame. They were as much puzzled 
 as the simplest when the old Abbot Heri- 
 bert's tomb was opened and all that golden 
 glory flashed before them. 
 
 "They had gathered from far and near, 
 for the great architect Monsieur Viollet-le-Duc 
 had come from Paris to make such restora- 
 tions as he thought fit in this ancient Abbey 
 of Vezelay, and it was surmised that interest- 
 ing discoveries might be made. 
 
 "So, when my father, who was master-
 
 a French Abbeys 
 
 mason, with his force of assistants, lifted the 
 lid of the sarcophagus in that canopied 
 niche, a heavy lid, as Madame sees, for the 
 effigy of Abbot Heribert was carved upon it, 
 - all the learned ones who stood around 
 craned their necks like the gargoyles over the 
 church door. 
 
 "They had read the record of the saintly 
 life of this good man who lived and died away 
 back in the tenth century, for it is engraved 
 in Latin on the brazen plate. His statue, 
 too, has a certain dignity even in its mutila- 
 tion, robed in full canonicals with its thin 
 hands piously folded over its quiet breast. 
 To have found those carven vestments dupli- 
 cated in costly stuffs would have surprised 
 no one, but a cry of astonishment echoed 
 through the church when it was perceived 
 that the gorgeous robe of cloth of gold now 
 revealed was a woman's, that the form it 
 shrouded was a woman's, and a little woman's 
 at that. The tiny pinched face was framed 
 in black hair, which swept from under a red 
 velvet cap to the very tips of her dainty 
 shoes. 
 
 "But what changed the first dazzled ex- 
 clamation of admiration of the queenly gem- 
 broidered robe to one of horror was the sight
 
 The Golden Mystery 3 
 
 of a ghastly, gaping wound in the little lady's 
 forehead, the frontal bone crushed to splin- 
 ters by some murderous blow, and the beauti- 
 ful hair torn and clotted. 
 
 "When the corpse had remained for a 
 time exposed to the air it crumbled to dust, 
 but the gold threads in the woof of its dress 
 were pure metal and did not vanish with the 
 rest. The government claimed the robe and 
 it was carried away to some museum. 
 
 "The learned ones wrangled long over the 
 'Golden Mystery,' as it was popularly named, 
 and some said it was the robe in which Queen 
 Eleanor listened here at Vezelay to the 
 preaching of the Second Crusade by Saint 
 Bernard, and that she had sent it to the 
 Abbey as a souvenir of her visit. But none; 
 could solve the riddle of why it shrouded the 
 little lady with the fractured skull, nor why 
 she should have been laid to rest in the 
 Abbot's tomb. 
 
 "Golden and grim it remained a mystery 
 to those learned ones, but its solution has 
 been granted to me, Madame, simple peasant 
 though I am, for I have pondered and brooded 
 over it all my life, and have pieced together 
 every scrap of history that has fallen in my 
 way, and all the legends of the old people,
 
 4 French Abbeys 
 
 until suddenly one night I saw it all crystal 
 clear, and knew that only in this way could 
 it have happened. It was when my father 
 told me that among the bits of bones, which 
 the learned ones had overlooked in the dust 
 of the tomb, he had found a finger-joint and 
 on it a marriage ring with the initials ' O. de C. 
 to E. de H.' I have the ring and the bit of 
 blackened bone still, Madame, to witness if 
 I lie." 
 
 Our guide, Martin Quatrevaux, tugged at a 
 stout string which encircled his neck and drew 
 from his bosom a soiled chamois-skin bag, 
 and from the bag the relic of which he spoke. 
 If a forgery it had been cunningly prepared, 
 and the man's face was too honest for the 
 most sceptical to harbour suspicion. Beside 
 the initials there was the date 1569, and 
 everything was clear. 
 
 "Odet de Coligny to Elizabeth de Haute- 
 ville!" we exclaimed, and Quatrevaux nodded 
 gravely. 
 
 "Madame is not like certain other tourists 
 who visit Vezelay," he said, "Madame is not 
 so ignorant as one might suppose, while those 
 others croyez vous, I have shown the ring 
 to certain imbeciles who not only could not 
 guess for what names the initials stood, but
 
 The Golden Mystery 5 
 
 had never even heard of the great Colignys. 
 Sheep calves! Is it possible that human, 
 beings can be so idiotic?" 
 
 "We know very little more, Quatrevaux/" 
 we replied, ' ' beyond the fact that the brother 
 of the great Gaspard de Coligny was, before 
 his excommunication, Abbot of this mag- 
 nificent Abbey." 
 
 "And afterward, Madame. It was not. 
 until the Mother Church cast him out that 
 Odet de Coligny troubled himself greatly 
 about Vezelay. Cardinal at sixteen, Arch- 
 bishop of I know not how many wealthy sees, 
 and flattered at Court, he had little use for 
 this lonely fortress. But when he took his 
 stand with the Huguenots and fought by the 
 side of his great brother the Admiral at the 
 battle of St. Denis, and was excommunicated 
 and banished, tracked and betrayed, and in. 
 danger of his life then the monks of Vezelay 
 (who had already been converted to Pro- 
 testantism by one of their own number, The"o- 
 dore de Beze) acclaimed their heretic Abbot, 
 and this Abbey became his sure castle of 
 defence. 
 
 "It was not just on account of his religion, 
 I'm thinking, but because along with that 
 he had shown himself a worthy successor of
 
 6 French Abbeys 
 
 the old fighting Abbots of Vezelay, for that 
 is the tradition the Abbey is a citadel, the 
 strongest in this part of Burgundy, and its 
 lords have ever been more expert with the 
 mace than with preaching. Come out on the 
 terrace, Madame, and look at the walls and 
 tell me if Vezelay is not a place to tempt men 
 to be obstinate and to have the courage of 
 their opinions." 
 
 Such it was and still is, for the ruins of this 
 citadel Abbey of Vezelay rise on an isolated 
 spur of one of the mountain ranges of the 
 .Morvan, lonely and invincible even in their 
 decay, a fortress that a handful of men might 
 .still hold against an army. 
 
 Invincible the Abbey has always remained 
 through all the storms of war which have 
 swept through Burgundy. Its fighting Ab- 
 bots were distinguished even before the Eng- 
 lish invasion, when Hughes de Maison Comte 
 was made prisoner with his men-at-arms at 
 the battle of Poitiers. 
 
 It was during this Abbot's imprisonment 
 in England that Vezelay fortified itself still 
 more strongly, that the massive encircling 
 walls and huge sentinel towers sprang up 
 which enabled its monks to laugh defiance 
 when English Edward III. cavalcaded by
 
 GENERAL VIEW OF VEZELAY. 
 
 
 FORTIFIED GATE, VEZELAY.
 
 The Golden Mystery 7 
 
 their very gates, and which guarded the 
 Abbey inviolate through every subsequent 
 attack. 
 
 Knowing as much as this it was pleasant 
 to find an enthusiast in the guide who showed 
 us Vezelay. A Protestant, like many of the 
 descendants of the refugees who sought asy- 
 lum here during the sixteenth century from 
 the massacres in Lorraine, he had preserved 
 a certain isolation from his Catholic neigh- 
 bours, and united to great simplicity a dignity 
 of speech and more of intelligence than is usu- 
 ally to be met with in the French peasant. 
 He cherished a positive worship for the mem- 
 ory of Odet de Coligny, and his spirited wife, 
 Elizabeth de Hauteville, and he firmly be- 
 lieved the story which he told us of the here- 
 tic Abbot and the noble woman whose love 
 during the last decade of his adventurous 
 life was his guiding star, and, in despite of 
 the doom which dogged his steps and finally 
 overtook him, was also his exceeding great 
 reward. 
 
 "It all began in this way, Madame. Odet 
 de Coligny was pacing this terrace one fair 
 evening in June very much as we are doing 
 now looking out on the level champaign 
 which stretched away all green with growing
 
 8 French Abbeys 
 
 crops and pasture until it met the darker 
 forest-covered hills. The scent of the Annun- 
 ciation lilies in the Abbey garden was borne 
 to him on the soft air, and the nightingales 
 were singing in the acacias. But his heart 
 was burdened with care, not for himself alone, 
 but for his hot-headed monks, an obstinate 
 flock, determined to wander far from the fold 
 of the Church with which he was then hoping 
 for reconciliation. 
 
 "Slowly the sunset faded and a white mist 
 rolled over the plain like the tide of doubt 
 and perplexity which was overwhelming him. 
 He lifted his heart to God, beseeching a sign 
 that he was not forsaken, and suddenly, just 
 above the line of the hill yonder to the north- 
 east, a star glittered, blue as a great sapphire. 
 Other familiar stars wheeled into sight and 
 moved through the heavens, but this strange 
 new one neither rose nor disappeared, but 
 hung low on the horizon, piercing the dark 
 with its steady radiance. 
 
 "He gazed at it long and wonderingly, and 
 retired to dream that an angel had lighted it 
 in answer to his prayer. He awoke in the 
 early morning with this conviction, and open- 
 ing his casement saw the star still shining, 
 though dawn had brightened the sky above
 
 The Golden Mystery 9 
 
 it and other stars were dim, and not till the 
 sun shot up in all its glory did its light entirely 
 go out. 
 
 "Now, if the Abbot had known as much as 
 Madame probably does about astronomy, he 
 would have recognised that this was no heav- 
 enly body, but even so it might have seemed 
 to him the more miraculous, for through the 
 perplexing days that followed, he was up- 
 borne by the thought that the star was a 
 pledge of sustaining grace. Night after night 
 he sought and found it. Its pure calm beam 
 entered his very soul and filled him with 
 celestial peace, helping him to bear his heavy 
 weight of responsibility and to move with 
 serene dignity in the midst of this great 
 crisis of his life. 
 
 "The Abbot was returning late one night 
 from a conference with Conde at his brother 
 d'Andelot's Chateau of Tanlay. He was 
 mounted on his white mule Humilite", while 
 his valet Gaucelim jogged behind him, and it 
 was an unspeakable consolation as he neared 
 Vezelay to see that his star was shining 
 calmly above the opposite range of hills. 
 
 " ' Ave Maria Stella Mans,' he chanted, and 
 Gaucelim followed questioningly the direc- 
 tion of his master's gaze.
 
 io French Abbeys 
 
 "'Do you not see it, Gaucelim?' the Abbot 
 asked, 'my star lighted by my good angel 
 for my benediction ? ' 
 
 "'That is no star, my master/ Gaucelim 
 replied, 'but a feu follet, a will-o'-the-wisp 
 sent by the evil one to mislead travellers. I 
 saw it as I was coming back to Vezelay from 
 visiting my sweetheart at Chastellux. It is 
 not in the sky as it appears from this side of 
 the hill, but is a little dancing fire that flutters 
 over the old burial-ground on the Col de Mont 
 Joie. I saw it move from the gate to the 
 little mound in the centre, where stands the 
 old disused lanterne des morts. There it 
 paused, and, as I was curious as to what this 
 might signify, I entered the cemetery and 
 found a tiny taper burning in the glass globe 
 which stands on the stone pillar. But there 
 was no one in the lonely graveyard ; the sexton 
 lives in the valley below and never visits it 
 except to dig a grave. It came over me that 
 some gKoul or ghost had lighted it to work an 
 evil spell on Christians, and I ran up to it 
 and beat out the flame with my hat. When 
 I was half-way down the hill I looked back 
 and I saw that it was lighted again, though 
 I had left no living soul in the burying-ground 
 and no one had passed me on the road.'
 
 The Golden Mystery n 
 
 "Odet de Coligny was not so superstitious 
 as to believe his valet's theory that the lamp 
 in the old lanterne des marts had been lighted 
 by ghosts ; the thing must have some natural 
 explanation. Accordingly, late the following 
 afternoon he mounted Humilite" and rode 
 away alone in the direction of the graveyard 
 on the hill. He found, as Madame will to-day 
 if she takes the trouble to visit the spot, a row 
 of tombs backed against the wall on every 
 side, and the space so fenced in filled with 
 crosses and slabs adorned with wreaths of 
 bead-work, which tinkled elfishly in the even- 
 ing breeze. In the very centre of the square, 
 with four paths leading up to it, stood the 
 lanterne des marts, a pinnacled pillar with a 
 tiny phare (lighthouse) protected by glass, 
 where in other times a lighted lamp was hung 
 by pious hands. But no one had been 
 buried here for years, the cemetery was re- 
 mote and the hill steep, and the custom had 
 long fallen into neglect. The shadows deep- 
 ened and the Abbot was about to turn from 
 the cemetery when suddenly a gleam of light 
 twinkled in one of the tombs. He had only 
 time to step behind a yew tree when the 
 grille grated harshly on its rusted hinges, 
 and a figure clothed in white issued from the
 
 12 French Abbeys 
 
 sepulchre, holding in one hand a taper float- 
 ing in a blue glass. The spectre, or maiden, 
 walked rapidly to the lanterne des morts t 
 placed the little light in its niche, and knelt 
 for a moment at the base in prayer. The 
 Abbot stepped impulsively from the shelter 
 of the yew tree with a ' Peace be with you, my 
 daughter.* 
 
 "In spite of the words intended to be re- 
 assuring, the startled girl fled with a faint cry 
 to the tomb from which she had appeared, 
 and closed the iron gate behind her. Through 
 its bars the Abbot could see that the tomb 
 had another door at its back, opening through 
 the wall of the cemetery into the park of a 
 country residence. The young woman had 
 neglected, in her haste, to close this door and 
 he could see her fleeing across the greensward 
 toward a small chateau, that of Mont Joie, 
 belonging to the old Comte de Hauteville. 
 
 "The Abbot smiled. The lady was evi- 
 dently a member of the Count's household, 
 and was in the habit of entering the cemetery 
 by the family tomb to tend this lantern for 
 the lonely dead, because she herself dreaded 
 the dark. It was a strange result of his dis- 
 covery that his supposed star was only a lamp 
 lighted by human hands, that its beam still
 
 The Golden Mystery 13 
 
 continued to exercise the same sustaining 
 effect upon his spirit. He looked for it each 
 evening, and prayed that its unknown guardian 
 might receive the same comfort in her own 
 troubles which all unwittingly she had min- 
 istered to him. 
 
 "Why make a long story when what fol- 
 lowed is so evident? After that the Abbot 
 was a frequent visitor at the Chateau of 
 Mont Joie he loved the very name, and 
 found it strangely appropriate and he met 
 Mademoiselle also at his brother's Chateau 
 of Tanlay, or at Conde's at Noyers, for the 
 Protestant nobility drew together in these 
 troublous times. It was written in heaven 
 that they should belong to each other. When 
 Elizabeth de Haute ville was away from home, 
 Odet de Coligny knew it, for no star beamed 
 for him, and forthwith an ungovernable rest- 
 lessness possessed him, and he called for 
 Humilite" and ambled away to Noyers to visit 
 his dear cousin of Conde": but if Elizabeth 
 were not there, Conde's discussion of politics 
 became to him as the vain patter of the rain 
 upon the eaves, and he felt it incumbent upon 
 him to fare farther to assure himself of the 
 health and well-being of his brother d' Andelot. 
 
 ' ' She was at Tanlay on the breaking out of
 
 H French Abbeys 
 
 the second civil war, and herself buckled on 
 his armour before he set out for the battle- 
 field of St. Denis. D'Andelot was shouting 
 to his brother that his Vezelaian arquebusiers 
 had arrived and were demanding their com- 
 mander, and that it was time to be off. They 
 had but an instant more together, but in that 
 instant all barriers were swept away like 
 stubble before devouring flame, and Odet de 
 Coligny knew that his excommunication had 
 brought him the greatest blessing of his life. 
 
 "The campaign was a short one, and on 
 his return to Tanlay Theodore de Beze, now 
 the Admiral's chaplain, united him to Eliza- 
 beth de Hauteville in the little chapel, in the 
 presence of the Coligny family, the Cond6s, 
 and a few other true and tried friends. 
 
 "The marriage was not immediately made 
 public, and Elizabeth returned to the Chateau 
 Mont Joie, to be near her husband and to 
 await certain negotiations which it was be- 
 lieved would put the Protestants on an equal 
 footing with the Romanists. It was at this 
 juncture that the lanterne des morts, at first 
 so piously tended, with no thought of any 
 personal gain, became a means of communi- 
 cation between them. They developed an 
 alphabet of flashes by means of alternately
 
 The Golden Mystery 15 
 
 shading and displaying the light and shooting 
 it from different sides of the lantern. Odet, 
 who dabbled in chemistry, gave her a prepar- 
 ation of lime which burned with intense 
 brilliancy and could be seen even on cloudy 
 nights. They could now hold long conver- 
 sations with each other, and though peasants 
 occasionally noted the shooting beams they 
 universally attributed them to the feux 
 follets, the ghost fires or will-o'-the-wisps. 
 
 1 ' Soon the Abbot had many serious matters 
 to communicate to his wife. Both Pro- 
 testants and Catholics were preparing quite 
 openly for the third religious war, the bitter- 
 est and longest which had distracted France. 
 The Protestant leaders were encouraged now 
 by messages from Jeanne d'Albret that she 
 would meet them at the first sign of the 
 breaking out of hostilities at La Rochelle 
 with her young son, Henri of Navarre, who 
 burned to serve his first campaign under 
 Gaspard de Coligny. 
 
 "The eyes of all France were soon to be 
 fixed on this young hero. Already that 
 serpent of a woman, Catherine de' Medici, 
 recognised him as a power to be reckoned 
 with, crushed if possible, conciliated if he 
 could not be crushed. He stood very near
 
 1 6 French Abbeys 
 
 the throne. If her sons left no heirs he was 
 the next in line. Very soon her plots would 
 succeed, and she would marry him to her 
 beautiful daughter, Marguerite de Valois. 
 But while she schemed the Colignys also 
 formed their plans. The one hope for Pro- 
 testantism in France lay in the intervention 
 of England. If Queen Elizabeth would es- 
 pouse their cause, the King of France would 
 not dare coerce his subjects of the Reformed 
 Faith. The Virgin Queen was much older 
 than the King of Navarre, then but fifteen, 
 but age does not matter in royal alliances. 
 It was agreed to send an ambassador to offer 
 the Queen of England the hand of Henri of 
 Navarre and Odet de Coligny was selected 
 as the one who could best perform this 
 mission, and his wife was secretly prepar- 
 ing to accompany him. 
 
 "Gaucelim had Coligny 's sumpter mules 
 loaded with necessities for the journey and 
 was at his door with Humilite" in the early 
 dawn of the sixth of October, 1569, and the 
 Abbot, bidding farewell to the chosen few 
 who had been informed of his intended 
 mission, was about to set foot in stirrup, 
 when the great alarm-bell of the monastery 
 rang out peal on peal, and the warden came
 
 The Golden Mystery 17 
 
 running to tell him that the plain was alive 
 with galloping artillerymen, who were hur- 
 riedly drawing up their pieces in a threatening 
 attitude before the gates of the Abbey. 
 
 "It was the advance guard of the royal 
 army under General Sansac, which had sur- 
 prised them. They were in a state of siege, 
 and with the exception of the false varlet 
 Gaucelim, who ran away that night, not so 
 much as a mouse might enter or issue for 
 many weary months from the beleaguered 
 Vezelay. 
 
 "It was not so easy a matter to reduce 
 this impregnable Abbey as Sansac had im- 
 agined. The monks were courageous, and 
 made many sorties, surprising and inflicting 
 great loss upon their besiegers; though they 
 could not entirely drive them away. But 
 Sansac had come to spend the winter, and he 
 waited for all his battalions to arrive and 
 especially for Marshal Famine, well knowing 
 that the beseiged would fight with less heart 
 when their stomachs were empty. 
 
 "He had chosen for his own headquarters 
 the Chateau of Mont Joie because it gave so 
 extended a view of the plain to the east of 
 Vezelay and of the monastery itself. He 
 left the de Hautevilles in possession of the
 
 1 8 French Abbeys 
 
 wing nearest the little graveyard, but told 
 them that they must submit for their own 
 safety to certain rules of his making, one of 
 the most important of which was that they 
 must not leave the grounds of the chateau. 
 So they were both his prisoners and his hosts, 
 for he ate at their table.- 
 
 "Elizabeth noted with satisfaction that the 
 guard of the chateau patrolled the outer wall 
 of the cemetery and that her access through 
 the family tomb to the lanterne des marts was 
 unimpeded. She could still hold communi- 
 cation with her husband, and she established 
 it that night, sending him advices from the 
 enemy's very headquarters. It was a great 
 comfort to her to receive his answering signal, 
 as it was to Odet de Coligny to know that she 
 was unmolested. They cautiously avoided 
 too frequent communication and for a time 
 it was undiscovered. 
 
 "The siege of Vezelay continued all winter. 
 Sansac trained his guns on the fortifications 
 of the monastery to no effect. His army 
 dwindled, hundreds of men were killed in the 
 sorties during the winter, while the mortality 
 among the besieged was very trifling. 
 
 "But when spring came the crisis on which 
 Sansac had counted arrived. Provisions be-
 
 The Golden Mystery 19 
 
 gan to give out in the Abbey. The arms of 
 the windmill whirled as busily as ever, but it 
 was a feint to deceive the besiegers, for the 
 granaries were empty there was no wheat 
 to grind. And now, with insufficient and poor 
 food, the pest broke out, and each day the 
 body of an emaciated monk was laid in the 
 little burying-ground of the Abbey. Odet 
 told Elizabeth of their sore need, but she. a, 
 prisoner, was powerless to help him, until 
 one day to her great surprise she recognised 
 among the hangers-on who awaited in the 
 castle court an audience with General San- 
 sac, who but her husband's valet, Gaucelim.. 
 The recognition was mutual, though Gaucelim 
 avoided her gaze, and as there were others, 
 present she could not have told that his in- 
 difference was not feigned had she not been 
 warned by Odet of his desertion. Filled 
 with curiosity as to his mission with General 
 Sansac, she was minded that the General's 
 favourite chair was close beside a window 
 which opened into the garden, and that the 
 shrubbery beneath it was dense enough to 
 screen an eavesdropper. She. slipped to the 
 garden, and under hiding of the flowering 
 bushes stole close to the open casement, 
 and was presently rewarded by hearing the
 
 20 French Abbeys 
 
 conversation between the General and Gauce- 
 lim. The traitor spoke first of her. 
 
 " 'Do you know, my General, that you 
 have the Abbot of Vezelay in your power? 
 Mademoiselle de Hauteville is his bien aimte 
 and maintains a correspondence with him in 
 some way that I have not been able to dis- 
 cover. Through her you can entrap him if 
 you but allow her to lure him from the Abbey. 
 You can do even more. I know of a surety 
 that Odet de Coligny has letters of importance 
 which he was to carry to England. I would 
 liave lured him with them into your power 
 liad you but stayed your coming a few hours, 
 but you discovered yourself before he had 
 left his citadel.' 
 
 " 'So,' replied the General; 'why did you 
 not persuade the Abbot to allow you to carry 
 them to Mademoiselle and make her his 
 carrier pigeon ? ' 
 
 " 'He would not trust me,' Gaucelim re- 
 plied; 'but he trusts her. You must hatch 
 your own plot to make him confide the let- 
 ters to her and then squeeze them from her. 
 I give you the clue, it is surely worth 
 something.' 
 
 " ' It is worth a hundred crowns to you if it 
 amounts to anything,' the General replied,
 
 The Golden Mystery 21 
 
 musingly. 'You say that Coligny trusts you 
 not, but trusts Mademoiselle. She doubtless 
 knows that you were once in the employ of 
 her lover. You have delivered letters to her 
 ere this. Could you not persuade her that you 
 come from him now, and bear back a letter 
 in her hand which would make even him trust 
 you with the packet from La Rochelle ? ' 
 
 " 'I might get a missive from her,' said 
 Gaucelim, 'but I like not the idea of facing 
 the Abbot again. Nevertheless I will try, 
 for the Abbot is confiding and forgiving, and 
 his love for her makes him blind. Also I 
 would like those hundred crowns. Let me 
 think out a plan, for there are more ways 
 than one to skin a cat. Meantime to our 
 other business. The monks of Clairvaux. 
 have sent a train of provisions to Vezelay r 
 great tuns of wine from their vineyards of 
 Chablis, and waggonloads of barley and wheat 
 from their granges. The train will halt to- 
 day in the forest of Aigremont awaiting in- 
 formation from me as to the best means of 
 getting into the Abbey. I am supposed to 
 be now in conference with Abbot Odet and 
 am to return to them at midnight and con- 
 voy the train to that gate of the monastery 
 least under your surveillance. You have but
 
 22 French Abbeys 
 
 to tell me which route to take, and where 
 your men would prefer to fall upon them to 
 capture the entire train.' 
 
 " 'Good,' said Sansac; 'but will the monks 
 fight?' 
 
 " 'Not a monk ventures from his monkery; 
 the carters are but stupid peasants who know 
 not whither they are bound. They will run 
 like deer at the first sound of firing.' 
 
 " 'A master-stroke,' chuckled Sansac; 
 'bring them by the Col de la Croix de Mont 
 Joie. The gorge is narrow we will take the 
 carts one by one as they cross the bridge. 
 We will let the yokels escape, if they make no 
 resistance. I will myself be in the old tower 
 to broach the first cask of Chablis. You are 
 a rare forage-master, and shall be rewarded 
 for this, Gaucelim. We will send the Abbot 
 a bottle as a sample of what he has lost. Get 
 to bed now in the loft over the stables, for 
 your eyes are heavy, and you have more 
 owl's work for this night. Take the white 
 horse in the stall at the left of the stable when 
 you set out, for he is the best of the stud. 
 The password to-night everywhere is "The 
 King's business." We shall have a merry 
 meeting when you return, but drink not till 
 I give you leave it is your weakness, my lad.
 
 The Golden Mystery 23 
 
 I will send you a stirrup-cup when you start. 
 See you take no other.' 
 
 "Elizabeth tiptoed from her hiding-place, 
 thinking hard and fast. Would no good 
 angel inspire her with some scheme to out- 
 wit this knavery? Suddenly she saw her 
 opportunity, and she hurried to the still- 
 room of the chateau where she had often as- 
 sisted her hostess in the preparation of 
 medicaments for the poor of the neighbour- 
 hood. She took a flask of the strongest 
 liqueur of the good monks of La Grande Char- 
 treuse, poured out a glass, and refilled the 
 flask from another bottle labelled 'Syrup of 
 Poppies, For the Solacing of those Sleepless 
 through great Pain.' 
 
 "Calling a page, she bade him take the 
 drugged liqueur to a young man whom he 
 would find in the stable-loft. 
 
 " 'Tell him,' she said, 'that General Sansac 
 sends it to him for it has power to quicken 
 the wits, and will warm his heart for the 
 adventure which he has before him.' 
 
 "She could do nothing further until night-, 
 fall, when she lighted the lamp in the Ian- 
 terne des morts for the last time. 'Heaven 
 send,' she prayed, 'that Odet sees my signal.' 
 He saw it instantly. Famished and despair-
 
 24 French Abbeys 
 
 ing, he had been pacing his terrace when the 
 calcium ray shot its white finger across the 
 sky. 
 
 " 'Make a sortie at three this night,' the 
 moving finger wrote, 'on the Nevers side of 
 the Abbey.' 
 
 "Odet de Coligny hastily lighted his own 
 beacon. 
 
 " 'I will be on the road with the best force 
 I can muster ; but what is on hand ? ' 
 
 "Again the beam darted its welcome news: 
 
 " 'Your brethren of Clairvaux will send 
 you supplies from that direction. There is 
 only a feeble guard to the west of Vezelay; 
 do not let them cut off your succour.' 
 
 "There was little time for dalliance in con- 
 versation with her beloved, but she told him 
 how she had learned this good news through 
 Gaucelim's treachery, and warned him to 
 beware of him on all occasions. Then, bid- 
 ding her husband a hasty farewell, she 
 shaded the taper with her fingers and climbed 
 to the stable loft where she counted on find- 
 ing Gaucelim overcome by the sleeping potion 
 and where she had intended to don his cloth- 
 ing and so take the road and lead the pro- 
 vision train to Vezelay. 
 
 "What was her consternation to find the
 
 The Golden Mystery 25 
 
 loft vacant, as well as the stall which should 
 have contained the white horse. Gaucelim 
 had supposed that the General had antici- 
 pated the time set for his start and he had 
 already started upon his errand. Had he 
 suspected then that the liqueur was drugged ? 
 But no, the empty flask lay by the door of the 
 stable. He had drunk every drop as he set 
 foot in stirrup. 
 
 " 'It will work its power upon him,' she 
 thought, 'as he rides. He will be maudlin 
 when he reaches the train; in no condition 
 to give his message. I can still circumvent 
 him.' 
 
 "She looked about her eagerly: a great 
 riding-coat, boots, and hat belonging to one 
 of the couriers hung in the harness room, and 
 she donned them, hiding her petticoats in the 
 hay. Then she led her own mare from its 
 stall, and as she did so a sleepy groom stumbled 
 in and demanded what she was about. 
 
 " 'The King's business,' she replied, for- 
 tunately remembering the pass-word. 
 
 " 'The Devil's rather,' the groom grumbled, 
 but he put a man's saddle on the mare and 
 fitted her heels with spurs, for a servant came 
 from the chateau with a flagon of spiced wine, 
 and presenting it to Elizabeth, said :
 
 26 French Abbeys 
 
 " "The General sends you this stirrup-cup, 
 as he promised, and bids you hasten.' 
 
 "She made as if she drank a portion and 
 handed the cup to the groom while the 
 General's servant accompanied her to the 
 drawbridge and wished her a lucky adventure 
 as she rode cautiously down the steep incline. 
 The castle clock boomed ten when she struck 
 the level road and gave the mare her head. 
 She had two hours to make the fifteen kilo- 
 metres to reach the provision train at the 
 time that Gaucelim had promised that he 
 would return, and it was important that she 
 should reach it first. It was the first time 
 that she had sat a horse in six months, and 
 she was riding now cross-saddle in a manner 
 to which she was not accustomed, but she 
 braced her feet in the stirrups and the reali- 
 sation that she was outside her prison walls, 
 free, free! was like wine to her spirits. She 
 did not ride, she fairly flew. There was no 
 moon, but it was a clear star-lit night, and the 
 road stretched white before her. A sentry- 
 barred her passage as she rode through a 
 village, but at the words, 'The King's busi- 
 ness,' he lowered his piece, with the question, 
 'How many of you are abroad to-night?' 
 
 " 'I am the last,' said Elizabeth; 'hold
 
 The Golden Mystery 27 
 
 any one who follows me till you are certain 
 of his credentials, for there be spies about. 
 How long ago was it that my comrade went 
 by?' 
 
 " 'If you mean a drunken fellow on a 
 white horse, nigh half an hour but the King 
 would best not send many such messengers, 
 for the sot could hardly hiccough the pass- 
 word, and were it not that his horse carried 
 Jbim gingerly, he could not have kept his 
 seat.' 
 
 "He had done better than she had hoped 
 in keeping it thus far, but Gaucelim had 
 learned to sleep in the saddle, and had taken 
 many a long ride in a tipsy condition. 
 
 "Elizabeth began to fear that she would 
 not overtake him, and if he reached the 
 rendezvous in the wood of Aigremont before 
 her the carters would not believe any word 
 of hers to his discredit, for she was a stranger, 
 and the monks of Clairvaux had placed the 
 train in his care. Suddenly her mare shied 
 at a huddled heap in the road and nearly threw 
 her. She leapt from her saddle. It was 
 Gaucelim, lying stupefied, but otherwise un- 
 hurt. While she dragged him behind the 
 hedge, the white horse whinnied and trotted 
 up to her. He had had a rest of some
 
 28 French Abbeys 
 
 twenty minutes and had not been ridden so 
 hard as her own, and Elizabeth turned her 
 exhausted mare into the neighbouring field 
 glad of a comparatively fresh steed. Then 
 she divested Gaucelim of his doublet and 
 hose it was an old livery worn while his 
 master was Cardinal and she kissed the 
 scarlet hat embroidered on the breast, and 
 clothed herself with care, for at daylight the 
 exigencies of her present costume would be 
 apparent. 
 
 " She made a pretty page, but her hair was 
 long and she hacked at it savagely with 
 Gaucelim' s rapier. Hastily mounting, she 
 struck out again much cheered by this piece 
 of good luck. A lamp shone from the ter- 
 race of Vezelay. Her husband was sending 
 her a message, but from this different point of 
 view she could not read it. She was cheered, 
 however, by the knowledge that he was think- 
 ing of her. 'By dawn I shall be with you, 
 my own darling,' she laughed and threw him 
 a kiss as she rode, thinking gleefully of his 
 surprise and delight. How many times in 
 the old days before he had broken with Rome 
 she had asked him to let her visit Vezelay, 
 but he had been obdurate. No woman's 
 foot must enter the monastery, and Protestant
 
 The Golden Mystery 29 
 
 though he was even then at heart, he would 
 not break down the discipline of the rule of 
 St. Benoit, or have it said that he had violated 
 the sanctuary and corrupted his monks by 
 his example. Now she was coming in spite 
 of his prohibition, and they would never, 
 never be separated more. 
 
 "She reached the forest of Aigremont at 
 the time appointed, just as the carters were 
 breaking camp. 
 
 " 'You are to divide the convoy,' she ex- 
 plained. 'The wine is to make a long circuit 
 by the way of Mont Joie, but all the grain by 
 the direct route through Asquins.' 
 
 "There was ruse in the order. The great 
 tuns of Chablis would arrive at the am- 
 buscade as expected and convince de Sansac 
 that his plan had succeeded, and that the 
 rest of the train was simply delayed and 
 would soon follow. While he and his men 
 were carousing she would get the grain into 
 Vezelay on the other side of the promontory. 
 
 ' ' This was in fact what occurred, but as the 
 train of provisions approached Vezelay in the 
 grey of early morning, Elizabeth saw a fierce 
 combat in progress between the monks who 
 had issued from the monastery and the 
 videttes stationed at an outpost to guard
 
 30 French Abbeys 
 
 against such a sortie. The carters were 
 braver than Gaucelim had reported them, 
 and hastily unharnessing and mounting their 
 heavy draught horses the score of men came 
 lumbering across the plain, plumping into the 
 mel^e and attacking the soldiers in the flank 
 with the only weapons which they carried, 
 their murderous whips. The long snake-like 
 thongs circled and cracked with reports like 
 those of firearms and horse and man gave 
 way, borne down by the impact of the charge. 
 "Odet de Coligny had led his men with 
 such recklessness that he had burst through 
 the enemy's line and reining in Humilit6 
 was circling back to his monks, when the 
 carters made their onset. There was no sign 
 of the provision train and in the obscurity 
 of the dawn and the confusion of the hand- 
 to-hand encounter he took them for a rein- 
 forcement of the enemy, and when Elizabeth 
 rode recklessly toward him waving her light 
 rapier and shouting 'Au secoursf he did not 
 recognise her. As she came near, her mantle 
 streamed backward and he recognised Gau- 
 celim's livery, with his own Cardinal's hat 
 embroidered in red on the tabard of the 
 tunic, and his hasty thought was that the 
 traitor had trapped him.
 
 \ 
 
 The Golden Mystery 31 
 
 "He rose in his stirrups and hurled his 
 mace with all his force and Elizabeth fell 
 headlong at his feet. 
 
 "A moment later the enemy had vanished 
 as though blown away by a whirlwind, and 
 as the carters reharnessed their horses and 
 brought up the provision train, the Abbot 
 saw that he had mistaken the intentions of 
 the youth who had ridden so madly toward 
 him, and crying 'Gaucelim, my poor boy, 
 forgive me,' knelt beside him. 
 
 "Then with a more intensely bitter cry, 
 'My God, my God, what have I done?' he 
 lifted the slight form in his arms and rode 
 back to the Abbey. 
 
 "It was like their tender-hearted Abbot, 
 the monks said to one another, that he 
 should feel this deep remorse for the death 
 of this lad at his hand by sad misapprehen- 
 sion of his motives. But when the brother- 
 hood were summoned to the Abbey church 
 to take part in the requiem mass they were 
 transfixed with wonder to see lying upon the 
 bier before the high altar a girlish form robed 
 in the chiefest treasure of their sacristy, the 
 dress of cloth of gold, given to the Abbey by 
 Queen Eleanor. The light of the tall candles 
 that flanked the bier fell upon their Abbot
 
 3 2 French Abbeys 
 
 kneeling by its side, while the chaplain who 
 intoned the service bade them pray for the 
 soul of the noble lady Elizabeth de Hauteville 
 de Coligny, Countess of Beauvais, true and 
 honourable wife of the most unhappy Odet de 
 Coligny de ChatiHon, sometime Abbot of 
 Vezelay." 
 
 "Quatrevaux," we said, "your story does 
 credit to your inventive powers, but un- 
 fortunately for its credibility it is a known 
 fact that Elizabeth outlived her husband, 
 who was poisoned in England by his valet in 
 1571. It is therefore manifestly impossible 
 that Odet de Coligny could have slain her in 
 this melodramatic way." 
 
 "Madame is perfectly right as to her 
 facts," Quatrevaux replied, with imperturb- 
 ability, "but Madame picks me up a little too 
 hastily. I never said that the Abbot killed 
 his wife, or gave the date of her death. God 
 was better to Odet de Coligny than he feared, 
 for his mace had not touched Elizabeth, but 
 had struck her horse between the eyes, and 
 she had been simply stunned by her fall. 
 As the Abbot carried her on his saddle-bow 
 back to Vezelay he felt the pulsing of her 
 heart against his own, and the convulsive 
 drawing of her breath as she regained con-
 
 The Golden Mystery 33 
 
 sciousness, and he strained her the more 
 closely to his breast. 
 
 "Calling the brotherhood together in the 
 Chapter House he presented his wife to them 
 and told them all the truth. They cheered 
 her until the vaulted roof rang again, as well 
 they might, for the provisions which she had 
 brought in saved them all from famine and 
 enabled the Abbey to hold out until Sansac, 
 despairing of reducing it, drew off his army 
 after an ineffectual siege of eight months, 
 having in that time fired all to no purpose 
 upwards of three thousand volleys from his 
 great siege guns and lost fifteen hundred of 
 the King's soldiers. 
 
 "Elizabeth accompanied her husband to 
 England, where, thanks in great part to 
 the interest which Queen Elizabeth took in 
 her, Odet de Coligny prospered in his em- 
 bassy. The Queen gave him cannon, muni- 
 tions of war, and a hundred thousand angelots 
 for the French Protestants. She was listen- 
 ing favourably, too, to the proposals of Henri 
 of Navarre when Catherine de' Medici put 
 the bloodhound Gaucelim upon the Abbot's 
 track, who poisoned him precisely as Madame 
 Jias related. 
 
 "Elizabeth de Coligny returned to Mont
 
 34 French Abbeys 
 
 Joie. She tended the lanterne des morts with 
 ceaseless solicitude, and believed that her 
 husband answered her with star-signals. When 
 she died, an aged woman, the monks of 
 Vezelay claimed her body, and wrapping it 
 in the Golden Mystery laid it in their richest 
 tomb, as a fitting acknowledgment to one 
 who had done so much for them." 
 
 "Quatrevaux, Quatrevaux," we remon- 
 strated, "you are a sad rogue, though a 
 clever one. I fear you forget that horrible 
 fracture in the forehead of the skeleton. If 
 not made by the Abbot's mace, how do you 
 account for that, my friend?" 
 
 Our guide's lips curled contemptuously. 
 
 "Madame is very curious about unim- 
 portant details. I have already explained 
 that the lid of the sarcophagus was very 
 heavy. It slipped from my father's hand as 
 he was removing it, and, much to his regret, 
 the skull of the then unknown woman was 
 crushed. Madame must not impute to me 
 any intention of deceit. It is the exuberance 
 of Madame's own imagination, and no lie of 
 mine, which has suggested that Elizabeth 
 de Hauteville de Coligny died any other than 
 a peaceful, natural death."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE MASTERPIECE OF FRfcRE PLACIDE 
 
 what can Frere Placide want of 
 the Abbot, I wonder," grumbled Frere 
 Elbertus to the pretty lace-maker, Margot, 
 as they stood a little apart from the throng 
 waiting in the garden for audience with the 
 Abbot of Cluny. 
 
 "Very much what you and I want, I 
 fancy," replied Margot; "some favour of 
 Monseigneur." 
 
 "But what can it be?" persisted the cus- 
 todian of the scriptorium. ' ' You have brought 
 some of your beautiful lace for the border of 
 an alb. I crave his attention to work of my 
 illuminators; but a blacksmith! gr-rt Is a 
 prince of the Church like Dominique de la 
 Rochefoucauld likely to be interested in 
 kitchen fire-irons ? It makes me ill to see an 
 
 35
 
 36 French Abbeys 
 
 ignorant pounder of metal give himself such 
 airs. Figure to yourself, Margot, I have 
 twice warned him from the scriptorium. 
 What business has he who cannot read the 
 learned tongues with our precious manu- 
 scripts ? And yet there he was, studying the 
 ivy-bordered pages of the precious missal 
 which the Due de Berry presented to the 
 Abbey. And what do you imagine the rascal 
 did last week when I refused him quill and 
 inkhorn to trace the strap-work ornament 
 on the copy of the Koran which a Saracen of 
 Toledo transcribed for Peter the Venerable? 
 Why the drole brought a ball of stout twine 
 and braided the pattern in the same intricate 
 fashion. Imbecile! How is it possible that 
 a sane man should amuse himself twiddling 
 strings?" 
 
 "That is what I used to ask myself," re- 
 plied Margot. "He often comes to our 
 house to watch me at my lace-making and to 
 turn over my patterns. At first I thought 
 it was for old acquaintance sake, for we 
 played together as children. Not at all, for 
 at last he brings with him a bit of pine 
 board and a stick of charcoal, and makes 
 free to draw off the very passion flowers 
 which I have worked in this lace, and then
 
 The Masterpiece of Frere Placide 37 
 
 the secret was out. He was after designs for 
 his metal-work, and 't is marvellous how he 
 can tease and twist the iron into coiling; 
 tendrils and beat it into crumpled petals^ 
 Have you not marked the scroll-work in the 
 bracket-sign which hangs before the lock- 
 smith's booth in the marche"? He is no, 
 ordinary farrier. Placid waters run deep,, 
 they say, and Frere Placide deserves his. 
 name." 
 
 ' ' Placid indeed ! stagnant rather, ' ' retorted. 
 Frere Elbertus; "he has not even the spirit 
 to resent injuries. Will nothing ever make 
 him angry? Look at him now. That bully 
 Odo has twice hurtled against him, and he 
 stands unresentfully staring up at the clock- 
 tower, as though it took more than a glance 
 to note the time. Staring, and smiling, is- 
 he waiting like a baby to see the figures come 
 out, think you?" 
 
 It was precisely what Frere Placide was; 
 doing. He loved at all times to watch the 
 great mechanical clock, for, at the time of 
 striking, two bronze blacksmiths issued from 
 doors on either side and beat the hours, with 
 alternate strokes, upon an anvil gong. It 
 seemed to the simple artisan-monk no mean 
 tribute to his craft that the artificer of the
 
 38 French Abbeys 
 
 clock should have chosen brawny smiths for 
 his statues and have set them up on high, 
 at the entrance of the Abbey church, for all 
 to admire. In his pleasure in watching them 
 bend to their task he did not forget that they 
 were striking the hour of the Abbot's audi- 
 ence. Margot was right when she said that 
 still waters may run deep. The name of 
 Placidus had not come by chance, but had 
 been bestowed on him during his novitiate 
 ~by common accord of the brotherhood as to 
 its fitness. Gentle by nature, his clear eyes, 
 blue as some unruffled lake, allowed you to 
 look into the depths of his tranquil soul, un- 
 perturbed by any passion except the passion 
 for his art. No one could have suspected 
 that the interview which he was awaiting 
 without visible impatience or excitement 
 marked a crisis in his life, that admiration 
 and love of the Abbey had taken the place 
 in his heart of the love of woman, and the 
 ambition of the artist swelled his soul to 
 leave it a masterpiece which would render 
 it for ever glorious. 
 
 For this he had toiled for years, but lack 
 of time deferred the realisation of his hope. 
 There was always some staircase ramp or 
 balcony, or work of less importance, to be
 
 The Masterpiece of Frere Placide 39 
 
 executed. In hours snatched from sleep he 
 had thought, and sleeping dreamed, until 
 the design of a noble grille took shape in his 
 mind. He knew the very place for it. The 
 choir was closed in by a double jub, or 
 rood-screen, of antiquated and coarse work- 
 manship. He would substitute intricate 
 metal-work which would lend the sparkling 
 lights and rich adornment of the high altar 
 the fascination of mystery. 
 
 Such a task would demand the labour of 
 years, and Frere Placide had seen the sands 
 of his life slipping away, day by day wasted 
 upon trifling objects. 
 
 He had been faithful and uncomplaining, 
 outwardly as calm as ever, but his patience 
 hid a haunting fear that possibly he might 
 not be permitted this dearest desire of his 
 heart. 
 
 If only the Abbot would come to Cluny 
 and take other interest in his Abbey than in 
 drawing its revenues. And at last Domin- 
 ique de la Rochefoucauld, Abbe" Commenda- 
 taire, had visited his benefice, and Frere 
 Placide had plucked up courage to ask an 
 audience with the great man to explain to 
 him his cherished scheme. 
 
 What manner of man was this courtier
 
 40 French Abbeys 
 
 Abbot? he wondered. One branch of the 
 de la Rochefoucaulds had been Huguenots 
 during the religious wars. They were all 
 brilliant men as well as great nobles. But 
 this was no sufferer for conscience' sake. All 
 the better for the hopes of Frere Placide he 
 was less likely to be a contemner of luxury 
 and beauty. Would he prove a patron of 
 art, like Jean de Bourbon? More likely he 
 cared only for his own indulgences and ag- 
 grandisement, and the timid monk almost 
 regretted his hardihood when the porter bade 
 him enter the audience chamber. 
 
 The Abbot's face was kindly and Frere 
 Placide poured forth his aspirations as he 
 laid his drawings before him. 
 
 Dominique de la Rochefoucauld did not 
 immediately examine them, he studied in- 
 stead the face of the enthusiast, and a great 
 pity showed itself in his own. 
 
 "My son," he said, "this is a most am- 
 bitious desire on your part. To realise it 
 you should have not only genius but educa- 
 tion. By what master have you been 
 taught? Have you travelled and seen the 
 masterpieces already created? You know, 
 I presume, that exquisite work in iron is now 
 being produced. The Abbot of Saint Ouen
 
 The Masterpiece of Frere Placide 41 
 
 at Rouen has just erected a grille of such 
 beauty in his abbey church that the King 
 himself envies its possession. You have not 
 seen it of course, but Sens is nearer, and the 
 Archbishop boasts that his gates are finer 
 than those of Saint Ouen. Then, last of all, 
 there is the ironwork of Jean Lamour at 
 Nancy. Can you rival that ?" 
 
 Frere Placide spread his hands deprecat- 
 ingly: "I have never been taught. I have 
 never been away from Cluny." 
 
 "My poor fellow! What, then, can you 
 hope to do?" 
 
 "Nothing, Monseigneur," and Frere Pla- 
 cide patiently extended his hand for his 
 drawings. 
 
 "Wait a moment, I will at least look at 
 them," and the Abbot bent over the papers. 
 
 Frere Placide could not see the scorn which 
 he felt in the ominous silence, and his own 
 abashed gaze was fixed upon the pavement 
 when de la Rochefoucauld finished his scrutiny 
 of the designs. 
 
 "It is as I supposed," the Abbot said at 
 length; "the plans betray your lack of 
 teaching. Why, the veriest tyro among 
 Parisian apprentices could present a more 
 showy set of drawings. You must give up
 
 4 2 French Abbeys 
 
 this work under the Prieur Claustral, the 
 making of locks and hinges for the new 
 cloisters, and go back " 
 
 The Abbot paused, for he noticed that 
 Frere Placide, though calm as ever, had 
 turned white. 
 
 "Man," he exclaimed, "you misunder- 
 stand me. There is no occasion for such 
 despair. I said that without genius and 
 education you could do nothing, but lack 
 of education can be supplied, and, my son, 
 you have what never can be acquired true 
 genius and you shall forge your gates, only 
 first you must see what your rivals are doing 
 and you must go back not to your booth 
 in the market but with me to Paris. You 
 shall live with me there at our town house 
 which Jacques d' Amboise built for the Abbots 
 of Cluny. There is some very pretty work 
 in that little palace, and you shall study and 
 surpass the best that France has to show. 
 Sit down, if your trembling legs will not sus- 
 tain you, and my cellarer will bring you a 
 cup of wine. Two glasses, Francois, and we 
 will drink to the new grille. I shall invite 
 the Abbot of St. Ouen to visit me when it is 
 finished, as he did me, to show me Nicolas 
 Flambart's screen, and shall have the laugh
 
 O <5 
 
 u. p 
 
 35 
 
 2 o 
 > | 
 
 3 (/i 
 
 H 's 
 
 o 
 
 z 
 
 ^
 
 The Masterpiece of Frere Placide 43 
 
 on him, too, for you have twice Flambart's 
 genius." 
 
 De la Rochefoucauld bettered his promises, 
 'and Frere Placide proved that he merited his 
 Abbot's confidence. For twenty years he 
 laboured upon his screen, twenty years of 
 -enthusiastic toil, mingled with the privileges 
 *of travel and study. At last, in 1785, his 
 masterpiece was completed. 
 
 It was a great day for Cluny when, the 
 last rivet having been set, the grille was un- 
 veiled by the Abbot in the presence of a vast 
 concourse. The Abbey choir chanted the 
 Magnificat, and as Frere Placide listened to 
 the triumphant paean, "He hath put down the 
 mighty from their seat, and hath exalted 
 them of low degree," he knew that he was 
 signified in the ' ' exaltavit humiles. ' ' But the 
 chant had a double meaning, and, musing on 
 the "deposuit potentes," the face of the very 
 noble lord Abbot, Dominique de la Roche- 
 foucauld, prince and peer of the realm, was 
 very grave, and his heart like lead. As a 
 man of the world he knew the signs of the 
 times, and foresaw that France would soon 
 fall on evil days. Perhaps this would be his 
 last visit to the Abbey for he was already 
 considering the possibility of flight.
 
 44 French Abbeys 
 
 But Frere Placide knew nothing of the 
 storm which was gathering. He was growing 
 old and would achieve no more masterpieces ; 
 but he laboured industriously upon the orders 
 which the fame of his artistry now brought 
 to Cluny. It was purely commercial work 
 for which he would receive no renown and 
 not even the poor guerdon of pecuniary 
 profit, for the important sums received went 
 to the Abbey, and his vow of poverty held; 
 but he was content, for had he not accom- 
 plished his heart's desire? Every day he 
 visited his gates, and felt of the delicate 
 tracery, or gloated over it with his eyes, 
 and knew that it was beautiful. 
 
 But at last, in the summer of 1789, Cluny 
 woke to a realisation of what was going on 
 in France. A band of brigand sans-culottes 
 roving through Burgundy attacked the Abbey 
 in the hope of pillage; but the townspeople 
 rose en masse and drove them away, and ever 
 through the troubles which followed showed 
 themselves true to their loved Abbey. They 
 could not stand, however, before the will of 
 the National Assembly, and two years later 
 the monks were ejected from their home, 
 which was declared the property of the 
 nation.
 
 GRILLE OF ABBEY CHURCH OF SAINT OUEN, AT ROUEN.
 
 The Masterpiece of Frere Placide 45 
 
 Even then the anxiety that racked Frere 
 Placide was not for himself. "What will 
 become of our glorious church?" he asked. 
 
 "Have no fear," replied the intrepid Mayor 
 of Cluny, "the town will purchase it, for we 
 will never allow so magnificent a monument 
 to perish." 
 
 In his trouble Frere Placide was consoled 
 by the thought that his work had helped 
 make the church beautiful, and that this 
 beauty would melt the hearts of despoilers 
 and help to save it from destruction. Calmly 
 the aged man took his old place at the humble 
 locksmith's booth under the swinging key in 
 the town market, and the townspeople gave 
 him orders for andirons, cranes, and pot- 
 hooks for their chimneys, and brought him 
 misfit keys to file and clumsy utensils to 
 mend, as in his first apprenticeship. 
 
 Brother Elbertus, custodian of the scrip- 
 torium, was more unhappy than he, for 
 revolutionary marauders from turbulent Ma- 
 con had made a bonfire on the fair-grounds, 
 and had burned all of the precious manu- 
 scripts which he had not been able to conceal, 
 together with the wood carvings of the 
 church. 
 
 Frere Placide saw the iconoclastic mob
 
 46 French Abbeys 
 
 surge through the sacred edifice, decorating 
 themselves with costly vestments, rifling the 
 trtsor, and feeding the flames with altar 
 candles and waxen votive offerings, and, 
 while his heart ached for the wanton sacri- 
 lege, he thanked the saints that he had 
 chosen to make his masterpiece, not of gold 
 or gems, which might tempt the cupidity of 
 thieves, or of perishable materials like the 
 illuminations of the scriptorium and Margot's 
 exquisite lace, but of enduring iron. 
 
 "And not till the earth itself shrivels in 
 flames," he thought, "will my iron again feel 
 the fire!" 
 
 False hope and futile comfort. A few 
 days before the old man's eightieth birthday,, 
 in the winter of 1794, a long train of carts,, 
 escorted by soldiers, halted before the Abbey 
 church. Margot came running breathless to 
 the locksmith's booth crying, "Frere Placide, 
 Frere Placide, come quickly; they are taking 
 down the bells from the docker to be melted 
 into cannon, and have sent men to your forge 
 for sledge hammers to break up your gates!" 
 
 For the first time in his life excitement- 
 showed itself in the face of the placid monk, 
 and he hastened to the church, where a 
 crowd of townspeople had gathered before
 
 The Masterpiece of Frere Placide 47 
 
 him. His friend, the Mayor of Cluny, met 
 him at the door. "Come away, dear Frere 
 Placide, you must not see what they are 
 doing. I have told them that it is against 
 my interdict, but they have authority higher 
 than mine. The nation requires all our iron 
 and bronze for the manufacture of arms. 
 See, the masons have broken out the little 
 central column in the upper arcade of the 
 Tour de VEau Btnite, to allow the passage of 
 the great alarm-bell, the one that is never 
 rung except in time of danger, or tolled but 
 on the death of an abbot. It is tolling now 
 as though it knew our calamities." 
 
 The workmen had indeed neglected to 
 muffle the tongue of the bell, and it boomed 
 ominously as it was lowered from its place in 
 the Tower of the Holy Water. But Frere 
 Placide's quick ear caught other sinister 
 sounds above the hoarse reverberations of 
 the bell; the blows of heavy hammers on 
 resonant metal, and alas ! the crash of rending 
 iron and sharp jangle of fragments falling 
 upon the marble floor. 
 
 The lace-maker clung to him, but he flung 
 her aside and dashed up the chancel. Yes, 
 they had dared to strike his heart's treasure, 
 and were breaking out the central paneL
 
 48 French Abbeys 
 
 The emblems of the Saviour's passion, the 
 three nails, the spear, and the hammer came 
 flying in his face as he ran forward to pro- 
 hibit this sacrilege. 
 
 Instantly a great change transformed the 
 mild monk. None would have said that this 
 raging giant deserved the name of Placidus. 
 He wrenched a sledge hammer from the 
 hands of a smith and whirled it about his 
 head. Workmen and soldiers fled from him, 
 and he stood alone in the entrance to the 
 choir like a madman at bay. The panic 
 lasted but for a moment. At a safe distance 
 from his powerful arms the sergeant drew up 
 his squad, and a dozen gun-barrels covered 
 Frere Placide. 
 
 "Lay down your weapon and leave the 
 building, or I give the order to fire!" com- 
 manded the officer. 
 
 But Frere Placide did not hear. Some- 
 thing had snapped within his brain and his 
 face turned purple. With his left hand he 
 grasped the broken grille for support, his 
 eyes saw only blood, and the hammer sank 
 slowly to his side. He made no attempt to 
 obey the order, and no one dared approach 
 the motionless figure which stood so men- 
 acingly on guard.
 
 The Masterpiece of Frere Placide 49 
 
 "One, two, three, fire!" 
 
 The order rang out relentlessly, but before 
 the quick volley obeyed the command Frere 
 Placide fell forward before his ruined master- 
 piece, untouched by the bullets that flew 
 over him, for the man who was never angry 
 in all his life had died from intensity of un- 
 accustomed rage.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 THE WOLF OF ST. FRANCIS 
 
 " I 've drunk sheer madness ! Not with wine, 
 But old fantastic tales miraculous." 
 
 A LITTLE aside from the direct route as 
 one goes from Aries to Les Baux 
 through Mistral's wonderful country stands 
 the ruined Abbey of Montmajour. Its beau- 
 tiful cloister, a gem of twelfth-century art, 
 is brought into vivid contrast by a grim 
 donjon keep, which guarded the only ap- 
 proach, and kept the artist monks safe from 
 all marauders while they illuminated the 
 manuscripts which made their abbey famous. 
 There lies before me a stray leaf of their 
 illumination, the gift of a collector, bordered 
 with floral arabesques in blue, upon a back- 
 ground of what appears to be the most ex- 
 quisite niello, a style of decoration copied 
 from the metal work of their Lombard neigh- 
 so
 
 The Wolf of St. Francis 5 1 
 
 hours. The graceful scroll-work intertwines; 
 a grotesque bestial figure with a fiend's body 
 and a wolf's head and claws. From the 
 jaws of this creature are escaping delicately 
 painted butterflies, the symbol of the human 
 soul. 
 
 Why this strange combination? I won- 
 dered, and I turned to the text thus in- 
 tricately framed for an explanation of the- 
 caprice of the illuminator. 
 
 It was the beautiful canticle of Saint. 
 Francis of Assisi, who visited Aries in the. 
 latter years of his life and was the honoured 
 guest of the Abbey of Montmajour. I re- 
 called his sensitive, tender nature, overflowing 
 with love for every created being ; how, when, 
 interrupted in his preaching by the twittering 
 of swallows, he said to them: 
 
 "My little Sister Swallows, keep silence 
 until I have finished my discourse, after 
 which ye shall praise God" (see Note A). 
 
 What had this gentle saint to do with fiends 
 and wolves? The answer was given me by 
 a MS. in old French script, between whose 
 leaves the enriched page had been found. 
 Was it genuine or a forgery ? The owner can- 
 not say, and as I found it I give it without 
 gloss or voucher. If the story seems wild
 
 52 French Abbeys 
 
 and impossible, read it after a visit to the 
 Abbey of Montmajour and the wind which 
 howls ceaselessly through the desolate castle of 
 Les Baux may lend it the vraisemblance which 
 the writer has not been able to evoke. 
 
 THE CONFESSION OF UGO DES BAUX 
 
 I, Ugo, Lord of Les Baux and of seventy- 
 eight other fiefs, King of Aries and Vienne, 
 make this my humble confession to the glory 
 of God and to the ever-blessed Francis of 
 Assisi. Which confession I leave in the 
 hands of the Abbot of Montmajour, to be 
 kept sealed as a pledge of my repentance, and 
 to be made public only in case of my relapse 
 into mortal sin, and especially into the sins 
 of arrogance, suspicion, and cruelty, which 
 are the besetments of our race. 
 
 Imprimis: be it at the outset plainly 
 understood that in no such wise have I 
 offended against that pearl of all women, 
 Barrale, daughter of the very noble Barral, 
 Viscount of Marseilles, and beyond all desert 
 on my part my own true wife, save in that 
 one moment when the lightning of God 
 visited me with swift and incredible chas- 
 tisement.
 
 The Wolf of St Francis 53 
 
 Nor was it without great provocation that 
 my affection for my friend, Pierre Vidal, was 
 turned into the bitterness of hatred. This 
 I say not for my own exculpation but for 
 the more perfect understanding of this my 
 confession. 
 
 It was at Marseilles that I first saw VidaL 
 He was a hanger-on at the court, a writer of 
 love-poems to the Viscountess Alzais, mother 
 of the sweet Barrale whom I had come to- 
 woo. The rogue was a merry companion,, 
 one who charmed men as well as women, and 
 we were soon inseparable. I told him of my 
 love for Barrale, and I know that he envied 
 me, for his flaunted devotion to her mother 
 was but policy, since no troubadour can win 
 fame save through the patronage of some 
 noble lady. And Vidal wrote sonnets not. 
 only for distinction but for silken attire and 
 dainty food, for he was poor. These the 
 Viscountess gave him for a time, but in the 
 end his forward manners pleased her not 
 and she had him banished from the court. 
 
 Somewhiles after this I found him in sore 
 misery at Aries, for he had boasted of another 
 lady's favour, and her husband had caused 
 him to be seized by his men-at-arms and with 
 his own dagger and hand had slit his tongue.
 
 .54 French Abbeys 
 
 In pity for his suffering I took him to my 
 castle of Les Baux, and there my wife nursed 
 .him, and I gave him trustingly of my hos- 
 pitality and friendship until the serpent's 
 tongue was healed and could tempt and lie 
 as before. 
 
 It was at Aries, whither I had gone with 
 my wife for a few days' diversion, that I 
 learned how vilely he had repaid my kind- 
 ness. A friend who had lately returned from 
 Avignon, where Vidal was carousing, told 
 me that he had boasted of my wife's in- 
 fatuation and of my stupidity, and that I 
 was the jest of the town. 
 
 It galled me more that he should have tra- 
 duced us in Avignon than if it had chanced 
 in any other city in the world, for its inhabit- 
 ants are hereditary enemies of my family, and 
 I need not to recall how they took my father 
 by treachery, flayed him alive, and hung his 
 mutilated corpse above their gates. There- 
 fore when my friend told me of their scoffing, 
 though this villainy had been committed 
 when I was a babe and Simon de Montfort 
 had abundantly avenged it, and though I had 
 promised holy church on the cessation of 
 hostilities to relinquish my right of vendetta, 
 all my hatred for the men of Avignon flamed
 
 The Wolf of St. Francis 55 
 
 forth, and I swore that I would serve Pierre 
 Vidal as they had served my father, and send 
 his felon carcass to Avignon as a warning 
 that whoso laughed at the liar's jests should 
 have like treatment. 
 
 Though an old wound had been opened in 
 the memory of my father's murder, it must 
 be understood that its smart was as nothing 
 to the rage which devoured me when I 
 thought of my unfaithful friend; and all 
 possibility of taking pleasure having departed 
 from me I ordered my horses and sleigh to be 
 brought to the door, my servants to follow 
 with our luggage in another sledge, as I chose 
 to drive, and bade my wife to prepare herself 
 at once to return to our castle. 
 
 She was vexed, for we had but just arrived 
 in Aries, and there was feasting and dancing 
 to which she had looked forward with de- 
 light. She obeyed me without question, and 
 seeing that I was in one of my worst moods 
 kept silence as we sped homeward. The 
 moon shone fitfully through scudding clouds, 
 for a storm was gathering, and the winds 
 sweeping through the gorges drove the snow 
 before them down the staircase of lesser 
 ranges by which the Alps step to the sea. 
 Our road was flanked by precipices and
 
 56 French Abbeys 
 
 furrowed by drifts. Had I not known every 
 turn around the icy crags, every bridge 
 across the chasms, where to look for ava- 
 lanches, where the bears made their dens, 
 and where bandits might fall upon us, it 
 would have been certain death to have at- 
 tempted that drive of twelve miles on such a 
 night. But the fury within me found a mad 
 delight in the peril without, and I cursed my 
 horses as I lashed them to their utmost speed. 
 
 We had passed the town of Les Baux and 
 were crossing the desolate boulder-strewn 
 plain of La Crau. Already the windows of 
 my castle gleamed red above us, when to the 
 dangers I have named was added a new terror. 
 Skulking behind the rocks were wolves, who 
 came out into the moonlight after we had 
 passed and watched us. The frightened 
 horses galloped over the uneven ground, and 
 my wife gave a cry as looking back she saw 
 that the wolves were following. Three, four, 
 six, eight the pack grew in number as they 
 gained upon us. Some evil spirit must have 
 entered into me, for I taunted Barrale with 
 her fear. 
 
 "Are Pierre Vidal's boasts true then," I 
 asked, "since you are so afraid to die?" 
 
 "What hath he boasted?" she cried; and
 
 The Wolf of St. Francis 57 
 
 then before I could answer "Naught, for he 
 hath naught to boast, and he is a true man, 
 my Ugo." 
 
 "Call me not yours," I said, "for if after 
 you hear how he has made merry with our 
 honour you still name him true man I will 
 throw you to those wolves," and I told her 
 what I had heard and how I had resolved upon 
 his death. 
 
 "You are mad," she persisted; "the man 
 who told you this slander lied, for Pierre is 
 true." 
 
 "True lover," I thought was what she 
 meant, and I caught her by the arm shouting, 
 "Out you go, to the wolves!" 
 
 "So be it," she answered, with her set face 
 close to mine, "for I would rather trust their 
 mercy than yours." 
 
 Then an astounding thing happened. A 
 bolt of lightning f or so I deemed it fell from 
 the sky, and not my wife but I was flung, 
 stunned and blinded, into the snow. Pain- 
 fully I raised myself, but not to my full 
 height, for paralysis kept me upon my knees. 
 I fancied at first that my back had been 
 broken, but as I dragged myself as best I 
 could along the road I discovered that the 
 injury was only a strange cramping of the
 
 58 French Abbeys 
 
 muscles of my legs and that I suffered no 
 pain. 
 
 The sleigh was still in sight. My wife had 
 gained possession of the reins and had mas- 
 tered the horses. They were floundering 
 with such difficulty through the drifts that I 
 soon overtook them, but at my approach they 
 took new alarm, and when I sprang for the 
 reins Barrale lashed at me desperately with 
 the heavy whip. Persisting in my efforts and 
 attempting to climb into the sleigh I saw 
 something which frightened me more than 
 the sharp stiletto with which she slashed at 
 my clutching fingers. 
 
 For there, across her feet, with white, up- 
 turned face, lay the contorted body of a man. 
 My own dead body I could have sworn, but 
 that I felt myself keenly alive as I panted 
 after them. 
 
 Whose corpse could it be if not mine, 
 and how did it happen that the face bore 
 features which I recognised as my own, 
 although convulsed by a malignant sneer? 
 
 I dismissed the vision as a trick of my im- 
 agination and bounded on, for I realised that 
 I must gain my castle before I should be 
 overtaken by the wolves. 
 
 My wife had but driven within the court
 
 The Wolf of St. Francis 59 
 
 when I rang, but the porter who opened at 
 my summons instantly let fall the portcullis 
 in his affright. 
 
 "There is a great grey wolf on the draw- 
 bridge," I heard him cry, and the word went 
 echoing through the castle, "Wolf! wolf!" 
 
 My great deer-hound sprang from his kennel 
 the hackles bristling on his spine, while he 
 strained at his chain and gave tongue sav- 
 agely. 
 
 I looked about me there was no living 
 creature in front of the castle save myself. 
 "Down," I shouted; "Ho! there, Hubert, 
 haul up the portcullis. It is I, your master." 
 
 But my voice sounded hoarse and un- 
 familiar even to my own ears, a crossbow 
 projected from a meurtribre and its bolt hur- 
 tled by me. The dog loved me well, why 
 had he not recognised me? And why, good 
 marksman as Hubert was, had he missed me 
 at such easy range? 
 
 "It must be Barrale who set them upon 
 me," I thought, and at that instant a wicket 
 opened high in the wall and I heard her 
 voice. "It is a loup-garou," she cried, "and 
 only an arrow dipped in holy water can 
 pierce his hide. See, though I hacked them 
 -with my knife, his paws are uninjured!"
 
 60 French Abbeys 
 
 With that I looked at my hands. God help 
 me ! they were hands no longer, but a beast's 
 paws with ugly claws protruding from the fur. 
 The moon shone clear, and I could see my 
 shadow upon the snow. It was plainly that 
 of a wolf. The lightning-stroke had fallen 
 not aimlessly. I was a man no longer, for my 
 soul in its bestial rage had been withdrawn 
 from my human body and given to a beast. 
 
 I stormed at first against my punishment, 
 but as relentless nights and days succeeded 
 one another, I rebelled no more, and resigned 
 myself to my fate. I even grew to take de- 
 light in being the strongest and boldest wolf 
 in the pack. Hunting had been my passion, 
 and I now indulged it to the full. The other 
 wolves followed me as their leader, and no 
 deer were too swift or sheep dogs too savage 
 to be overcome. Not only the flocks and 
 herds suffered, but belated travellers were 
 waylaid in the forest, and only a few cleanly 
 gnawed bones and bloody trampled snow told 
 of the tragedy. It is true that I took no part 
 in these attacks. The thought of devouring 
 human flesh was abhorrent to me, and I felt 
 mortal enmity but' for one man. But I made 
 no effort to restrain the wolfish appetites of my
 
 The Wolf of St. Francis 61 
 
 retainers, and heard with a callous heart the 
 distant cries of many an unfortunate wretch. 
 
 There was in the pack a white wolf called 
 " Lure," of the cunning and ferocity of a fiend, 
 for such in truth he was. He told me that even 
 as a man he had tempted me and that he had 
 followed me into this antechamber of hell of 
 his own free will, and challenged me to name 
 another who for the sake of any ancient 
 friendship would have done so much. My 
 wife's name sprang to my lips, but the 
 thought of Vidal kept me silent. 
 
 Once not even death could have separated 
 us, for neither could have lived without the 
 other, but now she was doubtless rejoicing in 
 her liberty. So I listened consentingly to the 
 subtle arguments with which Lure encouraged 
 the one vestige of humanity which I still re- 
 tained, my persistent desire for revenge. 
 
 Since I was no longer a man, he persuaded 
 me, I could not be judged by a man's code of 
 morals, with any more justice than I could 
 be blamed that I now coursed my game on 
 all fours and ate my meat uncooked. 
 
 God Himself, who had imposed upon me 
 the form and nature of a savage animal, must 
 with it have given me warrant for acting ac- 
 cording to brutish instincts.
 
 62 French Abbeys 
 
 If ever Pierre Vidal fell into my power I 
 might tear him limb from limb, and who 
 could impeach the soul or the memory of Ugo 
 des Baux, who died on that night when my 
 spirit passed into the wolf, and whose career 
 up to that time had been one of honour? 
 
 I accepted his sophisms with avidity, and 
 patrolled with my pack the road to Aries, 
 athirst to fasten my fangs on Vidal's white 
 throat. It was long before he came to Les 
 Baux, but at length fate gave me my oppor- 
 tunity. It was Lure who told me that he 
 had slipped my vigilance and had gone to my 
 castle mounted on a fine horse and tricked out 
 in all the finery which he so loved to sport. 
 With eagerness I lay in wait for his return, 
 but the instant that I caught a glimpse of his; 
 face I saw it so full of mortification and anger 
 that I knew that whatever might have been 
 the quest upon which he came, it had not 
 prospered. 
 
 ' ' Curse her for a jilt ! " he cried, as he passed 
 me, crouching, unseen, "a jilt, a jilt!" 
 
 And my heart leaped so tumultuously as I 
 thought that he had come to woo my widow, 
 and that Barrale had sent him about his 
 business, that I sprang in a half-hearted 
 way, so missing my aim, and fixing my teeth
 
 The Wolf of St. Francis 63 
 
 in his boot was beaten off with no taste of 
 blood in my hot throat. 
 
 But though I knew that Barrale had no 
 love for him, neither had I pity, for my rage 
 grew that he should have maligned her and 
 have been the cause of our quarrel and of my 
 humiliation. Therefore as, following at a 
 distance, I saw him enter the gates of the 
 Abbey of Montmajour, "Here," said I, "I 
 will sit me down, nor will I quit the spot 
 until I have had my will." 
 
 Lure came to me as I stood sentinel, bring- 
 ing to mind all the delights that I had lost, 
 even the beauty and sweetness of my dear lady, 
 until my heart was like to burst with thwarted 
 desire, and as if this were not enough, he had 
 another whip of the furies with which to lash 
 me. 
 
 "It is time that you knew," said he, "what 
 Vidal has hitherto concealed from you, that 
 his father was one of that gang of torturers 
 and murderers by whom your father was 
 done to death. If the thought that Vidal 
 pretends to the love of your wife is not enough 
 to rouse you, know that it is a filial duty to 
 avenge a father's murder." 
 
 I know not whether Lure spoke the truth, 
 for fiends lie 't is enough that I believed it
 
 64 French Abbeys 
 
 then, and could I have entered the Abbey, 
 even that holy place would have been no 
 sanctuary to Pierre Vidal. 
 
 One day while I lay thus in ambush there 
 came another guest to Montmajour, even the 
 beloved Francis of Assisi, who had come to 
 Aries to attend a great council, and wearying 
 of the multitudes who thronged him, sought 
 retirement in this remote monastery. 
 
 But even in the wilderness Francis could 
 not resist the necessity laid upon him to 
 "preach the gospel to every creature." He 
 had already exhorted the birds and the fishes, 
 and when his quick eye singled out the forms 
 of wolves lurking near the Abbey, and the 
 monks told him of the scourge which devas- 
 tated the region, he caused a placard to be 
 written and posted on the gates, inviting the 
 wolves to assemble, on the following day, in a 
 waste place outside the walls, and listen to a 
 sermon which he would preach. 
 
 It was Lure who spied the announcement 
 and read it to us sneeringly. "Here is rare 
 sport!" he cried. "Shall we listen to the 
 monk, and making a dash all together, digest 
 the preacher with his sermon?" 
 
 "More like we shall be killed ourselves," 
 said an old ranger of the forest. "It is a
 
 The Wolf of St. Francis 65 
 
 trick to draw us from cover and fall upon 
 us." 
 
 "They cannot cut us off here," I replied, 
 "the way is open on every hand. It is long 
 since I have heard the voice of a human being 
 save in agony, and never since my mother led 
 me by the hand have I entered church to 
 listen to a sermon. I am curious to hear 
 what this man has to say to such malefactors 
 as we are. Bold must he be to meet us thus, 
 but he will find a congregation that will listen 
 unmoved to his menaces." 
 
 "Nay," said Lure, *T for one shall not 
 come, for I dread holy water more than 
 spears and firebrands. Know you not that 
 if a drop touches a loup-garou the evil spirit 
 which possesses him is forced to leave his body 
 and show himself in his proper guise? No 
 more roaming in the wild, free woods with 
 merry companions, but chains and hell hence- 
 forth for ever." 
 
 "So be it," I growled. "No hell can be 
 worse than this which I carry in my breast. 
 As well be a devil as a beast." 
 
 At the appointed time Francis issued fear- 
 lessly from the portal of the Abbey, followed 
 at a discreet distance by the bolder mem- 
 bers of the community. The gentle monk
 
 66 French Abbeys 
 
 advanced until he was within hearing of the 
 pack, which squatted in a semicircle; and 
 began his discourse in those tones of pene- 
 trating sweetness which gave him such in- 
 stant power over his human audiences. 
 
 "My brave brothers of the wilderness," he 
 said, "we have more in common than ye per- 
 haps recognise. Long have I marvelled at 
 your valour, and at your endurance of cold 
 and of hunger, of weariness and of all other 
 privations. With what resignation ye con- 
 tent yourselves for habitation with a rocky 
 cave as austere as the cell of some holy an- 
 chorite. Ye know naught of the sinful lux- 
 uries of men, but practise the vow of poverty 
 as strictly as professed monks, wandering in 
 your grey robes without purse or scrip, bare- 
 footed, over the frozen earth, seeking your 
 sustenance like humble mendicants, or if you 
 snatch it like bandits, your sin is less than 
 theirs, since it is one of ignorance. Of all our 
 graver crimes blasphemy, idolatry, heresy, 
 slander, lying, foul speaking, cowardice, and 
 treachery ye are guiltless, and in your one 
 fault, cruelty, ye are far surpassed by man. 
 
 "My brother wolves, every living creature 
 must seek its meat from God. I blame you 
 not that ye eat not grass like the ox, since
 
 The Wolf of St. Francis 67 
 
 this is not your nature ; but I come to bid you 
 refrain from the flesh of men. Let your 
 human brethren come and go in safety, and 
 ye shall be fed from their superfluity. On 
 such of you as will accept this compact I will 
 bestow the blessed rosary. Wear it about, 
 your necks, and come without misgiving to- 
 the refectory of this Abbey and into the 
 markets of Les Baux; no one shall do you 
 harm, and flesh shall be given you until such 
 time as a human being is again slain by one 
 of your number." 
 
 Francis held his rosaries aloft, but no wolf 
 stirred to accept the pledge and safeguard. 
 In my heart alone a dumb longing swelled in- 
 tolerably, and grovelling to the ground L 
 crept to his feet. 
 
 The future saint laid his hand upon my 
 head, and I could see that a great pity for my/ 
 misery stirred his soul. 
 
 "My brother," he said, as he placed the 
 rosary about my neck, ' ' our knowledge is the 
 measure of our guilt. Whatsoever sins thou 
 mayest in thy ignorance have committed 
 they are not imputed unto thee. Now that 
 thou hast been enlightened, go and: sin no. 
 more." 
 
 But this was not the boon which I desired.
 
 68 French Abbeys 
 
 Where were the wonder-working drops which 
 would restore me to my lost estate ? 
 
 *'I sinned against light," I groaned, "but 
 may not even such sin be forgiven? Impose 
 any penance, but finally give me again the 
 semblance of a man." 
 
 Francis had turned to go, but my moans 
 touched his heart, though he could not 
 understand them. 
 
 "My unhappy brother," he said gently, 
 "I know not what thy trouble may be, but I 
 shall pray for thee. I charge thee to watch 
 over this brotherhood, protecting all who 
 dwell beneath their roof from violence, and 
 in as thou shewest mercy O wolf, shall mercy 
 be shewn to thee." 
 
 So speaking and having made the sign of 
 the cross over me he departed. 
 
 Lure also left me, uttering a demoniac 
 howl, and though there was no change in my 
 outward semblance there came over me such 
 peace and joy as I had not felt since the 
 night of my transformation, for I compre- 
 hended dumbly that for even me there was 
 hope. Therefore I set myself patiently to 
 the task which Francis had imposed, becom- 
 ing the watch-dog of the Monastery and walk-
 
 O 2 
 
 I- O 
 
 Q= a
 
 The Wolf of St. Francis 69 
 
 ing beside the monks when they issued from 
 the Abbey on their errands of necessity or 
 mercy. Thus I became known at Les Baux 
 as the Wolf of St. Francis, and my meat was, 
 given me even as the holy man had promised.. 
 
 And once it so happened, while I was wait- 
 ing patiently for it at the door of a flesher,. 
 there came a woman with a beautiful little: 
 girl about five years of age. They had heard 
 of me, for the child came at once and fondled 
 and caressed me, the woman not forbidding. 
 The touch of the child's fingers thrilled me. 
 
 "Good wolf, dear wolf," she said, "come 
 with me to the chateau, and play with me, 
 for it is very sad there, and my mamma does- 
 naught but weep and pray." 
 
 "And does your mistress still persist in her 
 strange infatuation?" asked the flesher. 
 
 "That she does," replied the woman, "for 
 though gallants in plenty come to woo she will 
 see no one, but him whom she hides within 
 her bower, unworthy though he is of her great 
 love. Moreover, though she will not admit 
 it, the end is drawing near. The malady 
 with which he is afflicted, which the leeches 
 call lycanthropia (Note B), increases. After 
 each paroxysm he grows weaker, and she has 
 gone to the Abbey of Montmajour to beg the
 
 70 French Abbeys 
 
 blessed Francis to return with her and re- 
 store him to health. He has performed such 
 miracles, they say, but will he even at her 
 prayer lengthen the life of one of whom the 
 world were well rid ? ' ' 
 
 Then I comprehended that the woman was 
 not the child's mother but her nurse, and that 
 the little maid was my own daughter, a 
 babe in the cradle when last I saw her, and 
 such love and longing constrained me that I 
 followed her obediently. But what I should 
 find and what I should do when I crossed the 
 threshold of my home I knew not, for my 
 mind misgave me. 
 
 As we approached the castle I could see the 
 lighted casement of my chamber, and pre- 
 sently the form of my wife silhouetted darkly 
 against its brightness. It passed swiftly, and 
 I followed on unhindered over the draw- 
 bridge and up the staircase until I stood in 
 the antechamber. The nurse lifted the 
 tapestry for the child to pass, and I saw that 
 my wife was not alone. The gentle Francis 
 was by her side, and they both bent over a 
 man who lay as though asleep upon the 
 couch. 
 
 And even as I wondered who this man 
 might be, Barrale kissed him, saying : "Waken,
 
 r 
 
 THE WOLF OF SAINT FRANCIS. 
 From a painting by Luc Olivier Merson.
 
 The Wolf of St. Francis 71 
 
 dearest, the blessed Francis has come to heal 
 thee." 
 
 Then I knew him for my worst enemy, and 
 1 gloated that he was delivered into my 
 power. What should hinder me from rend- 
 ing him as he lay helpless ? But as I crouched 
 to spring the voice of Francis enthralled me 
 again with its all-compelling charm, as he 
 chanted his wondrous canticle : 
 
 "Praised be Thou, O my Lord, of them that do show 
 Forgiveness unto others for love of Thee, and do 
 
 endure 
 
 Tribulation. Yea, blessed be they that 
 Do endure in peace, for of Thee, O Thou most 
 Highest, 
 
 Shall they be crowned?" 
 
 "Dost thou forgive?" he asked of the dying 
 man, but it seemed to me that the question 
 was put to me also; and "Nay," I cried, "it is 
 more than I can do and live; but I forgive 
 and die." 
 
 And with the travail of that soul-birth my 
 spirit was rent from the body of the beast and 
 floated viewless above its carcass and into the 
 adjoining room, where Francis chanted tri- 
 umphantly : 
 
 "Praised be Thou, O my Lord of Sister Death, the
 
 72 French Abbeys 
 
 Death of the body, from whom no man living may 
 
 Escape 
 
 And blessed be they that shall 
 
 Walk according to Thy most holy will, for 
 
 Unto them shall the second death do no hurt." 
 
 But even in that supreme moment, when it 
 seemed to me that my soul, forgiven even as 
 it forgave, was taking its flight from earth, I 
 turned for a last farewell toward my wife, as 
 she, with an exceeding bitter cry "He is 
 dying! O spare him to me, merciful God," 
 flung herself beside the man upon the couch. 
 
 Marvelling greatly, I gazed upon him. It 
 was indeed my worst enemy who lay agonis- 
 ing there, not Pierre Vidal, but my very self. 
 The body of Ugo des Baux, from which my 
 soul had been driven by the lightning's bolt, 
 had lain bereft of reason and paralysed in 
 living death for five years. And yet during 
 all that time my Barrale had tended my poor 
 semblance with unwavering devotion, hoping 
 ever against hope that I would be given to 
 her again, and swooning in anguish when 
 freed from her long bondage. 
 
 When I understood this devotion the 
 felicity of heaven had not so mucn attractive- 
 ness for me as the yearning face of the woman 
 pressed against my inanimate one, and my
 
 The Wolf of St. Francis 73 
 
 spirit in its answering longing leapt back into 
 the cold clay, and looked through human eyes 
 into hers. 
 
 This is my true confession made to Francis 
 of Assisi, from whom I received blessed abso- 
 lution; and written out and given sealed, as 
 I have stated, into the hands of the Abbot of 
 Montmajour what time I built him a strong 
 tower and garrisoned it with archers, to take 
 the place of the wolf guardian which the 
 monks had lost, and to carry out the behest 
 of Francis to keep watch and ward over the 
 Abbey. 
 
 It was not hard for me to forgive Pierre 
 Vidal, now that I knew that Barrale had 
 never loved him, and whether his father were 
 indeed concerned in the death of mine, or that, 
 were a figment of my disordered imagination, 
 surely he were in no wise accountable. In his 
 retreat at Montmajour he had resolved to 
 become a crusader, and he sailed with Richard 
 of the Lion Heart for the Holy Land, and we 
 saw him no more. 
 
 I have told this story to no one else save my 
 wife, for it is so marvellous that even she who 
 knows full well that I am descended from the 
 Babylonian king who suffered like penance
 
 74 
 
 (Note C) cannot believe but that it is a hal- 
 lucination which haunted me what time I lay 
 insane in my own castle, and she has begged 
 me to keep it close, lest doubt as to my sanity 
 might still prevail. So difficult is it for those 
 unillumined to believe the most perfectly at- 
 tested miracle. But Francis found it not in- 
 credible, and he read to us (translating as he 
 read into the vulgar tongue) the history of 
 the metamorphosis of my far-away ancestor, 
 how 
 
 1 ' He was driven from the sons of men, and 
 his heart was made like the beasts. His 
 dwelling was with the wild, and his body was 
 wet with the dew of heaven till his hairs were 
 like eagle's feathers and his nails like claws." 
 
 Like him also when "mine understanding 
 returned unto me I blessed the Most High 
 whose works are truth and whose ways judg- 
 ment, and they who walk in pride He is able 
 to abase."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE VISION OF SAINT BERNARD 
 
 'T'HIBAULT the Firebrand, doughty knight 
 though he was, felt his knees knock to- 
 gether with sudden fear as he stood without 
 the door of his wife's oratory and heard her 
 passionate ravings as she knelt before the 
 image of the Crucified. 
 
 Unscrupulous in most matters, his super- 
 stitious soul had a horror of blasphemy, and 
 lie had never imagined that such words could 
 be uttered in the presence of God, by even the 
 most presumptuous sinner; how much more 
 incredible to hear them from the lips of the 
 wife whom he had thought all piety and 
 gentleness. 
 
 " Is it naught to Thee, O Christ ! " she cried, 
 "that this man tortures my heart, crucifies 
 me with such agony as even Thou didst never 
 suffer, in that I cannot bear it, that I cannot 
 
 75
 
 76 French Abbeys 
 
 bear it ? Slay him, O righteous God, take him 
 from the world ere his cruelty shall have 
 wrought the perdition of my reason and of 
 my soul." 
 
 Of whom was his wife speaking? Surely 
 not of himself, for he had loved her beyond his 
 own salvation. Before he had met her, under 
 the preaching of the saintly Bernard, he had 
 heard the divine call and had gone away 
 almost persuaded to renounce the world for a 
 religious life. Almost, and then he had seen 
 her, and had answered the supreme question 
 ringing in his ears: "What shall a man re- 
 ceive in exchange for his soul?" with the as- 
 sertion : "I will give my soul for thy love, my 
 Andouille." 
 
 They had wedded, and save when absent on 
 some foray he had in his rough way devoted 
 himself to her. Well she knew that she had 
 no rival but his sword. 
 
 After all, he was not cut out for a monk 
 but a soldier, and he had often wished that he 
 might do feudal service with his sword to his 
 liege lord Christ in the same way that he 
 held himself ready to follow his king. Alas ! 
 Christ would not accept a divided heart ; and 
 he had turned a deaf ear to conscience, only 
 pacing the floor at night when he thought
 
 The Vision of Saint Bernard 77 
 
 his wife asleep, and answering its monitions 
 with fierce imprecations and reassertions that 
 though hell were the penalty yet would he not 
 give her up. 
 
 Why then was she not happy, and who was 
 this man whom she besought God to destroy ? 
 He questioned his own conduct if in any way 
 he could unwittingly have grieved her, and 
 thought himself innocent. True, in common 
 with most barons of the time, he had exacted 
 severe feudal service from his serfs, and had 
 been not over-careful for their well-being. 
 What were the griefs and miseries of these 
 swine to him ? It vexed him that the gold he 
 gave his lady for her personal pranking was so 
 often spent for medicaments and clothing for 
 these ungrateful clowns. The only rating he 
 had ever given her was for cheapening her 
 state in this way. He was not accounted 
 hard-hearted or quarrelsome by his neighbours 
 of like degree with himself. On the contrary, 
 he loved to revel with them, and when they 
 visited him not venison alone but costlier 
 viands smoked for weeks upon his board, and 
 the oldest wines of Champagne burst from 
 their flasks like long imprisoned fountains, 
 and danced and sang until the strongest heads 
 reeled to the same giddy measure. What if
 
 78 French Abbeys 
 
 the jokes and tales grew too highly flavoured' 
 for my lady's ear? wine only made him more 
 boisterously mirthful and uxorious. Even 
 when deepest in his cups he never lifted his 
 hand against her, but babbled of his devotion 
 with maudlin tears when too drunk to swear. 
 It was for her sake as much as his own, he told 
 himself, that he had decided to serve the 
 world instead of heaven, and she as well as he 
 should have the best it had to offer. 
 
 So he had lived for ten years a life of grossest 
 self-indulgence, with no ambition worthy of a 
 man to tempt him from the quicksand of de- 
 terioration into which he had fallen. And all 
 the while, in spite of Andouille's endeavours- 
 to rouse him from sloth, in spite of the pain 
 in her pleading eyes, he had deluded himself 
 with the idea that it was all for her sake and 
 the world well lost. Then suddenly a change 
 had been wrought in him, his better self awoke, 
 and the life which he had hitherto led filled 
 him with disgust. The change had been 
 brought about by a number of causes con- 
 verging and concentrating in the unexpected 
 appearance upon the scene of the man who 
 had once before so strongly influenced him, 
 the all-persuasive Bernard. 
 
 The first circumstance to rouse Thibault
 
 The Vision of Saint Bernard 79 
 
 from his lethargy was the unpleasant realisa- 
 tion that his reckless prodigality had so de- 
 pleted his fortune that some means must be 
 immediately sought for repairing it. Only 
 one expedient occurred to him. His castle 
 was but a little distance from the great high- 
 way leading from Paris eastward to Lorraine, 
 and just outside his hunting-park this road 
 dipped into a lonely vale called the Valley of 
 Wormwood. The valley broadened toward 
 the east into marshy lands, whose pools the 
 rising sun turned to blood, but the stream 
 that spread itself here was confined higher up 
 toward the west by a rocky gorge and brawled 
 beneath a stone bridge defended by an an- 
 cient tower. This rude castle Thibault's kins- 
 man, the great Count Hugh of Champagne, 
 had in time past leased to a bandit, who 
 exacted toll from rich merchants and other 
 travellers. It was reputed that he even 
 robbed pilgrims setting out on their journey 
 to the Holy Land, and that those who threat- 
 ened to complain to the king found graves 
 without headstones in the red marsh. Hugh 
 de Champagne had heard rumours of the 
 doings of his tenant, and upon his death the 
 Count left the domain to the Abbey of Citeaux, 
 hoping thus to assoil his soul from any blame
 
 8o French Abbeys 
 
 for accepting as rental money wrongfully 
 gained. 
 
 The Cistercians had not hitherto chosen to 
 take possession of their legacy, and the bandit 
 had offered Thibault, who was the Count's 
 executor, a large sum for permission to re- 
 main undisturbed in the stronghold. This 
 bribe Thibault had declined with a great 
 show of indignation, visiting the tower with a 
 troop of his men-at-arms and forcibly ejecting 
 the brigand. At the same time he could not 
 help noticing how admirably this toll-gate 
 was situated for its purpose; and since then 
 the idea had more than once crossed his mind 
 that it would be easy to take the place of the 
 unscrupulous tenant, and, with visor down 
 and otherwise disguised, levy the same road- 
 tariff, none suspecting that the tower had 
 changed masters. 
 
 Being hard pressed by a Jew of Metz for 
 the return of borrowed moneys, and learning 
 that his creditor was on his way to Paris for 
 the purchase of goods and must pass through 
 the Valley of Wormwood, he at length suc- 
 cumbed to the temptation and sallied forth to 
 waylay him. 
 
 It so happened that the robber, though dis- 
 possessed, had returned to his lair, and when
 
 The Vision of Saint Bernard 81 
 
 Thibault entered the valley he heard a great 
 fracas and saw the bandits descending upon 
 a convoy. It was not, as they supposed, the 
 train of some rich merchant, but a party of 
 twelve monks, who, with a few serfs lead- 
 ing mules laden with their poor effects, had 
 been sent by the Abbot of Citeaux to take 
 possession of their fief and to found a new 
 monastery. 
 
 Fortunately for Thibault's reputation, a 
 comprehension of the situation was vouch- 
 safed him through the outcries of the fleeing 
 servants, and he arrived upon the scene in the 
 character of a rescuer instead of that of a 
 brigand. For the rest, nothing could have 
 induced him to lay hands on the property of 
 the Church, and when he recognised Bernard 
 at the head of the little party he thanked his 
 guardian angel who had saved him from 
 mortal sin. The bandit chief was speedily 
 secured and a halter placed about his neck; 
 but when Bernard interceded for the life of 
 the wretch Thibault grudgingly placed the 
 free end of the halter in the monk's hand. It 
 irked him not to be allowed to show his zeal 
 for holy Church by stringing up this mis- 
 creant whose crime, his own conscience told 
 him, he had by the merest chance escaped. 
 
 6
 
 82 French Abbeys 
 
 The malefactor thus confided to the saint 
 became one of the most devoted monks in the 
 new Abbey of Clairvaux, which was founded 
 in the bandit stronghold, and Bernard's com- 
 ing proved a turning-point as well in the 
 career of Thibault the Firebrand. Though he 
 would not acknowledge the fact even to him- 
 self, he had not been happy in the life of 
 sensuality in which he had steeped himself. 
 He was weary of inglorious ease, of gluttony, 
 and of drink, and satiated by the very mo- 
 notony of Andouille's affection. 
 
 "God's death! it is the life of a stalled ox 
 and not of a man," he had confided to a boon 
 companion who was also sick of peace and 
 spoiling for a good fight. "If only France 
 were at war with some other nation, how 
 gladly would I take the field!" 
 
 "There is need enough for our arms," re- 
 plied the other, "for the Saracens pollute the 
 Holy City and harass pilgrims while our 
 swords rust in their scabbards, and all the 
 kings of Christendom, and even the Pope as 
 well, look on with indifference. 
 
 "The hearts of hundreds, nay thousands, of 
 noble knights are swelling with indignation, 
 but there will be no crusade, for only one man, 
 the eloquent Bernard, can rouse the nations
 
 The Vision of Saint Bernard 83 
 
 from their apathy, and he is lost to the world, 
 having declared that he will never again ad- 
 dress an assembly outside his own priory 
 of Clairvaux." 
 
 Andouille had overheard this conversation; 
 and others like it. The memory of the first, 
 glorious crusade led by Godfrey of Bouillorn 
 was fresh in all minds. Here was a cause 
 worthy of high emprise, worthy of hardship' 
 and death. What calamity indeed was the 
 risk of glorious death for Christ, compared 
 with that death of the soul and the intellect, 
 into which her husband was daily slipping ? 
 
 With all the zeal of an ardent believer and. 
 all the love of an anxious wife she endeav- 
 oured to persuade her husband to join the 
 little band of knights who were labouring to* 
 fan the flame of a crusade. What, she asked 
 herself, could temporary absence do but make 
 more intense the rapture of their reunion?' 
 Her husband was sick of her continual cod- 
 dling. He would appreciate more her loving 
 devoir after a season of hardship. 
 
 She believed that the crusade could be put 
 on foot without the agency of Bernard, whose 
 pitiless aceticism had gained for him the 
 name of "Le terreur des meres et des jeunes 
 femmes."
 
 84 French Abbeys 
 
 They had reason to fear him, all loving 
 women, for his irresistible influence had even 
 been pitted against all that they held dearest, 
 luring their sons and lovers from their homes 
 to the cloister, poisoning their hearts with the 
 terrible virus of his sublime fanaticism. And 
 now by a strange dispensation of Providence 
 lier enemy had come to her door. Bernard 
 had established himself in the robber castle, 
 converting it into a priory, and its marshy 
 valley into fruitful fields. 
 
 Fortunately, as it seemed to Andouille, 
 Bernard appeared to have renounced all in- 
 terest in the outside world. As his priory re- 
 quired less of his attention, he spent hours 
 and even days together in a lonely cave, ab- 
 sorbed in devotion, his soul almost ravished 
 from his body in its contemplation of the 
 bliss of heaven, to which he prayed that he 
 might soon pass. 
 
 In vain Thibault strove to interest him in 
 the crusade. He would neither listen to him 
 nor touch the food which he brought, and 
 Thibault returned to his castle after each 
 visit more and more saddened. 
 
 "He will die," he said to his wife, "and the 
 world has such need of him at this time. I 
 told him this as the mouthpiece of my fellows.
 
 The Vision of Saint Bernard 85 
 
 We must have Bernard to organise us, to 
 plead for the crusade with king and emperor, 
 to awaken popular enthusiasm as no one else 
 can. Without him there will be no crusade, 
 and Jerusalem will be given over to the in- 
 fidel." 
 
 The lady Andouille crept nearer to her hus- 
 band and stroked his hand. 
 
 "If Bernard should undertake this task of 
 organising the knights," she asked, "and 
 should institute a new order of chivalry, are 
 you certain that the rules with which he would 
 bind you would be divinely inspired?" 
 
 "He would not accept the responsibility," 1 
 Thibault replied, "unless he knew of a cer- 
 tainty that he was the mouthpiece of God." 
 
 "And if he believed that the rules of his: 
 own order were the only ones for knights as. 
 well as monks, and should impose upon you. 
 obedience and chastity, would you leave, me: 
 for ever?" 
 
 "We know not that he would frame such 
 a code," Thibault replied evasively. "But 
 whatsoever he commands I will obey." 
 
 Andouille uttered a cry as one suddenly/ 
 stabbed. "Nay, you do know that he would 
 demand such renunciation, and you love me 
 no longer." She flung her arms about her
 
 86 French Abbeys 
 
 husband's neck, but he put her from him, 
 saying coldly: 
 
 " I would have become a monk but for you. 
 Would you have me lose my soul utterly by 
 refusing Christ this tardy service?" 
 
 "Nay," she replied. "Lay your cause be- 
 fore God, as I also will lay mine, and we will 
 leave the result in His hands." 
 
 Thibault had not been surprised that her 
 woman's heart had rebelled at first at the 
 thought of separation for the rest of their lives, 
 but he had no idea of the intensity of her love 
 until at the door of his wife's oratory he had 
 overheard her wild weeping and wilder prayer: 
 
 "O righteous God, take this man out of the 
 world before he has desolated it. Remove 
 Irim to the heaven which he is so impatient to 
 enter. In Thy hands are life and death. 
 Manifest thy judgments now, O great just 
 God. Is it right that this man should in Thy 
 name commit this monstrous crime? Strike 
 him suddenly ere he has time to laden his soul 
 with more suffering of the innocent." 
 
 There was silence for a brief space as though 
 the agonised suppliant were awaiting an 
 answer. Then she seemed to have heard it 
 through some inner sense, for, awed and 
 stricken with surprise, she murmured: "Yea,
 
 The Vision of Saint Bernard 87 
 
 Lord, I know Thou workest through human 
 hands; but how can I be certain of Thy 
 will?" 
 
 Again there was silence, then broken cries 
 of remonstrance. "Nay, Lord, work through 
 another This task is too great for me. I 
 cannot do it." 
 
 Thibault knew now that the man whom she 
 so hated was Bernard. Could it be possible 
 that her jealous adoration of her husband had 
 so warped her reason that in her fear of losing 
 him through Bernard's agency a murderous 
 fanaticism had taken possession of her mind, 
 and she believed that she had divine permis- 
 sion to compass the monk's death ? 
 
 He regarded her with keen anxiety when 
 she rejoined him, but she greeted him as 
 tranquilly as though she had but come from 
 singing her babe to rest instead of from one 
 of those fierce agonies in which souls are born 
 or die. 
 
 " Thibault," she said, "if thou art so sure of 
 the will of God, why dost thou not do it?" 
 
 "What do you mean?" he stammered. 
 
 "Have out a litter," she replied, "and 
 bring Bernard hither. I myself will nurse him 
 and prepare with mine own hands the food 
 which his weakness demands."
 
 88 French Abbeys 
 
 But Thibault was not reassured. What 
 might not his wife be tempted to do or to 
 leave undone to turn the crisis toward death 
 when she had shown so plainly in which 
 direction she wished the pendulum of fate to 
 swing ? 
 
 He had already written for a learned phy- 
 sician who could care for Bernard in his own 
 priory, but would the enthusiast submit him- 
 self to a medical practitioner? 
 
 Distracted by these questions he slept but 
 little, until toward dawn, when his lady gave 
 him a sleeping potion which did its work so 
 thoroughly that it was high noon when he 
 awaked. 
 
 His first act after dressing was to seek the 
 key of the postern gate leading into the Vale 
 of Wormwood, but it was not in its accus- 
 tomed place. He called his wife, but before 
 he could question her he saw the key on her 
 chatelaine. She changed colour as she handed 
 it to him, admitting that she had taken it; 
 having made a bowl of broth which she was 
 about to send to Bernard. 
 
 "It was a good thought," he said, regarding 
 her keenly. "Give me the broth, and I will 
 be your messenger." 
 
 Her eyes fell, but she brought him the dish.
 
 The Vision of Saint Bernard 89 
 
 A turmoil of apprehension rushed like a whirl- 
 wind through his brain as he carried it out of 
 the castle. His favourite hound leapt upon 
 him as he entered the bailey, and he set the 
 dish on the ground before it. Then, ashamed 
 of his suspicions, or fearing to see them real- 
 ised, he kicked the dog away, emptied the 
 broth into the moat, and returned to the 
 kitchen, telling the cook that he had stumbled 
 and spilled the soup intended for Bernard. 
 She refilled the tureen from the kettle in 
 which his own breakfast was simmering, and 
 he hurried to the hermitage, distracted by 
 fears which he would not own. 
 
 To his great surprise he found Bernard in 
 an entirely different frame of mind. 
 
 The enthusiast lay upon his couch, weak 
 but perfectly sane. The light of exaltation 
 still shone in his eyes, but it was subdued by 
 a loving interest in all that concerned his 
 friend, his brethren, the Church, and even the 
 world at large. In short, Bernard had come 
 back to this present world and to humanity. 
 He pressed Thibault's hand and thanked him 
 gratefully for his solicitude. 
 
 "I have had a wonderful vision," he said. 
 "The Madonna, in response to my unworthy 
 invocation, has deigned to visit me. As I sat
 
 90 French Abbeys 
 
 bowed over my writing-table, transcribing the 
 City of God of Saint Augustine, I was ware of 
 a sudden radiance, and a perfume as from the 
 gardens of the blessed. I did not look up at 
 once, for I was smitten with awe, but pre- 
 sently a hand was laid upon the page on which 
 I had been writing, a woman's hand, slender 
 and white, and a voice of ineffable sweetness 
 called me by name. 'Bernard, Bernard,' it 
 said, 'the Master hath need of thee.' 
 
 " 'In heaven?' I asked, for I had been look- 
 ing for that call. 
 
 '"Nay, on earth,' replied the voice; and, 
 looking up, I saw a face of such divine beauty 
 that though my astonished lips framed the 
 question, 'Who art thou?' I knew before I 
 heard her answer, "The handmaid of the 
 Lord,' that I was in the presence of the 
 Madonna. 
 
 "'What wouldst thou have me to do?' I 
 asked again, 'for it shall be unto me according 
 to thy word.' 
 
 '"Then rise, Bernard, rise and eat,' she 
 commanded, placing before me a dish even 
 such as thou bearest, and I obeyed her gentle 
 mandate the while my glorious mistress dis- 
 coursed further of the Lord's will to me-ward, 
 telling me that I was called to rouse the na-
 
 90 French Abbeys 
 
 bowed over my writing-table, transcribing the 
 
 v of God of Saint August ine, I was ware of 
 
 ,=n radiance, and a perfume as from the 
 
 gardens of the blessed. I did not look up at 
 
 I was smitter awe, but pre- 
 
 ser iiid wa; page on which 
 
 I had bet 4 n's hand, slender 
 
 and white, ar .effable sw 
 
 called me by na iard, Bernard,' it 
 
 sai<:. i need of thee.' ' 
 
 I asked, for I had been look- 
 ing for that call, 
 
 T<te &*&n Qf -Sairtt ^Berrmrdf . and, 
 
 looking ti-p>i$c*Bite p I attg uyrfa^o u^\. ' Beauty 
 ... f .... . he 
 
 ^n, 'Who , 
 
 rd her ans^ v 
 
 Lord/ that I was in the i>~ 
 Madonna. 
 
 '"What wouldst 
 asked again, 'for it si 
 to thy word/ 
 
 "Then rise, Be 
 comnv placing 
 
 such as thou bear 
 
 mandate the while my : .v 
 
 coursed further of the L<- rd, 
 
 telling me that ' ria-
 
 The Vision of Saint Bernard 91 
 
 tions to a crusade for the recovery of the Holy 
 Sepulchre. 
 
 "'But I am too weak for such a task,' I 
 objected. 
 
 ' ' ' And whose fault is it that thou art weak ? ' 
 the vision asked. ' The spirit of God glows 
 within thee like the flame in an alabaster 
 lamp, but it feeds like that flame on physical 
 nutriment. It flickers now, and will expire 
 unless thou nourish thy lamp. God serves 
 Himself in this world at the hands of human 
 ministers. Such an one, a wise physician of 
 the body, He sends to thee. Be not unbe- 
 lieving or disobedient, but place thyself in all 
 things under his commands until thy bodily 
 health is mended. Then shall the flame of 
 the spirit burn brightly and the task which 
 God has for thee to do shall be fully revealed 
 to thee.'" 
 
 "It is the most sensible of all thy visions," 
 commented Thibault, "and I have the more 
 'Credence that it came from heaven in that it 
 is utterly unlike the dreams of a disordered 
 imagination which thou hast hitherto re- 
 - counted to me, nightmares of fiends hounding 
 thee on to self-murder. There is foreknow- 
 ledge of events in it too which thou couldst 
 :not have imagined of thyself, for thy friend
 
 92 French Abbeys 
 
 William of Champeaux is on the road charged 
 by thy superior the Abbot of Citeaux to 
 make thee sound in body and in mind. Eat, 
 therefore, of this food, for it will give thee 
 strength to wait his coming; it is a stew of 
 venison which I myself killed but yesterday." 
 
 Bernard obeyed without scruple. "Even 
 such," he said, "was the flavour of the 
 heavenly manna brought me by the Blessed 
 Virgin." 
 
 "How looked Our Lady?" asked Thibault. 
 
 "Exceeding meek and fair," Bernard re- 
 plied. "A mist tempered the glory of her 
 features which otherwise I doubtless would 
 not have been able to look upon, but a golden 
 radiance was diffused through this mist, giv- 
 ing it the semblance of a veil of saffron tissue. 
 Even as she spoke to me, a light wind lifted 
 this mist and wafted it through the open door 
 of my cell over the tops of the trees and 
 beyond my vision, and when I turned again 
 toward the spot where my divine visitant had 
 stood, she, too, had vanished from my sight." 
 
 Thibault doubted not the reality of Ber- 
 nard's vision. The ascetic submitted with 
 docility to the regimen prescribed by his phy- 
 sician, and his recovery seemed to all who 
 had known his previous mental and physical
 
 The Vision of Saint Bernard 93 
 
 condition nothing short of miraculous. Hardly 
 was his health established before he was 
 called to attend the Council of Troyes, sum- 
 moned to debate upon the formation of the 
 new order of the Knights of the Temple. 
 His capacity for organisation now showed it- 
 self as clearly as his persuasive eloquence, and 
 at the unanimous request of the Council, as 
 well as of the knights themselves, Bernard 
 drafted the ordinances of the Templars. His 
 heart was in the scheme, for his father had 
 been a knight, and his boyish imagination had 
 been fed with his tales of the exploits of 
 Godfrey and of Tancred, told in all their 
 freshness, for Bernard was but ten years of 
 age when the knights returned from the vic- 
 torious first crusade. Bernard believed that 
 what had been so gallantly accomplished in his 
 own lifetime could easily be re-enacted. With 
 all his meekness there was something militant 
 in his nature, a nature of many contrasts. 
 
 No record has been kept of the wonderful 
 extemporaneous address which moved thou- 
 sands at the Abbey of Vezelay, and caused 
 King Louis VII. and Queen Eleanor to receive 
 the cross at his hands; or of hundreds of 
 other sermons with which he convinced count- 
 less multitudes, as he went about through
 
 94 French Abbeys 
 
 France and England, Germany and Italy, 
 crying "God wills it," till, as Bernard himself 
 wrote, "the cities and castles were deserted, 
 and wives were made widows." 
 
 Stern as the rule of Saint Benedict were 
 the regulations which he imposed upon the 
 Templars. 
 
 But harder than poverty, than abject obe- 
 dience, than privation, peril, and exile, was 
 that mandate which tore husband from wife 
 and from the prattling voices of little child- 
 ren, making the love of man and woman and 
 the pride and joy of fatherhood deadly sins. 
 
 Bernard forbade the Templars to hold con- 
 verse even with devout women, "because the 
 Ancient Enemy hath by female society with- 
 drawn many from the right path to Para- 
 dise." 
 
 And in the last chapter of his ordinances he 
 prohibited them from offering even to their 
 sisters and their mothers the kiss of affection, 
 "ut omnium mulierum fugiantur oscula." 
 
 When Thibault read these rules his heart 
 failed him, and he placed the paper in his 
 wife's hands. "It shall be as thou wilt, 
 Andouille. Even now it is not too late. 
 Speak the word, and the knights shall go 
 forth without me."
 
 The Vision of Saint Bernard 95 
 
 "You love me then?" she cried, all her face 
 transformed with sudden joy. 
 
 "As I have always done, my Andouille. 
 You shall choose for us, and if you will 
 God's death ! what do I care for my soul ? all 
 things shall be as they were." He held her 
 close, and the intensity of his passion fright- 
 ened her. 
 
 "Nay, not as they were, not as they were. 
 I care for your soul, O my beloved. Bernard 
 must know best, and I give you to God." 
 
 Man-like he was not satisfied. "Is it so 
 easy then to give me up ? " he asked. ' ' There 
 was a time when my love was more to you 
 than salvation. Let us speak truth to one 
 another now since these be last words. I 
 heard you, Andouille, praying God to take 
 Bernard from the world, and you babbled 
 something of being God's instrument. Truly 
 I thought that love of me was tempting you 
 to crime. What miracle has changed you? 
 For you do not love me as then you did." 
 
 "Not as then, but more. Suddenly, in the 
 hour of which you speak, God let me see 
 things for one moment clearly. I saw you 
 through wine and wassail, and alas, through 
 your passion for my poor beauty, growing 
 daily more into the likeness of the beasts
 
 96 French Abbeys 
 
 which perish, your brain sodden, your con- 
 science dulled, willing, in order to deck me 
 with gewgaws, to oppress your people, and 
 even to lead them to robbery. I saw that 
 Bernard had come as God's angel, that none 
 but he could save you, or the vast multitude 
 of other knights who were leading the same 
 lives ; and in that hour when I gave you up, 
 and in this when I confirm the gift, I love you 
 more than at my bridal, for I love your soul. 
 Instead of being a menace to the life and work 
 of Bernard I have saved both, though in so 
 doing I knew what would come to pass. You 
 have bidden me choose for us both, but you 
 could not have loved me as you do now had 
 I made the baser choice." 
 
 "It is a miracle," he said, "such as the ap- 
 pearance of the Madonna to Bernard: for, 
 unless she moved you, Andouille, you could 
 not speak as you do now, nor could I bear it." 
 
 And a sublime exaltation bore her up, for 
 she heard within her heart a still, small voice 
 saying: "Though other miracles were none, 
 this of turning a sinner into a saint has been 
 wrought before thine eyes, and partly by thy 
 means, and this miracle shall not pass away. ' ' 
 
 Thibault thought that he understood his 
 wife (but how can a man fully understand a
 
 The Vision of Saint Bernard 97 
 
 woman's devotion?). And he rode away, 
 knowing that he should see his lady's face no 
 more in this world. As he followed the wood- 
 land path up the valley of Clairvaux to bid 
 Bernard farewell, he saw fluttering from the 
 topmost branch of a tree which sheltered the 
 cave which the monk had made his hermitage 
 a filmy veil of faded saffron gauze. He dis- 
 engaged it with his lance, and recognising the 
 initial A, wrought in the border not with silk 
 but with a thread of golden hair, he covered 
 it with kisses and wound it about his helm. 
 It caught Bernard's attention, for the light 
 shone through it and gave it the appearance 
 of an aureole. 
 
 "God gives thee the sign of sainthood, my 
 son," said the mystic. "Either my eyes de- 
 ceive me or I see above thy head a wreath of 
 glorious effulgence such as streamed from Our 
 Lady's features when she granted me the 
 vision which I hold as seal and warrant of my 
 mission. Go and bear thyself valiantly, for 
 the favour of God is with thee." 
 
 And Thibault received his blessing kneeling. 
 Nor told he the holy man that the shimmering 
 radiance was his wife's veil, nor where he had 
 found it.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 THE TAPESTRIES OF BOURGANEUF 
 
 THE old Hospitaller writes, A.D. 1510: 
 None will think it strange that the 
 old Commandery of Knights Hospitallers at 
 Bourganeuf should boast as superb a series of 
 tapestries as ever decked royal palace or 
 grand cathedral, for the manufactory of 
 Aubusson is close at hand, a manufactory 
 owned by the great man who was the hon- 
 oured head of our Order and who dearly loved 
 its citadel at Bourganeuf. 
 
 But the uninstructed observer who gazes at 
 them in future days may well marvel at the 
 subjects chosen for these beautiful hangings, 
 for certes they are little suited to a religious 
 house. They depict no history of holy writ 
 nor legend of saints, no, nor the glorious ex- 
 ploits of the great Pierre d' Aubusson, nor of the 
 Knights Hospitallers whom he led in so many
 
 The Tapestries of Bourganeuf 99 
 
 great actions. They show only a sweet -faced 
 lady surrounded by flowers and beasties of 
 the wood. I am an old man now, and when 
 I am gone there will be no one who can tell the 
 story aright, and so I have thought best to> 
 write it out lest fabrications arise discredit- 
 able alike to our house and. to the subject of 
 these pictures. 
 
 Without doubt she was an enchantress, the 
 blond Agnes of Bourganeuf, for not only did 
 all men who knew her become captive to her 
 will, but animals, who are less susceptible 
 than men to the charm of beauty, would, 
 follow her fascinated and forget while in her 
 presence their savage instincts to prey upon, 
 one another. 
 
 Her falcon would eat tamely from her hand,, 
 utterly disregarding the wild creatures, shy 
 partridges, and little bunny rabbits which, 
 stole from their hidden haunts to frisk about, 
 her. Her mischievous monkey would cease 
 his pranks at a single rebuking word, and her 
 two pet dogs, who were consumed with jeal- 
 ousy over her favours, and who quarrelled 
 when out of her sight, would each submit in 
 her presence, though with piteous whines,, to 
 seeing the other fondled. 
 
 Of these dogs, Flocon de Neige, the Maltese
 
 ioo French Abbeys 
 
 terrier, had been brought her by the noble 
 Pierre d'Aubusson, Grand Master of the Chev- 
 aliers Hospitallers de St. Jean de Jerusalem, 
 on his last return to his native land. The 
 Grand Master remembered her as a pretty 
 child, fond of pets, and he was surprised to 
 find her a beautiful girl of eighteen. She 
 cared none the less for the pretty dog be- 
 cause she had grown up to woman's estate, 
 and she lavished the most affectionate care 
 on the stupid, selfish, and greedy creature, 
 combing its tangled mop of silky, white hair 
 away from its weeping eyes, and allowing it 
 to couch on the most luxurious of cushions 
 .and even on the train of her velvet robe. 
 
 Her other favourite dog was a mouse- 
 coloured Persian greyhound, only eighteen 
 inches high, a shivering, fragile creature not 
 made to support our vigorous climate, and 
 cowardly as well as delicate, but very intelli- 
 gent and devoted, so that while it trembled in 
 every limb it would still bark violently when- 
 ever an intruder appeared whom he thought a 
 menace to his mistress. This dog's name was 
 Saladin, and he wore a golden collar set with 
 moonstones. He had been given to the fair 
 Agnes by the unfortunate Prince Zizim but 
 of him more hereafter; suffice it now to say
 
 The Tapestries of Bourganeuf 101 
 
 that the two dogs divided her affection as their 
 donors did her admiration and sympathy. 
 
 It was Pierre d'Aubusson whom she and I 
 most admired of any living human being, and) 
 well we might, for never hero of antiquity or 
 of troubadour's ballad was more courageous 
 and heroic, no, nor saint nor martyr more; 
 impassioned in his worship of his Lord. His; 
 ancestral castle overhung the Creuse, not far 
 from Bourganeuf, but nearer the city of Au. 
 busson, of which his family had long been 1 , 
 vicomtes. He was Due de la Feuillade also, 
 and Senechal de la haute et basse Marche, but. 
 he early gave up these worldly honours to be- 
 come a Knight Hospitaller to fight the Mus- 
 sulmans, who at this time were in possession 
 of Jerusalem and had recently taken Constan- 
 tinople and destroyed the Byzantine Empire,, 
 and who now, under Mohammed II., threat- 
 ened to stable their horses in the Vatican. 
 
 Aubusson rose rapidly and was soon ap- 
 pointed Grand Prior of Auvergne (his native 
 province). This was the division of the 
 Order which had its Commandery at Bour- 
 ganeuf and made him my superior ; for I was 
 serving my novitiate, hoping some day to be 
 a Knight, but now employed in the script- 
 orium, as I was clever with pen and pencil.
 
 French Abbeys 
 
 Our Grand Prior was not often with us; 
 he was ever at the front when danger called, 
 and, as I have said, these were troublous 
 times. Whenever he made one of his rare 
 visits to his Commandery he rode through 
 the adjacent park to the chateau of his old 
 friend the Vicomte de Montchenu, the father 
 of the little Agnes, for it pleased him to see 
 the child at play with her pets, and she loved 
 to hear his stories of adventure in the far 
 East. All of her dolls were clothed in mail, 
 .and wore the maltese cross upon their sur- 
 coats. Her favourite bower was named Jeru- 
 salem, and all evil beasts, wolves, wild boars, 
 serpents, and weasels, were Turks. 
 
 When d'Aubusson was not with us his head- 
 quarters were at Rhodes, the outpost of 
 Christianity, the sentinel island in the path 
 of the conquering Turk. It was a critical time 
 for our religion. Mohammed swept on vic- 
 torious. Greece, Servia, Wallachia, and the 
 Adriatic Islands surrendered to him. Before 
 Rhodes alone he hesitated for a time, for 
 d'Aubusson, who had now become Grand 
 Master of his Order, not only held the citadel 
 but swept the Mediterranean with his galleys, 
 capturing and sinking Turkish vessels. Mo- 
 hammed saw that it was a personal duel, and
 
 The Tapestries of Bourganeuf 103 
 
 either he or the Grand Master must acknow- 
 ledge himself conquered. That nest of hor- 
 nets, Rhodes, must be burned out at any 
 cost, and in May, 1480, a Turkish army of one 
 hundred thousand men began its siege. Two 
 desperate assaults were made, during which 
 the Grand Master received five wounds, but 
 the infidels were obliged at last to abandon the 
 siege, leaving nine thousand dead before the 
 gates. 
 
 Mohammed understood that he had received 
 his "Thus far and no farther," and his death, 
 which occurred in less than a year, was has- 
 tened by his impotent rage. 
 
 Pierre d'Aubusson received the congratula- 
 tions of all Christendom, and was named by 
 the Pope the Defender of Christianity and the 
 Buckler of the Church. 
 
 It was now that he returned as a conquering 
 hero for his last visit to his home and to the 
 Commandery of Auvergne, and brought Agnes 
 her lap-dog. He had forgotten how the pass- 
 age of a few years can change a child to a 
 woman, and the great warrior stood abashed 
 before the beautiful girl. But she received 
 his gift with charming grace and named the 
 bundle of soft, white hair Flocon de Neige, 
 and Flocon and the Grand Master, looking into
 
 104 French Abbeys 
 
 her gentle eyes, were both from that moment 
 her devoted slaves. 
 
 The Grand Master remained longer at 
 Bourganeuf than on any previous visit. He 
 had much to do, for he was planning wise 
 ordinances to improve the organisation of 
 the Hospitallers, its exterior diplomacy, its 
 internal rule the securing of great men 
 for its officers and the strengthening of its 
 finances and its power. This was but the 
 means for a grand end, which he had had at 
 heart all his life, the stirring up of the Euro- 
 pean powers to another crusade for the rescue 
 to the Holy Sepulchre. 
 
 He was in correspondence with the German 
 Emperor, with the Pope, with the King of 
 Hungary, and with the King of England. 
 His absorbing dream, for which he had la- 
 boured night and day, was a great Christian 
 League to rid the Holy Land of the Mussul- 
 man. But now even as he explained it to 
 the fair Agnes and her sensitive mind was 
 thrilled by his high ambition, this dream be- 
 came vague and shadowy, and all his plans 
 seemed chimerical and the guerdon not worth 
 the labour; so potent even over a man past 
 the prime of life is the fascination of a woman's 
 face. So their mutual influence interacted
 
 The Tapestries of Bourganeuf 105 
 
 each upon the other, and while Agnes lived in 
 phantasy, longing ever to help him organise 
 the crusade, in proportion as her enthusiasm 
 kindled his own waned, and he even contem- 
 plated in his secret heart retiring from his 
 Order and petitioning the Pope to release him 
 from his vow of celibacy. He made restora- 
 tions in his ancient castle, long uninhabited, 
 and ordered a new set of tapestries made for 
 its great hall at the manufactory of Aubusson. 
 This manufactory had been founded years 
 before by a company of artisans attracted to- 
 Aubusson by the woollen-yarn industry, for 
 half the men of Auvergne were shepherds, and 
 their wives spun the wool which was dyed in 
 Aubusson. The dyers were descendants of 
 certain Saracens who took refuge in these 
 rocky gorges after their rout by Charles. 
 Martel at the battle of Tours, and were pos- 
 sessed of a valuable secret, that of producing 
 the Tyrian purple and other colours known 
 only to the rug-makers of the Orient. 
 
 Pierre d'Aubusson interested himself in the 
 tapestry works of his native town and detailed 
 me, who had hitherto devoted myself to the 
 illumination of missals, to make the designs 
 for the tapestries. Instead of desiring me to 
 celebrate his own glorious deeds at Rhodes
 
 io6 French Abbeys 
 
 lie bade me depict the fair Agnes engaged in 
 her favourite occupations, playing the organ, 
 training her falcon, walking in the park, and 
 surrounded always by her little friends the 
 beasties of the wood. 
 
 It was necessary in order that I should have 
 opportunity to study my subject, that Agnes 
 should sit for my sketches, but she had no 
 voice in gainsaying or permitting, for d'Au- 
 busson had her father's consent. He was a 
 shrewd man who divined what thoughts were 
 fermenting in the mind of the Grand Master. 
 
 He gave me very few limitations or sugges- 
 tions other than that each of the tapestries 
 should display, as heraldic supporters, his 
 own emblem, a buisson, or thicket of thorny 
 holly, and a blossoming orange tree typical of 
 the fair Agnes, connected by his own motto, 
 11 Inter spinas floret" ("I blossom among 
 thorns"). The naturalistic picture of Agnes 
 and her pets was also in each case to be 
 framed by heraldic beasts from their respec- 
 tive crests used as supporters his great lion 
 and her white unicorn, a fabulous beast, the 
 emblem of purity. 
 
 "These creatures shall hold standards," he 
 explained, ' ' from which shall float long band- 
 eroles to be embroidered after the tapestries
 
 The Tapestries of Bourganeuf 107 
 
 are finished with whatever device the fair 
 Agnes shall herself designate, for, though she 
 is ignorant of my intention, I plan that the 
 tapestries shall be my gift to her upon her 
 wedding day." 
 
 It was while the private affairs of d'Au- 
 busson were in this state, that an event oc- 
 curred at Rhodes which made necessary the 
 presence of the Grand Master, and he most 
 unwillingly hastened away. The Sultan Mo- 
 hammed in dying had left his kingdom di- 
 vided by the rival pretensions of his two sons, 
 Bajazet and Djim, or as our French chronicles 
 designate the younger, Zizim. 
 
 Bajazet had the support of the Janizaries, 
 and had been acknowledged Sultan at Con- 
 stantinople, but Zizim, who was the son of an 
 ambitious Turcoman Princess, gathered to- 
 gether the wild hordes of Asia and attacked 
 his brother in several unsuccessful battles. 
 After many hairbreadth escapes he had ac- 
 tually sought an asylum at Rhodes promis- 
 ing the Hospitallers many favours, such as 
 permission of pilgrimage to Jerusalem and the 
 release of any of their Order who were prison- 
 ers, if they would sustain his cause. 
 
 Pierre d'Aubusson saw at once what a 
 valuable ally Zizim might be made, and only
 
 io8 French Abbeys 
 
 paused at Rome for a conference with the 
 Pope in regard to his cherished plan of a cru- 
 sade, in his hurried return to Rhodes. This 
 conference, however, opened his eyes to the 
 real character of Alexander Borgia, than 
 whom no greater monster of iniquity ever 
 lived. The Pope admitted that he was in 
 correspondence with Bajazet, who was willing 
 to pay an immense annual stipend if he would 
 either kill his brother Zizim or keep him out 
 of the Orient. 
 
 The scheme of the Universal League of all 
 Christendom for the conducting of a crusade 
 did not in the least appeal to the Pope, and 
 d'Aubusson saw that he could count on no 
 encouragement from him. He also under- 
 stood that His Holiness (in this case most 
 falsely so named) would, if possible, compass 
 the death of poor Zizim, and all the Grand 
 Master's instincts of honour and hospitality 
 bade him protect the guest who had trusted 
 himself in his power. 
 
 At Rhodes he found the young Moham- 
 medan Prince full of delusions of what he 
 might accomplish if only the Chevaliers of 
 the Hospital would aid him, but not yet so 
 crushed in spirit as to be willing to grant what 
 d'Aubusson demanded the withdrawal of all
 
 The Tapestries of Bourganeuf 109 
 
 Mohammedans and the re-establishment of a 
 Christian kingdom in Jerusalem. Anything 
 but that. Pilgrims might safely go and 
 come and visit the Holy Sepulchre, but d'Au- 
 busson must understand that Jerusalem was 
 also to the Mohammedan a sacred city, that 
 the Mosque of Omar, erected on the site of 
 Solomon's Temple, was for them a shrine of 
 pilgrimage second only to Mecca. If the 
 Hospitallers would help him, well and good. 
 If not, he demanded haughtily to be escorted 
 to the King of Hungary, who would be glad 
 of a league with the Turcomans to keep the Ot- 
 toman Turks from encroaching on his empire. 
 
 While these interviews were being held 
 with Zizim, d'Aubusson received a communi- 
 cation from the Pope informing him that 
 Bajazet was about to collect all his forces and 
 lay siege to Rhodes to obtain possession of 
 his brother, and that the Pope, desirous of 
 preserving peace and not meddling with 
 quarrels which did not concern him, com- 
 manded the Grand Master to deliver over 
 Zizim to his brother's emissaries. 
 
 D'Aubusson saw that Bajazet had finally 
 offered Borgia a sufficient bribe, and that 
 between the two he could no longer keep 
 Zizim in safety at Rhodes. He accordingly
 
 no French Abbeys 
 
 resolved to despatch him to a place of safety 
 at a sufficient distance from both Bajazet 
 and the Pope, the Commandery of Auvergne r 
 where, under his trusty Knights Hospitallers,, 
 he could be guarded in secret until he could 
 bring him forward to aid in his cherished 
 crusade. 
 
 In carrying out this scheme he employed 
 more ruse than could have been antici- 
 pated from a man of his character. He 
 feigned to accede to Zizim's request to be 
 conducted to the King of Hungary, and sent 
 him away under the escort of a troop of 
 knights whose commander had sealed orders 
 to take the way to Auvergne at the parting 
 of the two routes. He was able to make the 
 Pope believe for a time that Zizim had set out 
 before the receipt of the papal orders but 
 would undoubtedly be captured by his brother ,, 
 and Bajazet himself sent an army to scour 
 the roads to Hungary. 
 
 To Agnes he wrote of the coming of this 
 prisoner guest, begging her to entertain him, 
 for he had commanded that such liberties 
 should be granted him as were compatible 
 with his safe-keeping, and to persuade him if 
 possible to consent to d'Aubusson's terms for 
 his liberation.
 
 
 PIERRE D'AUBUSSON. 
 
 THE TOWER OF ZIZIM.
 
 The Tapestries of Bourganeuf 1 1 1 
 
 No request could have given her greater 
 pleasure. To aid d'Aubusson in organising 
 a crusade h id become the absorbing passion 
 of her life. Her father presently visited 
 Zizim and brought him an invitation to hunt 
 in his park and to take refreshment at his 
 castle. Certain knights were always told off 
 to accompany him upon the hunt, to guard 
 against his escape, but frequently they left 
 him at the gate of the chateau where I was 
 making the preparatory studies for the tapes- 
 try designs, and had also orders from the sub- 
 prior to hold our prisoner in strict surveillance. 
 
 The Prince was young and strikingly 
 handsome, of aristocratic manners and a cul- 
 tivated mind. He spoke half a dozen lan- 
 guages fluently, and his French had only a 
 slight accent which rendered it all the more 
 fascinating. He was a poet not only in his 
 native tongue, but could handle all the difficult 
 metres of our troubadours, and was no mean 
 musician as well. 
 
 He was impressed at once by the loveliness 
 of the fair Agnes, but his dark eyes could 
 shoot fire as well as languish, and his melan- 
 choly smile changed ever to a sinister sneer 
 on the mention of the name of Pierre d'Au- 
 busson. He believed the Grand Master to be
 
 ii2 French Abbeys 
 
 liis mortal enemy, and could not forgive him 
 that he had convoyed him through deception 
 and force to this distant prison. 
 
 Agnes soon saw that it would be a difficult, 
 perhaps an impossible, task to make him 
 listen to any terms proposed by her friend. 
 The more she praised d'Aubusson the more 
 the prince sulked, for, while he was fast be- 
 coming enamoured of the Lady Agnes, the 
 further he progressed upon that road, the 
 more he hated the Grand Master, whom he 
 fancied his rival. 
 
 He wrote triolets in her honour and sang 
 them to his own accompaniment upon the 
 lute, and was never tired of watching her feed 
 and train her pets, giving her his own little 
 greyhound, Saladin, which he had brought 
 with him from Persia. I remember how 
 beautifully she was gowned at their first meet- 
 ing, for I painted the dress, a violet velvet 
 embroidered in lighter shades of mauve and 
 faced with cloth of gold. A heavy chain oi 
 gold was roped about her shoulders. The 
 corsage of the dress was cut square, but her 
 neck was covered with an elaborate necklace 
 of amethysts, and she wore a band of ame- 
 thysts coronet -wise about her hair from 
 which depended a veil broidered with pearls.
 
 The Tapestries of Bourganeuf 113 
 
 Zizim saw that she was fond of gems, and he 
 sent her an aigrette of white herons' plumes 
 set with diamonds. The Lady Agnes said it 
 was like a fountain, and she wore it at his 
 next visit in her hair. I remember that on 
 that day her dress was of green brocade with 
 long velvet sleeves, and that she had her 
 organ carried into the garden and played upon 
 it like another Saint Cecilia, while her maid 
 Amore worked the bellows. It was a charm- 
 ing spot, this garden, carpeted thick and soft 
 with violets and pink-fingered daisies and 
 primroses, and the birds sang in the holly 
 thickets as though to drown her playing, and 
 the little beasties crept nearer, fascinated by 
 her singing. 
 
 The Prince's passion grew apace and there 
 came a day when he could refuse her nothing. 
 Jerusalem should acknowledge the claim of 
 the King of France as its sovereign. If only 
 Agnes would act as the French King's deputy 
 in the Holy City and become Zizim's Queen 
 Consort, his only wife and Sultana, he would 
 submit to the Grand Master's hard conditions, 
 and they would betake themselves to Jeru- 
 salem together, she to worship with her fellow- 
 Christians at the Sepulchre, he at the Temple, 
 the same God under different names.
 
 ii4 French Abbeys 
 
 To do her justice, Agnes had never thought 
 of this outcome of her mediation as possible. 
 Her nature was too pure for coquetry or pas- 
 sion, and all the love of which she was capable, 
 a mystical, unworldly hero-worship, was given 
 to dAubusson. She was frightened by the 
 vehemence of her lover and for several days 
 denied him her presence, while she pondered 
 on the strangeness of the situation. Was she 
 capable of making this sacrifice for dAubus- 
 son' s sake? If he were only at Bourganeuf 
 to give the decisive word in this great crisis of 
 her life! And the word came in a letter 
 brought from the Grand Master by a returning 
 Hospitaller. It was a very surprising letter 
 to the Lady Agnes, and it wrought a very 
 different effect from that which the writer 
 desired for dAubusson wrote that in deep 
 discouragement over the lack of interest of 
 the Pope and of the King of France in the 
 crusade, as well as on account of Zizim's ob- 
 duracy in refusing to rally his followers in 
 Palestine, he was on the point of giving up the 
 enterprise, and of retiring a disappointed man 
 from the Order of Knights Hospitallers. It 
 remained for her to give the casting vote, for 
 if she would accept the love of a man twice her 
 own age, a love which had grown since her
 
 THE TONES OF THE ORGAN CHARMED THE BEASTIES OF THE WOOD." 
 By permission of Paul Robert.
 
 The Tapestries of Bourganeuf 115 
 
 earliest infancy, he would count all other glory 
 well lost and would demand the absolution of 
 his vow of celibacy and devote the remainder 
 of his life to her, and her alone. 
 
 The fair Agnes was as startled by this 
 revelation of the love of the Grand Master as-, 
 she had been by that of the young Prince. 
 She had not imagined her hero subject to the. 
 ordinary frailties of human nature, but be- 
 lieved him a demigod or saint. She now- 
 blamed herself for unwittingly tempting him 
 from the path of duty, for lighting this pas- 
 sion, which had burned in concealment for so 
 many years, and was now breaking out to 
 wreck his high career and brand him in his- 
 tory as renegade to his vows. 
 
 It must not be. She would save him from 
 this unworthy act, even at the expense of her 
 own immolation. Her father had recently 
 died, leaving her mistress of her own actions 
 and of a considerable fortune. She imme- 
 diately wrote d'Aubusson humbly but firmly 
 declining his proposals, and informed him in 
 the same letter of her betrothal to Prince 
 Zizim, who had consented to his terms and 
 would ally his adherents to the Hospitallers if 
 permitted to return to the Holy Land. She 
 added that she was about to pay a visit to the
 
 ii6 French Abbeys 
 
 French Court and hoped to influence the 
 King to take the cross. 
 
 Good King Rene", titular King of Naples, 
 Sicily, and Jerusalem, had recently died in 
 Provence without male heirs, and the terri- 
 torial rights of the House of Anjou had lapsed 
 to the King of France, the young Charles VIII. 
 He was a weak prince, but he had married 
 Anne de Bretagne, a princess of great religious 
 zeal as well as of ambition and spirit. The 
 Lady Agnes was not over-sanguine in her 
 hope that the Queen would influence her 
 doting husband to undertake this quest, so 
 much to his worldly as well as to his spiritual 
 advantage. 
 
 The brave lady at once repaired to the 
 Court at Amboise, making her camp each 
 night in a magnificent pavilion of cloth of 
 gold, which she had prepared for her wedding 
 journey with the crusading army. Prince 
 Zizim had sent her a casket of jewels as his 
 betrothal gift, and she would have me paint 
 her standing in the door of her pavilion re- 
 ceiving this offering. It was the last of my 
 designs for the series of tapestries. The 
 Grand Master had written her that he had all 
 along purposed these tapestries as his wedding 
 present to her; and I told her how he had
 
 ii6 French Abbeys 
 
 French Court and hoped the 
 King to take the cross. 
 
 Good King Rene", titul; ' >les, 
 Sicily, and Jerusalem in 
 Provence without male htr the terri- 
 torial rights of tht i 
 to the King of France 
 He was a weak prir. 
 ie de Bretagne, a i 
 
 seal as well as of a:. The 
 
 Lady Agnes was not over-Munguine in her 
 
 xi that the Qffif^ft t O f j e ^uence her 
 
 :ng husband to i :his quest, so 
 
 . From the tapestry io the Clunir Museum.-, 1 
 
 to his wor^^e^^ftf^So^fe ^ritual 
 ntage. 
 
 The brave lady at < ^paired to the 
 
 Court at Amboise, makinv tmp each 
 
 night in a magnificent pa >tl 
 
 hich she had pre] -adding 
 
 .vith the crusading ; Prince 
 
 . had sent her a casket of jewels as his 
 
 gift, and she would have me paint 
 
 her standing in the door of her pavilion re- 
 
 . this offering. It was the last of my 
 
 he series of tapestries. The 
 
 Grand Master had written her that he had all 
 
 ig purposed these tapest r i I his wedding 
 
 present to her; and I told her how he had
 
 The Tapestries of Bourganeuf 1 1 7 
 
 ordained that she should choose the device 
 to be wrought upon the banners borne by the 
 heraldic lion and unicorn. He had hoped, 
 doubtless, that she would choose his "buisson 
 of holly," but she elected instead for Zizim 's 
 coat of arms three golden crescents upon a 
 vermilion field, and the tapestries were so 
 woven at the Grand Master's manufactory at 
 Aubusson. They were afterward hung upon 
 the walls of her castle at Bourganeuf, where 
 she lived for many years beloved and pitied 
 by all and, dying, she left them to the Com- 
 mandery, where doubtless in future days 
 people will wonder at them if so be this writ- 
 ing is lost. She was never wedded, either 
 to Pierre d' Aubusson or to Prince Zizim, for 
 while she was at Amboise where she suc- 
 ceeded in firing the enthusiasm of Anne de 
 Bretagne and through her of King Charles 
 there arrived at Bourganeuf a legate from 
 Pope Alexander Borgia who demanded of the 
 sub-prior of the Commandery the person of 
 Prince Zizim; and the sub-prior, having less 
 reason than d' Aubusson to suspect the mo- 
 tives of His Holiness the Pope, or less courage 
 to withstand his authority, delivered up that 
 unfortunate young man, sending him to Rome 
 under an escort of knights.
 
 French Abbeys 
 
 Great was the grief, consternation, and 
 anger, not alone of the fair Agnes and of 
 Pierre d'Aubusson, but of King Charles as 
 well. That young monarch showed more 
 ;spirit than had been expected of him, for he 
 saw through the perfidy of the Pope, who was 
 also in league with the Spanish pretender to 
 the throne of Naples, and Charles straightway 
 gathered together his army and cavalcaded 
 through Italy, taking Naples very easily, and, 
 from that city, dictating terms to the Holy 
 .Father. 
 
 Alexander dared not refuse the King's de- 
 mand that Zizim should be given up to him, 
 for had he done so Charles would not have 
 .hesitated to batter down the Vatican about 
 his ears; but the Sultan Bajazet had prom- 
 ised to do the same thing if he set his brother 
 at liberty, a sore dilemma one might have 
 thought for the Pope, though His Holiness 
 was clever enough to satisfy both the de- 
 mands of the King of France and of the 
 Sultan. Zizim was delivered to Charles, but 
 in a dying condition. Those who carried 
 his litter brought it to the pavilion of his 
 loved lady, who had followed the King to 
 Italy to meet her bridegroom. He laid his 
 head upon her bosom and died for the
 
 The Tapestries of Bourganeuf 119 
 
 stirrup-cup which the Pope had given had 
 been charged with the poison of the Borgias, 
 for which no leech in Christendom, no, nor the 
 Borgias themselves, knew any remedy. 
 
 Of the Grand Master of our Order all the 
 world knows how he persisted in his great 
 enterprise, but failed through dissensions 
 among his followers, and that he died at last 
 at Rhodes of a broken heart, as it was said, 
 because of that failure, but only I who brought 
 him the news that the Lady Agnes had died 
 before him knew that he murmured: 
 
 "She will reconsider her choice when she 
 chooses between us again in Paradise." 
 
 (See Note A.)
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 INTRA MUROS 
 OR, THE STORY OF A RED BOX 
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 CTRONGEST of fortresses, most militant 
 ^ in aspect of all the cities of France, is 
 the ancient town of Carcassonne. 
 
 Thanks to the restoration of Viollet le Due, 
 we see it to-day as it existed in mediaeval 
 times. Its very site, a promontory rising 
 abruptly from the plain, is a natural strong- 
 hold, and its double row of encircling walls 
 sentinelled by forty-eight towers give the im- 
 pression that all the castles of France have 
 made it their rendezvous, trundling into 
 Languedoc and forming about the citadel 
 in hollow square to guard it from attack. 
 Only to treachery or starvation have those 
 impregnable defences surrendered. Strong to 
 
 120
 
 WALLS OF CARCASSONNE. 
 By permission of Neurdein Freres.
 
 The Red Box 121 
 
 repel and strong to hold, the massive walls 
 could fold their citizens in safe embrace and 
 could be cruel beyond belief, for they formed 
 at their strongest angle the prisons of the In- 
 quisition. Terrible tragedies have been en- 
 acted within their dungeons, crimes proved 
 by the evidence of charred bones, heavy 
 manacles, frightful oubliettes, and ghastly in- 
 struments of torture, and still more conclu- 
 sively by the records of the tribunal itself. 
 But of all the lingering agonies devised with 
 such inhuman ingenuity there is none so 
 fiendishly cruel as that hinted at by certain 
 niches or alcoves in the thickness of these 
 cyclopean walls, which tell of death by em- 
 murement or walling up alive; and that this 
 was a common punishment the number of 
 these living tombs still testify. 
 
 But there were high lights in contrast to 
 the darkest darks even in this gloomy picture. 
 It has been the error of Protestants to believe 
 that Roman Catholics universally endorsed 
 the atrocities of the Inquisition, that heretics 
 were invariably martyrs and Romanists 
 always cruel. We cry too thoughtlessly: 
 
 " Oh, ay, the Monks, the Monks, they did the mischief ; 
 Theirs all the grossness, all the superstition 
 Of a most gross and superstitious age.
 
 122 French Abbeys 
 
 May He be praised that sent the healthful tempest 
 And scattered all these pestilential vapours." 
 
 The true story, too little known, of Bernard 
 Delicieux, a fervently orthodox Franciscan 
 monk, who fought a fight, in which he had 
 nothing to gain and all to lose, simply for the 
 love of humanity, may convince us that in 
 any contest the heroes are not all upon one 
 side. 
 
 THE RED BOX 
 
 I 
 
 IN WHICH THE RED BOX MAKES ITS APPEARANCE 
 
 Early in the spring of the year 1302 an 
 itinerant merchant in Oriental garb climbed 
 with his pack-mules the steep streets of Albi. 
 He had perfumes from Constantinople, with 
 silks and goldsmithery of Italy, and other 
 novelties to tempt the ladies, and trinkets 
 not alone for them, but damascened weapons 
 and tobacco for the men; and wise in his 
 generation the pedlar made straight for the 
 episcopal palace to tender the first choice of 
 his wares to Monseigneur the Bishop of Albi. 
 
 This dignitary was notorious for his world- 
 liness and love of luxury, but he was also 
 miserly, and he haggled over the prices of the
 
 The Red Box 123 
 
 commodities which his soul coveted. His 
 eyes, half closed by heavy lids and protuberant 
 cheeks, rested greedily on the contents of a 
 red lacquer box, a rope of pearls of unusual 
 size and beauty. 
 
 "Your demands are most extortionate," 
 said the Bishop, as his fingers caressed the 
 lustrous, perfect spheres with more of devo- 
 tion than they had ever touched the beads 
 of a rosary. ' ' None but a thievish Jew would 
 ask so unchristian a price." 
 
 The Inquisitor for Languedoc, Foulques de 
 Saint Georges, who was visiting Albi on busi- 
 ness connected with the Holy Office, pricked 
 his ear at the word Jew, and looked up from 
 the lists of suspected persons which had been 
 given him by the Bishop. 
 
 ''I am no Hebrew," replied the merchant; 
 "I hate the race of Israel as do the Christians, 
 and I come to your country under the safe- 
 .guard of your Pope." 
 
 "Let me see your credentials," commanded 
 the Inquisitor, but he returned them with a 
 scowl. "They are genuine, the man is duly 
 accredited. I know the signature of the 
 -secretary of His Holiness." 
 
 "In that case, you are free to go as you 
 ;came," said the Bishop; "but you may carry
 
 124 French Abbeys 
 
 your pearls with you, and you need not return 
 unless you abate your price." 
 
 "One moment, your Grace. The casket 
 contains other small matters which may in- 
 terest your lordship. See, it has a false bot- 
 tom," and tossing the pearls carelessly aside, 
 the merchant showed a layer of bon-bons 
 fitted snugly beneath a slide. 
 
 ' ' What child's play is this ? ' ' asked Foulques 
 de Saint Georges, who had not returned to his 
 study of the lists. 
 
 "They be tablets of bitter almonds," re- 
 plied the pedlar steadily. "If your lordship 
 will try the efficacy of but one, you will not 
 complain of their insignificance, for the 
 paralysis which will instantly seize your 
 eloquency's tongue will in two minutes more 
 still your beneficent heart." 
 
 The florid face of the Bishop turned to the 
 colour of lead, but Foulques de Saint Georges 
 exclaimed cheerfully, "Your little comfits in- 
 terest me ; what is their price apart from the 
 bauble pearls?" 
 
 "They are inseparable, your worship. I 
 cannot sell one without the other." 
 
 "Then get you gone," commanded the 
 Bishop, "for I wish none of that deviltry." 
 
 The merchant bowed and took his leave.
 
 The Red Box 125 
 
 "He will come again," chuckled the prelate, 
 "for there is no one in Albi who will pay his 
 price. What were you asking me when he 
 interrupted us ? The Garcias ? Yes, they are 
 very rich. There are but the two brothers, 
 and they are my next neighbours. Their 
 family have lived in yonder old palace of the 
 Viscounts ever since the first of the name 
 came hither from Spain. They are good 
 Catholics, more is the pity, for their estate 
 would enlarge my own very prettily. 
 
 "The elder, Raymond, I am to marry to- 
 morrow, to the prettiest girl in all Albi. 'T is 
 a sweet youth, Raymond, and a generous ; he 
 has sent me a noble wedding-fee. 'T is a pity 
 that his brother Arnauld will not see the cere- 
 mony. He left Albi suddenly; some say he 
 desired the girl himself, and could not bear to 
 see her given to his brother, dearly though he 
 loves him. 'Twaddle' did you say? Pray 
 what do you know about it?" 
 
 "More than your Grace, apparently," 
 Foulques replied. "I have private informa- 
 tion from the King's confessor that Arnauld 
 Garcia is in Paris intriguing with his Majesty 
 for my ruin. See, I have marked his name 
 with red. It matters not that he is not now 
 in Albi. I will give him more rope that he
 
 126 French Abbeys 
 
 may hang himself. My friend writes that I 
 must be wary, for he is thick with the King, 
 who will protect him ; but I can torture him. 
 through his brother, and drive him to commit 
 rash acts, and meantime can assure your 
 Grace that the finest pearls in Languedoc will 
 be in your possession on the morrow." 
 
 Foulques de Saint Georges took a strange 
 way to bring about his prediction, for he went 
 immediately from the Bishop's residence to 
 the inn, and finding there the Oriental, ad- 
 vised him to offer the red box and its contents 
 to Raymond Garcia. 
 
 "The man is to be married to-morrow," he 
 explained; "he is very rich, and insane with 
 love; he will stick at no price." 
 
 The merchant returned shortly to thank 
 him. 
 
 "Did you explain to him the properties of 
 the spiced comfits ? " asked Inquisitor Foul- 
 ques, his eyes shining with satisfaction. 
 
 "Yes, your lordship, but the man would 
 none of them, calling them devil's dirt." 
 
 ' ' Then they are left on your hands ? ' ' mused 
 the Inquisitor, his expression of pleasure 
 changing to one of anger. 
 
 "Yes, your worship, unless you will take 
 them,"
 
 The Red Box 127 
 
 "That I will, rascal; know you not that it 
 is against the law to vend poisons thus ? Give 
 me the bon-bons and get you gone, thanking 
 your stars that you have saved yourself so 
 easily." 
 
 The pedlar made haste to follow the advice 
 thus given; and now the Inquisitor retraced 
 his steps to the Bishop's palace, for he was to 
 dine with the prelate. 
 
 At table Foulques de Saint Georges casually 
 mentioned his meeting with the merchant and 
 reported the purchase of the pearls by the 
 expectant bridegroom, but he said nothing of 
 the little transaction concerning the comfits 
 of bitter almonds. 
 
 The Bishop was inconsolable. "Why did 
 I not buy those pearls ! " he cried. ' ' After all, 
 the price was not extortionate." 
 
 "I see no occasion for such immoderate 
 grief," replied the Inquisitor. "Raymond 
 Garcia will gladly relinquish them when he 
 knows that they are desired by so eminent and 
 powerful a personage as the Bishop of Albi." 
 
 "I doubt it," replied the Bishop. "Ray- 
 mond hath bought them for his bride, and he 
 will not give them up." 
 
 "Why ask his consent, when it is in your 
 power to seize them?"
 
 128 French Abbeys 
 
 "You mean that I may demand the red 
 box on the pretext that we know that Garcia 
 has hidden poison therein? The circum- 
 stantial evidence will be irrefutable." 
 
 "I had thought of that," replied the In- 
 quisitor, and his hand caressed softly the 
 packet of bon-bons in his bosom. "But 
 Raymond Garcia may have removed the 
 comfits." 
 
 "No matter, I can still swear that I saw 
 them there; and the merchant can be found, 
 who will add his testimony." 
 
 "Yours is sufficient," replied Foulques de 
 Saint Georges hastily. "Yours and mine. 
 Besides this matter of the poison is really 
 only a minor detail. Heresy, heresy is the 
 crime which will put him most surely in our 
 power." 
 
 "But I have told you that Raymond Garcia 
 is no heretic." 
 
 "My dear friend," said the Inquisitor, 
 "have you forgotten that half of the pro- 
 perty of condemned heretics reverts to their 
 bishop ? I congratulate your Grace that you 
 can soon enlarge your gardens, and that when 
 you itemise your schedule of this heretic's for- 
 feited goods you may head your share with 
 the Red Box."
 
 The Red Box 129 
 
 II 
 
 IN WHICH THE RED BOX BECOMES THE CENTRE OF 
 COMPLICATIONS 
 
 Raymond Garcia passed the eve of his 
 wedding day with his betrothed, and twined 
 the rope of pearls about her slender throat, 
 not choosing to mar her pleasure in them by 
 telling her, as he had learned from the mer- 
 chant, that to possess them he had outbid 
 the Bishop of Albi. For Felicie's woman's 
 heart would have conjured visions of thwarted 
 greed and rancour which seemed absurd to 
 his intrepid mind. 
 
 She was instinctively as apprehensive of 
 danger as a fawn, and had the same startled 
 eyes and sensitive, quivering nostrils, which 
 Raymond mirthfully said seemed to scent 
 alarm in every footfall. Felicie de Lavaur 
 had good excuse for her timidity. West of 
 Albi on the way to Toulouse may still be seen 
 the blackened ruins of the castle of her an- 
 cestors, sacked a century before the date of 
 our story by the terrible Simon de Montfort 
 during the crusade against the Albigenses. 
 
 Its lord with other noblemen who defended it 
 were on its surrender massacred in cold blood, 
 the peasants who had taken refuge within its
 
 i3 French Abbeys 
 
 walls were burned alive, and its lady had been 
 thrown into the castle-well and her life crushed 
 out with stones. (See Note A.) 
 
 This had happened long ago, when Felicie's 
 grandfather was a child; but hidden in an 
 outbuilding he had witnessed it all, and al- 
 though he lived to old age it was in a half- 
 crazed condition. 
 
 All of his children and grandchildren were 
 cowards. It was not their fault, but an ab- 
 normal condition of their brain cells which 
 must repeat itself through many generations. 
 
 Felicie was trembling now for her beloved, 
 on account of the rash conduct of his younger 
 brother Arnauld Garcia. Certain good Christ- 
 ians of Albi had lately been haled before the 
 tribunal of the Inquisition, and Arnauld, a 
 young doctor of laws, but learned beyond his 
 years, had gone to Paris with a deputation 
 from other towns of Languedoc, which had 
 suffered in like manner, to plead their cause 
 before the King. 
 
 Even while Raymond was quieting her fears 
 concerning him there came a knocking at the 
 barred gate, and Arnauld himself, who had 
 but just arrived, intruded upon the lovers in 
 his eagerness to tell of his success. 
 
 "It is triumph, Raymond!" he cried;
 
 The Red Box 131 
 
 "triumph beyond our most sanguine dreams. 
 Nay, fear not, Felicie, this is Brother Bernard 
 Delicieux, who, though a Franciscan friar, 
 dared to go with us as deputy from Carcas- 
 sonne. We owe our victory in great part to 
 him, for though his Majesty listened to my 
 arguments he has not a legal mind, and was 
 not so much impressed by their cogency as I 
 had reason to expect ; but he was completely 
 won by Brother Bernard's eloquence, and we 
 can snap our ringers now at Foulques de Saint 
 Georges and at our Bishop, who persecute 
 good Christians solely that they may possess 
 their wealth." 
 
 "God send you be not over confident,'" 
 murmured Felicie. 
 
 "Nay, listen," continued Arnauld Garcia- 
 "The King hath commissioned the Vidame- 
 Jean de Picquigny to inquire into the transac- 
 tions of the tribunal of the Inquisition at 
 Carcassonne, and to reform its abuses, re- 
 minding him that it has no power to inflict the 
 punishment of death, but can only judge sus- 
 pected persons, and if it finds them guilty,, 
 recommend the civil authorities to deal with 
 them. That is to say, hand them over to the 
 Vidame himself, and we know that there does 
 not live a more merciful man than Jean de
 
 132 French Abbeys 
 
 Picquigny. Interrupt me not, for there is 
 better news still. His Majesty, justly indig- 
 nant at the malpractices of Foulques de Saint 
 Georges, has written to the heads of the 
 Dominican order demanding his instant re- 
 moval from the Holy Office. What say you to 
 that, my children? I met the rogue in the 
 street, and I could not forbear giving him a 
 slap of my tongue. 'You left Albi suddenly, 
 Maitre Garcia,' he said; 'was your journey 
 long?' 'Not longer nor more unexpected 
 than your reverence may soon take,' I an- 
 swered and you should have seen his face. 
 It was green with malice." 
 
 "But the Inquisition itself," insisted F6- 
 licie, "that has not been abolished, and its 
 dreadful work will simply go on under an- 
 other Inquisitor." 
 
 "Fear not, my daughter," Bernard Deli- 
 cieux said kindly. "When once a just man is 
 appointed, what can he find to punish ? There 
 has been no heresy in Albi; no, nor in all 
 Languedoc for an hundred years." 
 
 The girl shuddered and crossed herself. 
 "Knowest thou, reverend Father, what this 
 horrible crime was which deserved such pun- 
 ishment? I have often wondered, but have 
 never dared to ask."
 
 The Red Box 133 
 
 "It was an error, my daughter, into which 
 only the unhappy can fall. They thought 
 marriage evil and suicide good, for the times 
 were cruel and they believed that it were 
 better that the human race should end of its 
 voluntary act, than that it should fester in 
 wickedness until God destroyed it with fire 
 from heaven." 
 
 "No danger of such heresy here," laughed. 
 Arnauld. "Thou seest, Brother Bernard,, 
 how it is with yonder pair of turtle-doves." 
 
 The good friar raised his hands in blessing^ 
 "Marriage is a holy sacrament," he said. 
 "God make you worthy of your happiness." 
 
 "How incredible that they should have: 
 thought it sin," Felicie murmured, "and 
 suicide right. But if one must burn, I could, 
 understand that temptation." 
 
 "That could not I," her lover replied. "I 
 had the opportunity when I bought these 
 pearls of providing myself at the same time 
 with swift escape by that road from any tor- 
 ture that may overtake me. I know not why 
 I tell you that I scorned to do so, unless it be 
 to prove to Felicie my confidence that the old 
 evil days are past, and if not, then God grant 
 me the death of a brave man, not that of a 
 coward."
 
 134 French Abbeys 
 
 "Well spoken, my son," said Bernard, 
 "and if trouble should come, wait patiently 
 on God, for He still worketh miracles." 
 
 They knew not what they said, or that the 
 time was near when both Raymond Garcia 
 and Bernard Delicieux would long, as for the 
 greatest of all boons, for one of those almond 
 comfits with its merciful swift-dealing death. 
 
 Raymond and Fe*licie sat late together 
 telling each other of their happiness, but as 
 the bridegroom left his palace door on the 
 morrow to meet his bride at the cathedral, 
 Tough hands were laid upon him, and he was 
 arrested in the name of the Inquisition. 
 
 HI 
 
 THE RED BOX AT CARCASSONNE 
 
 Poulques de Saint Georges had been too 
 prompt in his work to please the Bishop of 
 Albi. Had he delayed the arrest until after 
 Raymond Garcia's marriage Felicie's jewels 
 would have been among the goods and chat- 
 tels confiscated, but now the disappointed 
 Bishop searched the Garcia palace in vain for 
 the red box. 
 
 Raymond Garcia had been immediately 
 conducted to Carcassonne, where were the
 
 The Red Box 135 
 
 prisons and tribunal of the Inquisition. His 
 friends were denied access to him, but as he 
 was marched with other prisoners through 
 the city gate, they had stood in the crowd 
 held back by the guards and shouted their 
 greetings. 
 
 Felicie's heart was sick with terror; but 
 love is stronger than fear. "Raymond," she 
 cried, "wait for the miracle; you shall be set 
 at liberty." 
 
 "I will wait," he answered with a brave 
 smile. He could make no gesture of farewell 
 with his manacled hands, but he threw his 
 long hair back with a proud motion of his 
 head and gazed fixedly at his beloved until 
 out of sight. 
 
 "It is Raymond's part to wait for the 
 miracle," said Arnauld Garcia, "but it is ours 
 to perform it. God knows which has the 
 harder task." He was consumed with indig- 
 nation and apprehension, but he had no 
 thought of failure. The seals of the Inquisi- 
 tion were on the doors of his home which he 
 would never enter again. No matter, he had 
 other property, enough, he flattered himself, 
 to bribe the most grasping of judges, and he 
 set out at once with Bernard Delicieux for 
 Carcassonne. With them, in spite of her
 
 136 French Abbeys 
 
 father's entreaty, rode Felicie. De Lavaur 
 loved his daughter, but he was distracted 
 with fear. "The Bishop of Albi is my 
 friend," he said. "I may be able to save 
 Raymond better here than in a town of 
 strangers. Meanwhile, here is money, but 
 be cautious, and, above all things, restrain 
 Arnauld. He is devoted, but rash. He 
 has done enough already to place himself in 
 the power of the Inquisition. I marvel that 
 he was not arrested instead of our poor 
 Raymond." 
 
 Arnauld Garcia was fully aware of the 
 enmity of which he was the object, and he 
 understood as clearly that his immunity lay 
 in his influence with the King, which both he 
 and his enemies exaggerated. Bernard De- 
 licieux, the Franciscan, was exactly in the 
 same case with himself, and with the help of 
 this brave monk he felt himself a match for 
 the Inquisitor. 
 
 Two monasteries of rival brotherhoods, the 
 Dominicans and the Franciscans, flourished at 
 this time at Carcassonne, and well exempli- 
 fied the temper of their founders. To the dis- 
 ciples of the stern Saint Dominic had been 
 confided the maintenance of the Inquisition. 
 Since the Albigensian crusade, when Dominic
 
 The Red Box 137 
 
 de Guzman made his dtbut as the fanatic in- 
 stigator of its atrocities, the order which he had 
 founded in Toulouse for "the cure of souls" 
 had spread until it divided with the Fran- 
 ciscans the control of the Church, and even 
 the temporal power of Christendom. The two 
 orders were the antipodes of each other in 
 everything except ambition, for the Fran- 
 ciscans not only preached but practised 
 charity, the doctrine of the gentle Francis. 
 
 At Carcassonne their conflict was now to be 
 fought out by Foulques de Saint Georges and 
 by Bernard Delicieux, each man determined 
 to win, and each a leader in his own order. 
 
 From day to day Bernard and Arnauld 
 Garcia confidently awaited the removal of 
 Foulques from his office. The King had de- 
 manded this from the Dominican order on 
 the strength of the representations of Bernard 
 and Garcia. But a heavy disappointment was 
 in store for them, for the royal request was 
 firmly refused. This was a blow indeed, but 
 Arnauld showed no signs of despair. 
 
 "If the King of France is powerless to help 
 us," he said to Bernard, "I will appeal to 
 Spain. The Garcias are of the old Aragonese 
 nobility. Fernan, Prince of Majorca, is my 
 friend."
 
 French Abbeys 
 
 But Bernard laid a warning hand on Ar- 
 nauld's arm. 
 
 "You could not please Foulques better 
 than by such a course," he said. "Since the 
 transfer of Languedoc to France, the old 
 Spanish aristocracy have been closely watched 
 for any signs of disloyalty. Beware how you 
 play into the hands of your enemies. Wait, 
 and trust to Jean de Picquigny. The In- 
 quisitor may arrest whom he pleases and 
 hand them to the Vidame. With no matter 
 what instructions, Jean de Picquigny will 
 burn no one, will hang no one, will torture 
 no one. Wait." 
 
 But Foulques had foreseen the Vidame's 
 leniency, and had his own scheme for thwart- 
 ing it. 
 
 Day after day Raymond's friends waited 
 for news of his trial. He was neither re- 
 leased nor delivered for punishment to the 
 secular arm. The grim facade of the Domin- 
 ican monastery, behind which were the prisons 
 of the Inquisition, was not more silent than 
 the monks who came and went. Nor were 
 Arnauld Garcia's and Felicie's the only 
 anxious hearts that besieged its gates for 
 news of their beloved. Many arrests had 
 been made in Cordes, Albi, and other neigh-
 
 The Red Box 139 
 
 bouring towns. The distracted relatives of 
 the victims swarmed the streets of Carcas- 
 sonne, and the citizens of the town murmured 
 their sympathy hoarsely and threw stones at 
 Foulques de Saint Georges when he rode 
 through the street. 
 
 The Inquisitor felt the pulse of the popular 
 hatred when a tile grazed his cheek. He was 
 as brave as he was cruel, but this was no time 
 to sentence victims to the stake, for the city 
 was on the verge of riot. But there were 
 other less spectacular modes of compassing 
 his ends, and he felt that in the long game of 
 patience he held the winning cards. 
 
 He had scarcely entered his cloister when 
 a visitor was announced. 
 
 It was the Vidame, Jean de Picquigny, who 
 had been summoned by a committee of pro- 
 minent citizens to demand from the Inquisi- 
 tion an accounting for its prisoners. 
 
 He was answered that the tribunal was not 
 exceeding its powers. The time which must 
 intervene between condemnation and punish- 
 ment was not set by any law. If the tribunal 
 in its mercy delayed handing its criminals 
 over to a swift execution of their sentence, 
 surely their friends should be the last to 
 complain.
 
 i4 French Abbeys 
 
 The King himself, in reminding the Inquisi- 
 tion so arrogantly that its office was to se- 
 quester guilty persons, not to punish them 
 A d custodiam non ad pcenam, had confirmed, 
 its right to imprison indefinitely. Let all 
 rest assured that the prisoners would be duly 
 fed "with the bread and water of affliction." 
 If they died before they were brought to the 
 stake, none could impeach the Inquisition 
 for any violation of the exact letter of the 
 law. 
 
 When the Vidame brought this answer to> 
 the crowd waiting in the public square, Fe- 
 licie's heart stood still. "Did this mean per- 
 petual imprisonment for Raymond? Would 
 he remain many years in his dungeon?" 
 
 But Arnauld Garcia laughed bitterly, for he 
 understood better than she the depth of 
 cruelty hidden beneath this announcement. 
 "Raymond will not linger so long," he said; 
 "a year, perhaps, for he is strong, and he has- 
 given you his word not to destroy himself; 
 but unless we can rescue him speedily, you 
 may pray God to send death to his release." 
 
 "Are their prisons so horrible?" Felicia 
 asked shudderingly. 
 
 "They are not imprisoned," cried a woman 
 in like case. " Have you not heard?"
 
 The Red Box 141 
 
 "Nay, woman, in mercy be silent!" com- 
 manded Arnauld ; but she went on wildly. 
 
 "They are not imprisoned, they are walled 
 up alive! Only a small opening is left before 
 each niche, one stone unset, and through that 
 hand-breadth a crust of bread and a cup of 
 water are passed daily; just enough to keep 
 death from ending their tortures ; but at last, 
 at last, the ravings of madness end in silence, 
 .and the masons set the missing stone." 
 
 The girl turned faint, and Arnauld bathed 
 her face at the fountain in the centre of the 
 square. 
 
 "Listen," he said, as the loud ringing of a 
 tocsin smote upon the air. "The citizens of 
 Carcassonne are not the men to suffer such 
 atrocity, at least not when their blood is up, 
 and Brother Bernard has it at the boiling 
 point. He has been haranguing them in the 
 church of the Franciscans, and that bell is the 
 signal that they have sent him to tell the Vi- 
 dame that unless he marches at their head as 
 they go now to the Dominican Convent, and 
 commands the opening of those living tombs, 
 they will leave no stone of the convent upon 
 another. Go into the house and wait us, 
 Felicie, for I will bring Raymond to you in 
 half an hour."
 
 French Abbeys 
 
 "Nay, I will go with you," said the girl; 
 and they joined the throng of men, women, 
 and children surging resolutely to the convent 
 gates. 
 
 Jean de Picquigny had rejoiced to receive 
 that message. If the town were in revolt, 
 what blame could the King find if he some- 
 what exceeded his commission in preserving 
 order? He addressed the excited populace, 
 agreeing to give his sanction to the removal 
 of their friends in an orderly manner to the 
 citadel, there to wait under his care the 
 pleasure of the King. This compromise ac- 
 cepted by the mob, the Vidame led the way 
 to the Dominican convent and summoned the 
 friars to unbar their gates. 
 
 Instead the Inquisitor appeared at an 
 upper window and excommunicated him for 
 thus violating their monastery. 
 
 Jean de Picquigny did not flinch, and the 
 mob at his command battered in the portal 
 and forced their way to the prison. They 
 would have done violence to the panic- 
 stricken friars but for Bernard, who held them 
 in leash with his dominating voice. "This 
 is a day of gladness," he cried; "let no blood 
 be shed." 
 
 While the workmen toiled with pickaxe and
 
 The Red Box 143 
 
 lever, the eloquent monk had a still more 
 difficult task to restrain the frenzied women 
 who pressed forward, wild to know if those 
 they loved were still living. Felicie com- 
 forted a beautiful boy who called piteously 
 on his father. "Listen, listen, my child," 
 she said; "listen, and you will the sooner 
 recognise his voice," and in thus controlling 
 the child she schooled herself in that agony 
 of suspense. 
 
 One by one the stones were torn from their 
 place, and eyes that in despair had ceased to 
 weep now rained happy tears upon the faces 
 of their beloved. 
 
 They were still to be prisoners in the citadel, 
 but how different their condition; lodged in 
 airy chambers, supplied with all necessities, 
 and, best of all, tenderly nursed by their 
 friends and cheered by the hope of acquittal 
 (for the King himself was soon to make a 
 progress through Languedoc). What wonder 
 that as Felicie pressed Raymond's wasted 
 cheek against her own they believed that the 
 miracle for which they had laboured and 
 waited had been wrought, and that the bitter- 
 ness of death was past?
 
 144 French Abbeys 
 
 IV 
 
 IN WHICH THE RED BOX ACCOMPLISHES THAT UNTO 
 WHICH IT WAS FOREORDAINED 
 
 " And seld-seen costly stones of so much price, 
 And of a carect of this quantity, 
 May serve in peril of calamity 
 To ransom great kings from captivity." 
 
 MARLOWE'S " RICH JEW OF MALTA." 
 
 "Put not your trust in princes," said the 
 Vidame, bitterly, when Philippe le Bel re- 
 fused to interfere further, and referred the 
 petitioners to the Pope. 
 
 "Nay, this is indeed the sovereign Pontiff's 
 business, ' ' replied Bernard. ' ' We should have 
 gone to him at first." 
 
 There was but one way to reach the ear of 
 Benedict XL, one of the most venal of the 
 Popes, and when Bernard set out for Avignon, 
 Felicie was among the first to confide to him 
 her offering the red box of pearls. 
 
 Bernard had two petitions to present to the 
 Pope: the removal of the excommunication 
 launched upon Jean de Picquigny and the re- 
 lease of the prisoners still retained by him as 
 a half-way measure in defiance of Foulques 
 de Saint Georges, but in deference to the 
 authority of the Church. Bernard returned
 
 li J y
 
 144 French Abt 
 
 IV 
 
 IN WHICH THE RED BOX ACCOMPLISHES THAT UNTO 
 WHICH IT WAS FOREORDAINED 
 
 And seld-seen costly stones of so much price, 
 And of a carcct of this quantity, 
 May serve in peril of calamity 
 
 .nsom great kings from captivity." 
 
 MARLOWE'S " RICH JEW OF MALTA." 
 
 "Put not your trust in princes/' said the 
 when Philippe le Bel re- 
 
 .rther, and referred the 
 Bernard Sfc^Pb^berating the Prisoners. 
 
 Frojn sfceijsde^^eas^ite^sPontifFs 
 !k W^ should have 
 
 way to reach the ear of 
 
 one of the most venal of the 
 
 en Bernard set out for Avignon, 
 
 aong the first to confide to him 
 
 the red box of pearls. 
 
 :d two petitions to present to the 
 
 Po moval of the excommunication 
 
 launched apon Jean de Picquigny and the re- 
 
 lea^ isoners still retained by him as 
 
 a hall measure in defiance of Foulques 
 
 de Saint Georges, but in deference to the 
 
 authority of the Church. Bernard returned
 
 The Red Box 145 
 
 baffled, though not absolutely hopeless. He 
 had not been able to see his Holiness, but he 
 had found a faithful friend in the Pope's phy- 
 sician, Maitre de Villeneuve, who had been a 
 fellow -student of Bernard's at the University 
 of Montpellier. To him he had confided 
 Felicie's pearls. They would reach Benedict 
 XI. and must emphasise her appeal, for they 
 were worthy a king's ransom. 
 
 No answer came, and desperation filled the 
 souls of Bernard and Arnauld, for the two 
 actors in the drama on whom they had most 
 counted the Pope and the brave Vidame 
 died suddenly within a few weeks of each 
 other. 
 
 Be it known to the honour of the Fran- 
 ciscans that they celebrated a mass in behalf 
 of the excommunicated Jean de Picquigny, 
 and appointed Bernard Delicieux to preach 
 his funeral oration. In the face of his 
 triumphant enemies he declared that the Vi- 
 dame, who had plead the cause of the perse- 
 cuted unavailingly before King and Pope, 
 had now gone to arraign the Pontiff before 
 the bar of Almighty God. Such denunciation 
 was an act of sublime heroism, but it was also 
 sublime folly. It was a challenge to Foulques 
 de Saint Georges to do his worst, and at the
 
 146 French Abbeys 
 
 death of the Vidame his victims had been re- 
 manded to their prisons in the Dominican 
 monastery. 
 
 All of the negotiations entered into with 
 Benedict XI. must be repeated to gain the ear 
 of the new Pope, and Bernard again set out 
 for Avignon to appeal to Clement V. 
 
 Arnauld Garcia hoped nothing from the 
 mission, for Bernard had now no friend at the 
 Papal Court. Months passed, and the good 
 monk wrote to the impatient friends at Car- 
 cassonne that the Cardinals accepted his 
 bribes, and assured him that the matter 
 would in the due course of affairs be brought 
 to the attention of his Holiness, who had 
 hundreds of other petitions awaiting his con- 
 sideration. 
 
 It was true that Clement was not over- 
 burdened with holy duties, but was acting on 
 the principle of another Pontiff, "Enjoy we 
 the papacy, since God has given it to us." 
 
 "But what of that?" asked the Cardinals. 
 "Were a Pope's hours of relaxation to be im- 
 pudently interfered with? The petitioners 
 must wait." 
 
 Arnauld Garcia could wait no longer. The 
 Inquisition was now burning its victims at 
 the stake in the public square of Carcassonne.
 
 The Red Box 147 
 
 Raymond's sentence had been pronounced and 
 might be executed at any day. If not burned 
 in public, he could not possibly linger long, 
 and might even now be dying in the loathsome 
 hollow within the walls. Desperate crises, 
 called for desperate remedies, and one was at 
 hand. 
 
 Prince Fernand of Majorca, son of King 
 Jayme of Aragon, had communicated with- 
 Arnauld and had promised that if Carcas- 
 sonne would receive him as its lord, he would 
 come with such an army as should hold it. 
 against all besiegers, and that under his; 
 suzerainty the Inquisition should be sup- 
 pressed. It was a wild dream of a chivalrous; 
 and impractical boy, but to Arnauld Garcia, 
 who had always looked upon the French as. 
 invaders of the province, there seemed no im- 
 possibility and no dishonour in returning to- 
 Spanish allegiance. 
 
 Arnauld therefore presented the proposition 
 of the Prince at a secret meeting of the coun- 
 cillors of Carcassonne. 
 
 "Call this rebellion if you choose," he de- 
 clared. "We hear nothing from Bernard. 
 We are betrayed by the King of France, and 
 deserted by the Pope. Shall we leave our 
 own flesh and blood to rot in their living
 
 148 French Abbeys 
 
 graves, or shall we rescue them, if not by the 
 help of God, then by the help of the devil?" 
 
 His impassioned arguments carried the day, 
 and Arnauld was sent to Perpignan to meet 
 Prince Fernand. 
 
 Felicie divined vaguely what was on foot, 
 for though Arnauld had told her only that 
 he was going on a most important journey 
 which might change all their fortunes, she 
 had feared this all along, and had vainly 
 striven to hold his impulsive spirit within 
 bounds. Earnestly she besought him to wait 
 -until Brother Bernard returned. She could 
 only prevail upon him to communicate with 
 liim at Avignon. 
 
 "And if you fail?" Felicie asked in agony. 
 
 "I shall not fail," Arnauld replied, his 
 eyes shining with excitement, and he had 
 left her to battle alone with her misgivings. 
 
 Days and weeks passed without word from 
 either Arnauld or Bernard, but at last there 
 came a day when a traveller drew bridle at 
 Felicie's door. It was her father, whom she 
 had not seen since she left Albi, and he brought 
 great news indeed. 
 
 Bernard's persistency had forced itself upon 
 the Pope's leisure, and for once Clement had 
 showed himself worthy of his name, and had
 
 The Red Box 149 
 
 sent the Cardinal de Saint Vital and the 
 Abbot of Fontefroide into Languedoc to in- 
 vestigate the causes of complaint. The depu- 
 tation had gone first to Albi ; and the Bishop, 
 alarmed by the inquiries of these dignitaries, 
 had made a feint of co-operation, attesting 
 that certain of his flock who had been ar- 
 rested by Foulques de Saint Georges were 
 good Christians. In so doing he had seen 
 his way to make the situation serve his own 
 ends, and sending for De Lavaur had told 
 him that the Cardinals were but men, and 
 might be induced to clear Raymond Garcia. 
 A certain red casket said to contain pearls 
 had been scheduled among his confiscated 
 effects, but had not been found in his palace. 
 It was a crime to withhold goods which al- 
 ready belonged to the Church, but if the redL 
 box were immediately placed in his posses- 
 sion, the Bishop would pass over the fraud 
 and assure the Cardinals as to Raymond's 
 orthodoxy. 
 
 De Lavaur agreed without demur. Felicia 
 was at Carcassonne, and would be over- 
 joyed to purchase her lover's liberty with 
 his gift. He would instantly seek her and 
 return with the pearls. The Bishop, relying 
 on De Lavaur's good faith and quite as much
 
 i5 French Abbeys 
 
 upon his fears, gave him his blessing, and 
 placed Raymond's name upon the list of 
 those recommended to mercy. The Cardinals 
 had passed him on the road, and were now at 
 the Dominican convent. Felicie might pre- 
 pare herself to welcome her lover. 
 
 It was no false hope, for the men who 
 formed the committee, though selfish volup- 
 tuaries, were not essentially cruel, and were 
 shocked by the result of their investigations, 
 and that very night they set Raymond Garcia 
 at liberty, together with thirty-nine other 
 innocent men, who for five years (save for 
 their respite in the care of Jean de Picquigny) 
 had awaited trial in darkness and filth and 
 misery inconceivable. 
 
 Some were violently insane, others blind, 
 and Raymond's mind had undergone a 
 strange eclipse, for he had mercifully for- 
 gotten all that had happened since his arrest, 
 and woke from a long trance-like sleep weak 
 and spent, but with the belief that it was his 
 wedding-morn. 
 
 He was troubled when he found that he 
 could not rise. "I shall be late for the cere- 
 mony," he said, "and Felicie is waiting for 
 me at the cathedral." 
 
 "Nay, I am here, my own," she replied.
 
 The Red Box I5I 
 
 "You have been ill and must rest, but we shall 
 be wedded soon, and I shall not leave you. ' ' He 
 closed his eyes again quite content, blissfully 
 unconscious of all the suffering through which 
 he had passed, or of any cause of alarm for the 
 future. 
 
 But Felicie's father was nearly crazed with 
 consternation when he understood that his 
 promise to the Bishop of Albi could not be 
 fulfilled. "We must flee," he reiterated, 
 "we must flee before the Bishop knows the 
 truth and visits his displeasure upon us." 
 
 Bernard Delicieux, who had returned from 
 Avignon in company with the papal envoys, 
 also counselled immediate flight. He had 
 heard from Arnauld. The conspiracy had 
 failed, and was known to the authorities, and 
 Arnauld would not return. "You must join 
 him at Perpignan," said Bernard, "while you 
 have the opportunity; in another twelve 
 hours it may be too late. I will inform the 
 Bishop of Albi, when I judge that you are out 
 of harm's way, of the disposition which you 
 have made of the pearls, and Monsieur de 
 Lavaur can, if he chooses, make him a pro- 
 pitiatory gift of his real estate in Albi. As 
 well make a virtue of a necessity, since it is 
 quite in his power."
 
 152 French Abbeys 
 
 They laid Raymond in a gently swaying 
 litter, and setting forth at night, by round- 
 about ways and through obscure passes, 
 crossed the Pyrenees; not tarrying even at 
 Perpignan, or considering themselves safe 
 until they arrived at Majorca, where under the 
 protection of Prince Fernand, Raymond and 
 Arnauld Garcia, Felicie and her father passed 
 the remainder of their lives in grateful exile. 
 News travelled slowly in those days, and not 
 until it was long past did they learn of the 
 martyrdom of their friend. 
 
 Bernard Delicieux might have escaped had 
 he so elected, but his conception of his duty 
 kept him at his post. The Pope's mercy was 
 but a momentary spasm, and the Inquisition 
 was not likely to overlook the man who had 
 so long defied it. 
 
 Bernard was excommunicated, and tried on 
 three charges: 
 
 1. That he had for many years opposed the 
 holy office of the Inquisition. 
 
 2. That he had conspired against the King 
 of France with the Prince of Majorca. 
 
 3. That he had poisoned Pope Benedict XI. 
 (See Note B.) 
 
 The last charge was preposterous, but there 
 lacked not witnesses to depose that Bernard
 
 The Red Box 153 
 
 Delicieux had given the Pope's physician a 
 small Red Box, remarking significantly as he 
 did so: "And now I trust we shall soon have 
 good news"; and that very shortly there- 
 after Benedict XI. died as was reported of an 
 indigestion. 
 
 It was believed that the Inquisition pos- 
 sessed other secret evidence, for the verdict 
 of the tribunal declared authoritatively that 
 "the said coffre contained preparations, pow- 
 ders, by means of which the life of the said 
 Benedict was cut short." 
 
 Degraded, tortured, condemned to the 
 same punishment from which he had rescued 
 so many, he was walled up alive in the Do- 
 minican monastery. How long his agony 
 lasted no man knows. 
 
 "He had saved others, himself he could not 
 save," and in all France there was no one 
 brave enough to lift voice or hand for his 
 release.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF VER VERT 
 I 
 
 THE MISTLETOE QUEEN 
 
 " LJA! HA!" cackled the Abbey parrot 
 ^ * "Canticum novum" ("a new song"), 
 "novum, novum, ha! ha! ha!" and the dia- 
 bolical bird burst into new songs indeed, 
 which had never before wakened the echoes of 
 that sacred cloister. They were ribald glees 
 such as bargemen roar, and round, coarse 
 oaths, with words of such low import that the 
 gentle nuns heard them unabashed, for they 
 understood them not. 
 
 But the community was grieved beyond 
 measure, and the Abbess horror-stricken and 
 indignant, while the little Queen Mistletoe 
 was heartbroken, for her cherished playfellow 
 Ver Vert, her only merry companion in this 
 
 154
 
 The Adventures of Ver Vert 155 
 
 peaceful but somewhat dull retreat, had fallen 
 from grace and must be banished from the 
 convent. 
 
 The child would now be doubly lonely and 
 homesick, for her soubriquet of the Mistletoe 
 Queen but too vividly told the truth that she 
 was of foreign birth borne hither by an ill 
 wind of fortune and unloved by the stock 
 that nourished her. 
 
 It was Louis XI. of France who had first 
 bestowed the name upon the little Austrian 
 Princess, who was to be bred up in France as 
 the affianced bride of his son. 
 
 "Take her to your heart, Charles," the 
 dying King had commanded. "Her father, 
 Maximilian, and I have played against each 
 other all our lives, now in open feud, now 
 striving to overreach each other in diplomatic 
 intrigue, the stakes of our game the fair pro- 
 vinces of the Netherlands. I have won at last, 
 for the Princess Marguerite brings them to 
 you as her dowry. Both she and they are 
 French now. Let her never feel herself an 
 alien, but cherish her even as that sturdy 
 oak nourishes its crown of mistletoe. Go, 
 Charles, and welcome her, your little Mistletoe 
 Queen." 
 
 The young prince obeyed reluctantly, but
 
 156 French Abbeys 
 
 scowled as the spoiled child repulsed his un- 
 willing salute, crying: 
 
 "Go away, you ugly thing. You stutter, 
 and you have big eyes like an owl. I want 
 the pretty boy with the yellow hair and the 
 pink cheeks, the pretty boy in the green velvet 
 doublet." 
 
 The cheeks of the saucy page thus desig- 
 nated grew rosier still behind his plumed cap. 
 He was only a young Savoyard, called Phili- 
 bert le Beau, who had been sent to France to 
 learn the manners of a courtier. They had 
 come to him naturally enough, and Philibert 
 was universally acknowledged the handsomest, 
 the most accomplished, and the most engaging 
 of the royal pages. If we add that his rank 
 as second cousin of the Duke of Savoy was as 
 inconsiderable as his fortune it will be under- 
 stood that the Dauphin (in a few days by his 
 father's death to be Charles VIII. of France) 
 had no reason to fear the marked preference 
 of his three-year-old betrothed. 
 
 Her affection then and always was a matter 
 of supreme indifference to her betrothed, and 
 he saw little of her, for his older sister, who 
 had been appointed gouvernante of the little 
 girl, presently took her to her own estates. 
 But Marguerite's fancy for the handsome page
 
 The Adventures of Ver Vert 157 
 
 was fostered by this arrangement, for she was 
 presently confided to the nuns of the Visit- 
 andines of Nevers to be fitted for the elevated 
 station to which she was destined, and it was 
 Philibert who from time to time carried her 
 the letters of the boy-King. They were such 
 as it was the duty of a punctilious young gen- 
 tleman to send to his affianced; but alas! 
 Charles not only did not write them but could 
 not have done so, for his education had been 
 shamefully neglected, and the mendacious 
 missives were all penned by the King's sister, 
 my Lady of Beaujeu. Philibert knew this 
 right well, but he kept the secret for several 
 years, not only out of loyalty to those who 
 sent him, and because he had no heart to mar 
 the child's pleasure in receiving them, but per- 
 haps also because he feared that blabbing he 
 might lose this privilege of occasionally seeing 
 the little Mistletoe Queen. 
 
 She loved to prattle with him and to ask 
 him questions of the Court, and he to answer. 
 They were both lonely, homesick children, and 
 the Soeur Melanie, who sat with them as they 
 chatted in the cloister garden, saw no harm 
 in their innocent interviews. 
 
 In Philibert's absence Marguerite's favour- 
 ite playmate was the convent parrot. This
 
 158 French Abbeys 
 
 highly accomplished fowl was with good reason 
 the boast of the community. The pious nuns 
 had taught him not only to repeat the Ave 
 Maria and a few other fragmentary Latin ejac- 
 ulations, but he could sing portions of their 
 favourite chant, the Veni Sancte Spiritus. 
 
 It was Marguerite's delight to put him 
 through his paces with Philibert for audience. 
 The little girl saw no incongruity in the bird's 
 senseless parodies of prayers and hymns ; but 
 the page was mightily amused, and his eyes 
 sparkled with mischief as he exclaimed : 
 
 "By the mass, it would be rare sport to 
 teach the creature some naughty jests, and 
 how it would scandalise the good nuns to 
 hear Ver Vert troll a drinking song." 
 
 "That shall he not," Marguerite replied in 
 real distress. "Ver Vert is a good Christian, 
 and his morals shall not be corrupted. He 
 understands all that he says and what he 
 hears. But listen while he chants the Sanc- 
 tus, and you will believe, as Sister Melanie 
 does, that he has a soul. Come, Ver Vert, a 
 canticum novum pretty Ver Vert, sing Veni, 
 0m*." 
 
 The eerie bird echoed the words and the 
 notes perfectly. 
 
 i, lumen cordium," trilled Marguerite.
 
 VER VERT AT THE CONVENT OF THE VISITANDINES. 
 From an old print, permission of Longmans, Green & Co.
 
 The Adventures of Ver Vert 159 
 
 "Veni, veni" Ver Vert responded doubt- 
 fully, his head cocked on one side as though 
 he were striving to master the lesson. Then 
 suddenly shrieking, "Novum canticum, novum 
 canticum," he burst into riotous and triumph- 
 ant cackling of a new song indeed: 
 
 44 Veni, veni, veni, Philibert, 
 Lumen cordium meum, Philibert, 
 Gaudium, cordium meum, Philibert, 
 Veni, veni, veni, Philibert. 
 
 Alleluia, Amen" 
 
 The boy shouted with laughter, but Mar- 
 guerite, mortified and grieved beyond expres- 
 sion, closed the bird's beak with her fingers 
 while the tears sprang to her eyes. 
 
 "Think not," she exclaimed, "that Ver 
 Vert has ever heard me utter thy name. I 
 know not with which of you I am the more 
 vexed. Ah! he shall do penance. He shall 
 have his cage darkened and shall fast till he 
 shows true repentance. And thou, saucy 
 page, go away, nor come again, for thou art in 
 nowise the light or joy of my heart."
 
 160 French Abbeys 
 
 II 
 
 EPISODE OF THE PROFANE PARROT 
 
 With voice upraised in oaths profuse 
 He mastered all the language blackguards use; 
 With words obscene thus pouring from his beak, 
 The younger sisters deeme he spake in Greek. 
 
 GRESSET, TRANSLATED BY T. S. ALLEN. 
 
 Philibert had departed abashed, but in a 
 few weeks he came again. 
 
 "Why have you returned?" Marguerite 
 asked. "Could his Majesty find no other 
 messenger to bring me his letters?" 
 
 "I came not from King Charles, dear lady," 
 the page replied, "but from his Grace George 
 d'Amboise. Think not, sweet mistress, that 
 I have ever mentioned Ver Vert, but my 
 message concerns that idiotic bird." 
 
 ' ' Ver Vert ! ' ' exclaimed Marguerite. ' * What 
 does his Grace know of our parrot?" 
 
 " It seems that every one has heard of him; 
 his fame has even reached Lower Brittany, 
 and the Duchesse Anne de Bretagne is wild to 
 possess him." 
 
 "That we know already," replied Mar- 
 guerite. "The Superior of a nunnery at 
 Nantes has written our Abbess requesting her 
 to sell or at least to lend Ver Vert, but she 
 has refused to do so."
 
 The Adventures of Ver Vert 161 
 
 "Your Abbess must now yield," replied 
 Philibert, "for the Bishop, who has some un- 
 known reason for wishing to please the 
 Duchess, has written that the parrot must be 
 despatched at once." 
 
 Marguerite clenched her hand. 
 
 ' ' I hate Anne de Bretagne. She has robbed 
 me of my father, and now she would take Ver 
 Vert from me." 
 
 "I know not your meaning, sweet mistress," 
 Philibert replied in surprise. 
 
 "Perchance I have divulged a state secret," 
 the girl exclaimed, "but it cannot long remain 
 hidden. Thou knowest that my father, the 
 Emperor Maximilian, is a widower. He has 
 written me that he is to marry this same 
 Duchess Anne of Brittany." 
 
 "The King of France will never suffer it," 
 said the page, "for Brittany is a French 
 province, and by this marriage the Duchess 
 would carry it as her dower to Austria." 
 
 "I care not, I care not," wailed Marguerite. 
 "Let who will possess Brittany, so I have my 
 Ver Vert." 
 
 "Alas ! dear Madame, his Grace insisted that 
 I was to carry the parrot to Nantes, and you 
 will see that the Abbess will not dare to refuse 
 him. But," he added, touched by the girl's
 
 1 62 French Abbeys 
 
 grief, " I promise you that you shall have Ver 
 Vert back again, for I have thought of an 
 expedient." 
 
 "Have you indeed, dear Philibert? Only 
 bring Ver Vert again, and I will forgive you 
 for for " 
 
 1 ' For what, dear Queen ? Because he uttered 
 my insignificant name?" 
 
 "Because you laughed because you 
 thought he had learned it from hearing me 
 repeat it." 
 
 "Nay, that were too wildly sweet even to 
 dream. I know my station, your Majesty, 
 and presume only to be your devoted servitor. 
 Ver Vert shall return, but it may be that when 
 he comes your Abbess will cast him out. If 
 that should be, intercede for me, most gra- 
 cious lady, that I may possess him, and I will 
 correct whatever faults he may in his absence 
 have acquired, so that in the end you shall 
 have him such as he leaves you." 
 
 Philibert's scheme is apparent, even to 
 those who have not read the ancient ballad 
 which Gresset rhymed of Ver Vert's next ad- 
 ventures. How, taking passage on a barge 
 bound for Nantes, as he glided slowly down 
 the winding Loire, out of lovely Touraine into 
 distant Brittany, the precocious creature
 
 The Adventures of Ver Vert 163 
 
 picked up through the page's connivance the 
 argot and even the oaths of the bargemen, and 
 at the end of his voyage swore like a trooper 
 and put them all to the blush by the unbridled 
 licence of his conversation. 
 
 Arrived at Nantes, Ver Vert was carried ta 
 the convent, where the Duchess was waiting; 
 with the members of the community to re- 
 ceive him. 
 
 The parrot regarded his hostesses silently,, 
 accepting the sugar and cakes given him, but. 
 deigning no response to compliments and 
 caresses. 
 
 "Dear bird," said the Abbess, "we have 
 heard of thy marvellous aptitude for spiritual, 
 studies; that thou canst recite the Creed and 
 hast mastered the Catechism. We have ex- 
 pected great edification from thy visit. Deign 
 to do credit to thy teachers, our saintly sisters. 
 of Nevers, by responding to the questions; 
 which Sister Angelique will now read at 
 random." 
 
 The nun read the first question on which her 
 eye fell : 
 
 "By what means do we obtain salvation?"' 
 
 "Sang et mort!" shrieked the parrot, re- 
 peating the skipper's favourite oath, "Blood 
 and death, ye lazy swine."
 
 364 French Abbeys 
 
 Astonishment fell upon Ver Vert's gentle 
 audience; but the Abbess rose to the occa- 
 sion. 
 
 " Right aptly hast thou answered, O parrot, 
 for it is indeed by the most precious blood 
 that we are saved; and well do some of our 
 number deserve thy reproach of indolence. 
 Ask another question, Sister Angelique, for 
 verily the wisdom of this creature is most 
 marvellous." 
 
 "What shall be the portion of the impeni- 
 tent throughout eternity?" the reader asked 
 meekly. 
 
 But thereupon such terrible words burst in 
 & rapid volley of reiteration from the parrot's 
 throat that it seemed to his shocked audience 
 that a very volcano of the infernal pit were 
 l>elching forth its lurid flames in their midst. 
 
 "Holy Mother, preserve us!" gasped the 
 Abbess. "I beseech thee, sweet parrot, speak 
 more gently. Give not such terrific vehem- 
 ence to thy utterances, true though they be. 
 Put to him yet another question and mark 
 well how unerringly he replies." 
 
 "Repeat thy Credo, O parrot," commanded 
 Angelique. 
 
 "Women and Wine!" cackled Ver Vert, 
 bursting at the same time into fiendish
 
 The Adventures of Ver Vert 165 
 
 laughter, and varying this performance with 
 an imitation of the popping of corks. 
 
 The nuns looked at one another in conster- 
 nation, while the Abbess, rising, rebuked Ver 
 Vert sternly. 
 
 "I adjure thee, profane creature, to answer 
 the question which I shall now put thee withi 
 reverence, and utter not the name of thy 
 Creator with blasphemous levity. Who made 
 thee, O parrot?" 
 
 "The Devil! the Devil! the Devil!" cackled 
 Ver Vert in high glee, while the nuns, crossing 
 themselves in horror, or thrusting their fingers 
 into their ears, rushed from the room. 
 
 After this Anne de Bretagne had no longer 
 any desire to possess the disreputable Ver 
 Vert, who was forthwith ignominiously re- 
 turned to the Visitandines of Nevers, to the 
 inexpressible scandal of that innocent com- 
 munity. The nuns could harbour the de- 
 bauched bird no longer in their holy cloister, 
 and Marguerite's petition that he should be 
 given to Philibert was disregarded, such a 
 libel on the conversation of the convent could 
 not be allowed to exist; and greatly to the 
 grief of the Mistletoe Queen, Ver Vert was 
 condemned to death at the hands of the 
 Abbey butcher.
 
 1 66 French Abbeys 
 
 At his next visit Marguerite told Philibert 
 of the fate of her pet, and he strove to com- 
 fort her. 
 
 "The flesher is a miserly man," he said; 
 "'he knows that the parrot is very valuable, 
 and he could not cany out the command of 
 the Abbess. I will search the world over, 
 dear lady, until I find Ver Vert and bring him 
 back to you." 
 
 Marguerite dried her eyes, and Philibert 
 went upon his quest, with all the enthusiasm 
 of a young knight-errant. He had not far to 
 seek, for on his return to Amboise he saw a 
 bird-fancier, with a hoop suspended from his 
 neck on which were perched falcons and other 
 birds, which he was crying through the streets. 
 Even before Philibert realised that there was 
 a green parrot among them, he heard his own 
 name shrieked; and a shrill falsetto voice 
 greeted his ear with the familiar 
 
 " Veni, veni, Philibert, 
 Lumen cordium nteum, Philibert." 
 
 Running after the vender he purchased the 
 lost favourite (though in so doing he parted 
 with an entire month's allowance), and 
 carried it triumphantly to his lodgings, where 
 he attempted to reform the conversation of
 
 The Adventures of Ver Vert 167 
 
 the graceless outcast by a rigorous course of 
 penance and discipline. Whenever Ver Vert 
 repeated the bargemen's oaths the page 
 plunged the offender in the cold water butt, 
 and then flung him into a dark closet. He 
 retaught him the Ave Maria, too, with such 
 patient persistency that, according to the 
 grants of various sovereign Pontiffs for such 
 repetition, Philibert and Ver Vert must have 
 gained between them indulgences for up- 
 wards of two thousand years. Philibert 
 would also have had great credit with his 
 landlady for his piety, but for the parrot's 
 lamentable lapses into blasphemy, which were 
 also attributed by horror-stricken listeners 
 to the wileful page. 
 
 With such occupation Philibert solaced his 
 loneliness and fed his hopes, often varying the 
 sacred words with impassioned repetition of 
 the name of Marguerite, for nine years had 
 passed since Little Queen Mistletoe had been 
 transplanted to France, and a young man's 
 heart was beating under the page's velvet 
 doublet, a heart eaten with envy, and with 
 love stronger than its despair.
 
 1 68 French Abbeys 
 
 III 
 
 OF THE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL QIJEEN MISTLETOE 
 WITH A CATERPILLAR AND HOW THE REFORMED 
 PARROT CAME TO HIS OWN AGAIN 
 
 Philibert seemed doomed to be the bearer 
 of unwelcome messages to the little Queen, 
 and on his next coming to the convent he 
 brought one which pleased her even less than 
 the summons for the parrot. 
 
 During the years that had drifted by while 
 Marguerite had been in seclusion with the 
 Visitandines she had profited by her oppor- 
 tunity for study and had outstripped the 
 simple nuns in her acquirements, so that 
 experts from the outer world were secured 
 for her further advancement. Her favourite 
 teachers were Jean Bourdichon, illuminator 
 and painter of miniatures, and Michel Colomb, 
 sculptor, for the young girl was passionately 
 fond of all things beautiful. 
 
 Her vexation may therefore be imagined 
 when Philibert brought her word that the two 
 artists were ordered to Nantes, the one to 
 enrich a Book of Hours for the Duchess of 
 Brittany, and the other to carve her father's 
 tomb. 
 
 The unfortunate page had to bear her pique 
 and to listen to unmerited reproaches.
 
 The Adventures of Ver Vert 169 
 
 "This Anne de Bretagne," Marguerite cried,, 
 "has robbed me of everything which I cared 
 for. She took my father and Ver Vert, and 
 now she demands my best-loved teachers. 
 She is a blight on all my joys, a worm, a. 
 caterpillar. Will no one crush her for me? 
 What will she covet next? Will it be you, 
 Philibert. Nay, I misdoubt she has sub- 
 orned you already, since you only come to 
 take my treasures to her." 
 
 The youth flushed, but answered proudly: 
 
 "She can never have me in anywise, for I 
 am your true servitor until death, though I 
 get naught for my fealty but your displeasure. 
 If I were rich I would give Michel Colomb 
 a commission which would not only take him 
 out of the employ of this grasping Duchess, 
 but would fulfil a vow made long ago by my 
 mother, which for my sake she neglected, to 
 the displeasure doubtless of the saints." 
 
 "What was the vow, Philibert? Tell me 
 and forgive my hasty tongue." 
 
 "We were at our hunting chateau at Brou 
 in Savoy, when my father was dangerously 
 wounded by a boar. I shall never forget 
 my mother's shriek when they brought the 
 litter into the chateau and she saw him, as 
 she thought, dying before her. But Saint
 
 1 70 French Abbeys 
 
 Hubert was good, and when she invoked him, 
 promising to build an Abbey where my father 
 received his hurt if only he recovered, that 
 patron of huntsmen so aided the physicians 
 that my father was presently well again." 
 
 "And you say that your mother's vow 
 was unfulfilled for your sake, Philibert. How 
 could that be?" 
 
 "It costs money, most dear Queen, to build 
 and endow Abbeys, and, as my father's re- 
 venues were not great, my mother laid aside 
 of her own for me that my future might be 
 well assured. I could not have come to 
 the Court of the French King nor have 
 known my Queen had my mother not so 
 chosen, so I shall never regret her choice, no 
 matter what misfortune that unfulfilled vow 
 may bring." 
 
 "Bid Messer Colomb come to the cloister," 
 said Marguerite. "He is from Burgundy, my 
 mother's country, and learned his art by 
 carving my ancestors' tombs in Dijon, under 
 the great master Claux Sluter. He is my 
 hereditary vassal, and owes me service on de- 
 mand. He will do anything for me, and he 
 shall enrich your mother's Abbey with glorious 
 sculpture. Hast thou not marked the ' ' Vision 
 of Saint Hubert ' ' over the chapel door at
 
 The Adventures of Ver Vert 171 
 
 Amboise? He shall better that work, noble 
 though it is, for the Abbey at Brou." 
 
 "Nay, dear lady," pled Philibert, "you 
 forget that my mother has no commission to 
 give." 
 
 "But I I have certain moneys, Philibert." 
 
 "Most dear and generous mistress, my 
 mother could not accept such a gift, nor would 
 King Charles suffer thee to give it." 
 
 "And my father," said Marguerite, bitterly, 
 "is shortly to wed Anne de Bretagne, and will 
 help her rather than me. Said I not that she 
 had robbed me of everything?" 
 
 "She may give your father back to you, my 
 Queen, and you to him, for there are strange 
 rumours afloat." 
 
 " What rumours ? " Marguerite asked 
 eagerly, but Philibert answered evasively that 
 he paid no attention to the wild stories that 
 ran from mouth to mouth, nor must she, but 
 believe always that he was her devoted knight, 
 ready to serve her in any emergency. He 
 turned her thoughts from his unfortunate re- 
 mark by telling her how he had found Ver 
 Vert, and amused her by an account of his 
 trials in endeavouring to reform the reprobate, 
 so that he left her smiling; but after he had 
 gone her thoughts reverted to this hint of
 
 French Abbeys 
 
 strange rumours. What could they be ? The 
 nuns looked at her strangely, some with less 
 of deference than formerly, and others with 
 an unwonted pity. 
 
 There was war she knew between King. 
 Charles and the Duchess Anne, for the King- 
 as Tier feudal sovereign had insisted that the 
 Duchess had no right to marry without his- 
 consent and carry the fair province of Brit- 
 tany out of France to Maximilian of Austria,, 
 and Marguerite's father had, as in duty bound, 
 sent Austrian troops to support his betrothed 
 in her stand against the King of France. It. 
 was a peculiar position in which Marguerite 
 found herself, with her father at war with her 
 affianced husband ; but she could not see how 
 she was to blame or in what way her own for- 
 tunes could be affected by these circumstances. 
 She was heartily with Charles in this quarrel, 
 and hoped that he would compel her father 
 to relinquish the Breton Duchess, whom she 
 had never desired for a stepmother; and in 
 some way, inexplicable to Marguerite, Anne de 
 Bretagne knew this and hated her cordially. 
 
 Marguerite's two teachers passed into the 
 employ of the Duchess, but Jean Bourdichon, 
 returning presently on some errand to Nevers, 
 showed Marguerite the illuminations for the
 
 The Adventures of Ver Vert 173 
 
 Book of Hours which he was executing for 
 his new patroness. They were indeed very 
 beautiful. Each page was bordered with a 
 plant in bloom or in fruitage exquisitely 
 painted on a panel of beaten gold. In and 
 out of the foliage fluttered gauzy-winged 
 dragon-flies or honey-laden bees, while snails 
 and beetles, gorgeous butterflies and velvety 
 moths, crickets and grasshoppers, and all the 
 myriad insect life of the garden, with birds 
 and little animals of the wild-wood, disported 
 themselves among the flowers. 
 
 Marguerite exclaimed with delight and ad- 
 miration as she noted the exquisite pains with 
 which each detail was depicted, 
 
 "Finished down to the leaf and the snail, 
 Down to the eyes on the peacock's tail." 
 
 Suddenly she started violently. 
 
 "What does this mean, Maitre Jean?" she 
 cried. "A branch of mistletoe, my own de- 
 vice, eaten across by a furry caterpillar? 
 Who told her that I called her that?" 
 
 "Not I, noble lady, not I; but some one 
 must have told her, for she bade me show it 
 to you, and ask you to mark not alone that 
 the loathly worm has fangs to gnaw, but that
 
 '74 French Abbeys 
 
 it changes in the fulness of time to a glorious 
 butterfly." 
 
 "So this is a studied insult. I wonder,. 
 Jean Bourdichon, that you had the hardihood 
 to bring me her boasts and threats." 
 
 "Alas! sweet mistress, I am not mine own 
 master; but take this as a warning, for indeed 
 if no one else has told you what plots are 
 hatching, it were well you were prepared, even 
 though I lose your favour in the thankless 
 duty." 
 
 "Say on, Jean Bourdichon," the girl com- 
 manded bravely, but the blood forsook her 
 heart when she knew that King Charles had 
 met his rebellious subject, Anne de Bretagne,.. 
 and that they had concluded a treaty, whereby 
 in spite of the fact that each was otherwise 
 contracted, all of their differences were to be: 
 happily adjusted by speedy marriage. 
 
 The astounding news was quite true, and 
 the repudiated Queen Mistletoe was shortly re- 
 turned with little ceremony to her equally 
 humiliated father. Philibert, who had sought, 
 and been denied permission to join her modest 
 escort, attempting to do so secretly, was ar- 
 rested and detained in the donjon of the 
 castle of Amboise for several weeks. When 
 set at liberty he learned that the Emperor
 
 *74 French Abbeys 
 
 it changes in the fulness of time to a glorious 
 but: 
 
 "So this is a studied insult. I wonder r 
 n Bourdichon, that you had the hardihood 
 
 usts and threir 
 
 "Alas! swer ress, I am not mine own 
 
 i warning, for indeed 
 plots are- 
 re prepared, even 
 in the thankless 
 
 Mistletoe Border; the ^ CQm _ 
 
 Livre d' 1 3r 
 
 eque National at Paris. - The illuoii nations .were 
 
 Bretagne r 
 
 hereby 
 
 otherwise 
 
 os were to be 
 
 -hortly re- 
 
 :-r equally 
 
 sought. 
 
 modest 
 
 was ar- 
 
 : 
 
 ks. When 
 the Emperor
 
 ijfffl*:i(u|;n 
 
 * illffi* iVflliV ft UV EISS23 
 
 4 I ft."
 
 The Adventures of Ver Vert 1 75 
 
 Maximilian, stung to the quick by the affront 
 put upon him by the French King, had lost 
 no time in concluding an alliance with Spain, 
 and had affianced Marguerite to the Infant, 
 the son of Ferdinand and Isabella. The 
 Princess was even now on her way to Madrid 
 with her brother; it was to be a double 
 marriage, for Maximilian's son Philip was to 
 wed the Infanta Joana, and the Netherlands, 
 which they had together inherited from their 
 mother, were now destined to pass under the 
 cruel dominion of Spain. 
 
 But Marguerite's voyage was so tempestu- 
 ous as to be considered ill-omened, and she 
 was doomed to return shortly, not indeed re- 
 jected, but widowed, for the bridegroom 
 expectant sickened and died. 
 
 Broken-hearted, as it was supposed, by her 
 double disappointment, but in reality with 
 hopeless longing and thwarted first love, the 
 Princess announced her intention of taking 
 the veil, a decision little to the liking of her 
 imperial father. 
 
 Nothing but marriage, he argued, could 
 drive such a notion from her brain, and there 
 came a day when he announced that he had 
 arranged a new alliance for her, not with a 
 king, indeed, but with the reigning Duke of
 
 176 French Abbeys 
 
 Savoy, whose possessions adjoined her own, 
 and united with them would make a fair 
 Jdngdom. 
 
 Marguerite shook her head. 
 
 ' ' I have been too many times betrothed. I 
 shall never be wedded." 
 
 "That you shall, my daughter; the agree- 
 ment is already signed, for the Duke made the 
 first advances, and that immediately on his 
 unexpected accession to the crown of Savoy. 
 On my word he has sent you a strange be- 
 trothal present. His envoy waits. Will you 
 receive him?" 
 
 "Nay," replied Marguerite. "Write the 
 Duke that I thank him, but it may not be. 
 See, I have written my own epitaph. Let it 
 IDC my answer to the Duke : 
 
 " ' Though twice I was wedded, unfortunate I, 
 My doom it was written, a maiden I die.' " ' 
 
 As she spoke there arose an unseemly 
 clamour in the antechamber; prayers mingled 
 with imprecations, and then, more startling 
 still, the Ave, with Marguerite's name sub- 
 stituted for Mary's, repeated with a tender 
 intonation : 
 
 Epitaph written for herself by Marguerite: 
 " Cigit Margot, la gente demoiselle 
 Qui eut deux maris et se morut pucelle."
 
 The Adventures of Ver Vert 1 77 
 
 "Ave, Marguerita, regina angelorum! 
 
 Ave, Marguerita, domina ccdorum! 
 
 Ave, Marguerita! Ave, Marguerita! 
 Gaude, virgo gloriosa, 
 Gaude, gaude, Marguerita I" 
 
 "What sacrilege is this?" cried the Em- 
 peror. But Marguerite, starting to her feet, 
 cried: 
 
 "It is Ver Vert! Veni, veni, Ver Vert! 
 Veni, Philibert, veni, Philibert." 
 
 A young man, richly dressed in green velvet, 
 bearing a parrot on his wrist, entered and 
 swept the floor with his jewelled cap. It was 
 indeed Philibert, now Duke of Savoy, who had 
 come as his own ambassador. But Ver Vert, 
 the long desired, was forgotten in that meet- 
 ing, and hopped disconsolately from chair to 
 chair, fluttering his wings and shrieking, now 
 with a supernatural imitation of Marguerite's 
 own voice that Philibert was her lumen 
 cordium, now with an equally successful 
 parody of the Duke's more manly vocalisa- 
 tion, declaring that Marguerite was the queen 
 of angels and mistress of heaven. 
 
 The reunited lovers did not even hear these 
 apposite remarks, learned from their own 
 utterances, but gazed enraptured into one 
 another's eyes until Ver Vert, disgusted at
 
 1 78 French Abbeys 
 
 their neglect, changed his role to that of the 
 profane bargemen, and the air corruscated 
 with maledictions. 
 
 In spite of his sad lapses into language unfit 
 for ears polite, Ver Vert lived thereafter the 
 life of a pampered favourite, and when he 
 died (see Note A), as it was said, of grief occa- 
 sioned by Marguerite's absence, his death and 
 devotion were celebrated by the court poet 
 of Savoy in a heroic poem of many stanzas, 
 called Le Triomphe de VAmant Vert.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE CHURCH OF BROU 
 
 On her palfrey white the Duchess 
 Sat and watched her working train, 
 
 Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders, 
 German masons, smiths from Spain. 
 
 Clad in black, on her white palfrey, 
 
 Her old architect beside, 
 There they found her in the mountains 
 
 Morn and noon and eventide. 
 
 Round the tombs the carved stone fretwork 
 
 Was at Eastertide put on, 
 Then the Duchess closed her labours 
 
 And she died at the St. John. 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
 IN the obscure town of Brou in northern 
 * Savoy stands possibly the most beautiful 
 example of late Gothic architecture to be 
 found in all France. It came into being in 
 that transitional period in the early sixteenth 
 
 179
 
 i8o French Abbeys 
 
 century, when French genius was fired to 
 emulate, not copy, the newly imported Italian 
 Renaissance. 
 
 This exquisite church has been sung by en- 
 thusiasts, and analysed as a model of its kind 
 in scientific monographs. It was so thor- 
 oughly appreciated even at the time of the 
 Revolution, when so much that was beautiful 
 was ruthlessly destroyed, that it was one of 
 the few monuments protected and ordained 
 to be kept up at the expense of the state. 
 
 It is only the deserted chapel of a vanished 
 and forgotten Benedictine Abbey, but wealth 
 was lavished here without stint, and the most 
 skilful citizens laboured together for years 
 to make it the masterpiece which it is. 
 
 All the lines in the construction of this 
 marvel flow together with the grace of living, 
 growing things culminating in curves not only 
 delight-giving in themselves, but governed by 
 -exact law, while every detail is enriched with 
 a lacework of intricate carving not to be 
 rivalled in prodigality by the ornament upon 
 the jewel-box of a Princess. 
 
 And such a casket it really is, built to con- 
 tain the greatest treasure of an Emperor's 
 daughter. 
 
 We read that after three years of blissful
 
 The Church of Brou 181 
 
 wedded life, the Duke of Savoy, Philibert le 
 Beau, was killed while hunting, and that his 
 widow, Marguerite of Austria, devoted the re- 
 mainder of her life to building him one of the 
 most beautiful monuments in all the world. 
 
 That she succeeded few who have seen the. 
 Church of Brou will deny. ' ' How great must 
 have been the love of this woman for this, 
 man," is the thought of every one who stands, 
 beside their glorious tombs. 
 
 It was the sculptor Michel Colomb who 
 fashioned them, the same who designed the 
 tomb at Nantes for the Duke of Brittany, at 
 the command of his daughter, the Duchess 
 Anne. But at Brou he returned to an earlier 
 style, which he had learned while working on, 
 the ' ' sepultures de feuz messeigneurs les dues de- 
 Bourgoigne" when he was the apprentice of.' 
 Maitre Claux Sluter at Dijon ; he was working 
 now for a descendant of those nobles who> 
 wrote "Rash" and "Bold " and "Sans Peur"' 
 after their names, no man gainsaying their 
 right to those titles. 
 
 In the centre of the choir stands the mag- 
 nificent double tomb of Philibert. Within, 
 the lower portion, partly concealed by the 
 rich canopy, his corpse lies naked and stark* 
 as was the ghastly custom of the time, a
 
 1 82 French Abbeys 
 
 fashion so startlingly followed in the tombs of 
 the Abbey of St. Denis. But upon the upper 
 story, as it were on a royal couch, he lies as 
 in sleep regally robed, while weeping loves 
 hold his helmet and gaze mournfully at his 
 beautiful face. 
 
 The Antinous of his time, he was called, and 
 the resemblance to the demigod of the Vatican 
 is especially striking in the lovely curves of the 
 mouth and chin. His face is turned to the 
 left, where Marguerite's own tomb was placed, 
 like his own in general design, for she, too, is 
 shown in state robes, and in the alcove be- 
 neath in a simple shroud over which her long 
 hair ripples to her feet in glorious abundance. 
 
 Her motto is carved upon a twisted band- 
 erole, ''Fortune, infortune, forte une" ("In 
 fortune and misfortune one woman is brave"). 
 It was no empty boast, as the employ of her 
 years of widowhood in wise government of 
 the Netherlands testified. Philibert's motto, 
 " FERT," many times repeated, was that of the 
 Order of the Annunciade. The meaning of the 
 letters is a mystery. Some maintain that they 
 are the initials of the words, "Fortiiudo ejus 
 Rhodum tenuit " ("His valour held Rhodes "), 
 in allusion to the defence of that island by an 
 early Duke of Savoy. Lately the letters lent
 
 182 Frem 
 
 fasi the tombs of 
 
 th< ,icm the upper 
 
 story, as it ws lies as 
 
 -cep-rig loves 
 at his 
 - 
 
 t 
 
 ihe 
 ed, 
 
 gn, for she, too, is 
 the alcove be- 
 
 Tomb of Philibett ^fchigfesher long 
 in the Church of Sf a&undance. 
 
 , 
 rt> t une" ("In 
 
 ; fl H 
 
 r ne employ of her 
 
 years of win- wise government of 
 
 t's motto, 
 :hat of the 
 
 . ler of t} he meaning of the 
 
 : that they 
 Fortitude ejus 
 
 ;r held Rhodes"), 
 
 in allv, (icfenoe of that island by an 
 
 early Duke of Lately the letters lent
 
 The Church of Brou 183 
 
 themselves to the motto " Fiat Emmanuel Rex 
 tuus " ("Make Emmanuel thy King ") ; but it 
 is very possible that they simply form the 
 Latin word for "He brings," benefits of 
 various kinds being understood. To Mar- 
 guerite he brought joy and love for three years 
 only, but the husband who died at twenty- 
 four was mourned all her life. 
 
 Following established custom, Philibert 
 should have been entombed in the royal Ab- 
 bey of Hautecombe on the lovely lake of Le 
 Bourget for this had been the burial-place 
 of the Princes of Savoy from time immemorial. 
 
 But such community even in death could 
 not be endured by Marguerite. She must 
 have her dead all to herself, recognising the 
 right of but one other to share his long home, 
 as living she had shared his love. For there 
 is another tomb in the church, a little apart 
 from the others, in a canopied niche on the 
 right hand of Philibert. It is that of his 
 mother, Margaret of Bourbon, who had vowed 
 to build an abbey on this spot on the recovery 
 of her husband from a wound received in 
 hunting. She had never carried out that vow, 
 and when her son was killed in the same way, 
 his widow may well have imagined that Saint 
 Hubert claimed his dues.
 
 1 84 French Abbeys 
 
 During her long residence in France, as the 
 betrothed of the Dauphin, Marguerite had 
 learned to appreciate that wonderful revival 
 of art of which Michel Colomb was one of the 
 foremost examples. Anne de Bretagne and 
 her husband Charles the Eighth now posed 
 as the most munificent of art patrons; and 
 Marguerite's love for beauty was only equalled 
 by her hatred for these two : the man who had 
 repudiated her, and the woman who was her 
 successful rival. She would not be outdone 
 by them, and Michel Colomb was ordered to 
 surpass all work which he had previously exe- 
 cuted under their patronage. So that hatred 
 and mortified pride joined hands with love 
 and sorrow and piety in building this abbey 
 church. 
 
 Another shared with the King and Queen 
 of France in Marguerite's resentment. The 
 great Cardinal, George d'Amboise, had 
 brought about their marriage, and was now 
 Prime Minister of the kingdom. He, too, was 
 a patron of art, and was building at this time 
 his superb Chateau of Gaillon. It was Mar- 
 guerite's pleasure to call Michel Colomb and 
 other of his favourite artists from his employ, 
 and to thwart him not only in his private 
 fancies but also in diplomatic matters of
 
 The Church of Brou 185 
 
 great moment. She persuaded Henry VIII. 
 of England to enter into a league with 
 her against France, and outwitted Cardinal 
 d'Amboise in the Treaty of Cambrai, and 
 Louise de Savoie (mother of Louis XII.) in 
 the Paix des Dames. As Gamier wrote of 
 her: "No more active or intelligent minister 
 [for the Emperor Charles V.] could have been 
 found, endowed with genius, trained in ad- 
 versity, the most dangerous and obstinate 
 of the enemies of France." 
 
 In the intervals of her many duties she 
 visited the growing abbey church. It was 
 more than her recreation from state affairs, 
 it was her ruling passion. Her architect was 
 Maistre Loys Van Boglem, the best in the 
 Low Countries, and her nephew, the Em- 
 peror Charles V. (for whom she governed the 
 Netherlands so well), sent her the cleverest 
 artificers of Spain and Austria and Italy. 
 The radiant stained glass alone, or the mar- 
 vellous wood-carving of the choir stalls would 
 have made the church famous. Philibert had 
 died in 1 504. Marguerite began her task two 
 years later, and continued it for twenty-four 
 years. At last it was finished, at a cost of two 
 million two hundred thousand francs, and 
 twelve friars were installed in the little Abbey
 
 1 86 French Abbeys 
 
 to pray for the souls of those whose ashes it 
 enshrined. 
 
 It is said that Marguerite was perusing a 
 holy book, the Chronicles of Fontevrault, when 
 the news was brought her that the Abbey was 
 completed. She had just read the passage: 
 
 "Understand, my love, that I am in great 
 peace, but I know not how to enter into ful- 
 ness of joy without thee. Prepare thee and 
 come at thy quickest, that we may present 
 ourselves together before the Lord." 
 
 Looking up from her book the Duchess 
 greeted her old architect, and stepping im- 
 pulsively forward threw to the floor and 
 stepped upon a wine-glass which a page was 
 offering her. The broken glass cut through 
 the delicate satin slipper, inflicting a wound 
 which speedily gangrened. Amputation was 
 considered necessary, and a preparation of 
 opium was administered. But from that 
 sleep Marguerite never woke, and Michel 
 Colomb prepared her couch by the side of the 
 lover of her youth, in the abbey-church of 
 Brou. 
 
 " So rest for ever rest O princely Pair! 
 Or if ye wake let it be then when rain 
 Doth rustlingly above your heads complain 
 On the smooth leaden roof, and on the walls,
 
 => u 
 
 < u
 
 The Church of Brou 187 
 
 Shedding her pensive light at intervals 
 
 The moon through the clerestory windows shines, 
 
 And the wind washes through the mountain pines. 
 
 Then gazing up 'mid the dim pillars high, 
 
 The foliaged marble forest where ye lie, 
 
 "Hush," ye will say, "it is eternity. 
 
 "This is the glimmering verge of Heaven, and these 
 
 The columns of the heavenly palaces." 
 
 And in the sweeping of the wind your ear 
 
 The passage of the Angels' wings will hear, 
 
 And on the lichen-crusted leads above 
 
 "The rustle of the eternal rain of love." 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE FLAGEOLET OF SAINT BRUNO 
 
 A LEGEND OF LA GRANDE CHARTREUSE 
 I 
 
 Knock; pass the wicket! Thou art come 
 To the Carthusians' world-famed home, 
 Where ghost-like in the deepening night 
 Cowl'd forms brush by in gleaming white; 
 The chapel where no organ's peal 
 Invests the stern and naked prayer; 
 With penitential cries they kneel 
 And wrestle, rising then with bare 
 And white uplifted faces stand 
 Passing the Host from hand to hand. 
 
 Stanza from La Grande Chartreuse, 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
 T 
 
 I HE silent courts" of La Grande Char- 
 treuse echoed with unwonted con- 
 fusion on a certain spring morning of the 
 year 1562, as hurrying feet, smothered ejacula- 
 
 188
 
 The Flageolet of Saint Bruno 189 
 
 tions not of prayer, and terrified faces pro- 
 claimed the panic of the peaceful monks. 
 Until now through all the tempests of war 
 which had beaten upon France the monastery 
 had remained inviolate, protected by its in- 
 accessibility. All around it were the bastions 
 of the Alpine ranges, while the wild beasts 
 were the sentinels of the monks and the 
 avalanches their artillery. 
 
 And what could pillaging soldiers hope to 
 iind in this austere retreat ? The Carthusians 
 followed the strict rule of poverty which Saint 
 Bruno had enjoined upon them. Naked 
 stone corridors connected the tiny houses and 
 .garden plots in which each member of the 
 community laboured and prayed in the most 
 rigorous self-denial and in absolute solitude. 
 Even the apartment of the General 1 of the 
 order exhibited the same severity. And yet 
 the information which had just been brought 
 them was true. Captain Biron had set out 
 from Grenoble that morning with the avowed 
 purpose of sacking the Abbey of La Grande 
 Chartreuse, and the ferocious Baron des 
 Adrets was following with the main body of 
 the Huguenot troops. 
 
 It was the too famous Chartreuse liqueur 
 
 * The Superior of the Cathusians bears the title of General.
 
 190 French Abbeys 
 
 and the exaggerated report of riches amassed 
 by its sale which had attracted the plunderers. 
 The common soldiers had visions of cellars 
 rilled with casks and tuns, as 
 
 " Silent and brown externally 
 As any Carthusian monk might be." 
 
 The leaders thought of the hidden gold 
 which torture could reveal, and the Baron des 
 Adrets hoped that the monks might be un- 
 willing to deliver it on first demand, for in 
 cruelty he was a madman, his mania taking a 
 fixed form, a fiendish delight in watching 
 human beings fall from a great height. 
 When a youth he had seen a friend, with whom 
 he was hunting, roll over the edge of a cliff in 
 the embrace of a bear. The spectacle had 
 naturally made an immense impression upon 
 him, but, strange to say, not one of horror. It 
 thrilled him with such pleasure that he caused 
 it to be re-enacted many times, forcing the 
 garrisons of surrendered fortresses to leap from 
 the platforms of their highest towers, while 
 he laughed at the contortions of the falling 
 bodies. 
 
 Little wonder that the monks of La Grande 
 Chartreuse were panic-stricken, since this 
 monster was their expected guest.
 
 The Flageolet of Saint Bruno 191 
 
 The very reverend Dom Jerome, General 
 of the order, dispersed the community, send- 
 ing them in groups to different Carthusian 
 houses, while he himself remained to face the 
 enemy, as he fancied, alone. But as he 
 closed the Abbey gate on the last of the fugi- 
 tives, a young monk called Aloysius came 
 from the porter's lodge. 
 
 "I will keep the gate, my Father," he said, 
 "and will endeavour to entertain these pil- 
 grims suitably. I beseech you to preserve to 
 us your valuable life. Fadet, the goatherd, 
 who distanced the Huguenots in bringing us 
 the news of their coming, knows every path 
 across the mountains, and will guide you over 
 Les Echelles to the Commandery of the 
 Knights of St. John. You little know to 
 what a devil incarnate you submit yourself in 
 awaiting the approach of Des Adrets." 
 
 "I know," replied Dom Jerome, "for I 
 know your history. And since you have 
 already experienced the cruelty of this man, 
 why do you remain? Is it to protect me 
 from danger and insult, or is it that you may 
 repay evil with forgiveness?" 
 
 The young man met the gaze of his superior 
 doggedly and shook his head. "I am pow- 
 erless to prevent your lingering," said the
 
 192 French Abbeys 
 
 General sadly. "A great crisis in your life 
 is approaching. Let me at the close of this 
 ordeal take you to my heart as my son." 
 
 Aloysius knelt. His face bent toward the 
 earth was convulsed with emotion, but he 
 made no reply. His superior had demanded 
 too much. 
 
 No one at La Grande Chartreuse but Dom 
 Jerome knew the history of the young monk. 
 The General had brought him to the monas- 
 tery on his return from a temporary absence. 
 For months even the servitor who passed 
 the food through the wickets was not aware 
 of the presence of a guest in the apartment of 
 his superior, but knowing how abstemious 
 was the habit of the General, rejoiced that his 
 appetite had returned, and that he now ate 
 like a Christian. It was long before the 
 stranger was prepared to accept the peace of 
 the cloister; but a day came when he fell at 
 the feet of his preserver and begged to be ad- 
 mitted into the Order, and the brotherhood 
 were ware of a novice with a face expressive 
 of deep bitterness disfigured by recent burns. 
 
 It was at the siege of Valence by the 
 Huguenots that the Baron des Adrets had set 
 his seal on the countenance of the young man. 
 
 The city, over-confident in the strength of
 
 The Flageolet of Saint Bruno 193 
 
 its fortifications, had laughed at the attacking 
 Calvinists, and on the very night on which it 
 was captured a ball was in progress, in an old 
 palace whose foundations were bathed by the 
 Rhone. All of the younger members of the 
 Catholic nobility were present, and among 
 them an officer in the command of the Due 
 de Guise, who was to be known later as 
 Brother Aloysius. With him was his be- 
 trothed, the beautiful daughter of the Comte 
 de la Mothe. 
 
 The attack had been made in another quar- 
 ter of the city, and the young people, accus- 
 tomed to the sound of cannonading, had not 
 realised in the midst of their festivity that 
 Valence had been taken by assault. As the 
 Huguenots marched toward the brilliantly 
 lighted chateau Des Adrets was asked by one 
 of his captains in what way the dancing was 
 to be stopped. 
 
 "Not only let them dance," he replied, 
 "but force them to do so. Do you see that 
 balcony overhanging the river? Remove the 
 iron balustrade He whispered further 
 orders in his subordinate's ear, and then 
 gloatingly watched their execution from a 
 small boat in midstream. 
 
 His soldiers entered the ballroom, the
 
 194 French Abbeys 
 
 dances were interrupted for an instant, then 
 while the heavy balustrade fell into the river 
 the musicians struck up a quicker measure, 
 and the waltzers, driven by the pikemen 
 through the open casements, whirled down- 
 ward to their death. 
 
 The captain added a brilliant touch to the 
 spectacle. As the young girls passed him he 
 set fire with a torch to their filmy dresses, 
 and they shot like circling fireworks into the 
 black waters. 
 
 Aloysius and his betrothed had fallen thus, 
 locked in each other's arms. So, in the bleak 
 morning, they were found, cast upon the bank 
 farther down the stream, Aloysius uncon- 
 scious, severely burned, but still clasping to 
 his breast the charred corpse of his beloved. 
 
 II 
 
 Lord, I have fasted, I have prayed, 
 And sackcloth has my girdle been. 
 
 To purge my soul I have essayed 
 With hunger blank and vigil keen. 
 
 O God of Mercy! Why am I 
 
 Still haunted by the self I fly? 
 
 R. H. FROUDE. 
 
 It was in this sore trouble that Dom Jerome 
 had found the young man, and had brought
 
 The Flageolet of Saint Bruno 195 
 
 him to La Grande Chartreuse, in the hope 
 that the grandeur of the encircling mountains, 
 the calm of solitude and silence, would work 
 their healing influence upon his tortured spirit 
 and prepare it for the ministrations of re- 
 ligion. And surely this was no baseless dream, 
 for the most unimpressible of tourists who 
 visits La Grande Chartreuse to-day cannot 
 fail to be profoundly moved by the beauty 
 and sublimity of its long approach. 
 
 As his open carriage plunges into the twi- 
 light of the heavily wooded gorge, tapestried 
 with luxuriant moss, the repose of the ever- 
 lasting hills settles upon him, the charm deep- 
 ening into mystery and a haunting sense of 
 the occult and supernatural. 
 
 For startling surprises are discovered at 
 every turn of the road; now the Bridge of 
 Saint Bruno springs across the ravine far 
 above our heads, its single arch abutting from, 
 opposite crags, and now the road is tunnelled 
 on one side under the overhanging cliff, or 
 built out upon the other, a narrow shelf above 
 the precipice. 
 
 The cliffs close more narrowly upon the de- 
 file as he ascends, the precipice sinks to an 
 abyss which his brain refuses to fathom, its 
 frothing torrent which no man or horse could
 
 French Abbeys 
 
 stem showing as a narrow ribbon; while the 
 firs extend their blasted arms at more gro- 
 tesque angles ; and the pines, shooting higher 
 in a vain attempt to reach the light, cast 
 waving shadows, which seem to be those of 
 dryads flitting noiselessly at his approach. 
 All the poetry that may lie latent in his soul 
 is stirred as by enchantment. La Grande 
 Chartreuse has taken him to her heart, and 
 he hears in imagination the chant of the Pil- 
 grims as in Tannhduser, and feels that he is 
 himself a pilgrim to a remarkable region, 
 where enthusiasts have believed that they 
 saw visions and have led lives which were 
 themselves miracles. 
 
 Nor is the first view of the Abbey an anti- 
 climax to this impressive prelude. 
 
 The sharp peaked roofs of the long line of 
 <chateau-like buildings, recalling those of the 
 older portion of Fontainebleau, are backed 
 against a bleak escarpment of naked rock (for 
 the vast belt of dark green forest lies for the 
 most part far beneath), and the serrated sil- 
 houette of grey mass behind the monastery 
 seems to repeat and intensify its pointed roofs. 
 It is as though another chateau, of giants or 
 demigods, held the Abbey as a nursling in its 
 embrace, protecting but not imprisoning it;
 
 h- " 
 
 K 
 
 < I 2 
 
 X ** 
 
 u- 3 
 O g 
 
 >: &
 
 The Flageolet of Saint Bruno 197 
 
 for the range sinks suddenly to give a mag- 
 nificent view of "the Grand Som," whose 
 white glacier glitters like a staircase to heaven. 
 
 Gradually the potency of this marvellous 
 environment restored the mind of the novice 
 Aloysius to its normal poise, and the strenuous, 
 labour of felling trees contributed to his phy- 
 sical cure. But his superior, Dom Jerome,, 
 who agonised over every soul in his care: 
 "until Christ should be formed in it, " was not, 
 satisfied with the spiritual attitude of his, 
 ward. He could see that he was funda- 
 mentally unchanged, his calm was merely 
 self-control, and beneath the surface love and 
 hatred still burned like fires in a smouldering; 
 volcano. 
 
 The ascent of the Grand Som was permitted 
 once a month to every member of the com- 
 munity. ' ' For the prospect from its summit, ' " 
 says a Carthusian writer, "of dome rising 
 beyond dome like an encampment of arch- 
 angels, rarely failed to fill the beholder with, 
 heavenly ecstasy." 
 
 Aloysius climbed the mountain more fre- 
 quently than his associates, but experienced 
 no religious transports. He confessed to 
 Dom Jerome that had Saint Bruno, instead of 
 fleeing from the world, sought a spot in which
 
 198 French Abbeys 
 
 his heart must find loneliness most intoler- 
 able and cry out most passionately for its be- 
 loved he could not have made a better choice. 
 
 "You are still self-centred, my son," said 
 the General kindly. "You are absorbed in 
 your own grief. Nothing can extricate you 
 from that slough but a contemplation of the 
 sufferings of the Saviour." 
 
 Aloysius performed mechanically the pen- 
 ances imposed upon him. The Via Crucis and 
 midnight vigils before the Crucified left him 
 alike with dry eyes and a heart of stone. 
 Dom Jerome was disappointed, but not dis- 
 heartened. Another chord remained to be 
 touched, that of human sympathy, and Aloy- 
 sius was sent to minister in a hospice for 
 lepers. But the loathsome objects which he 
 saw there filled him with such revolt against 
 a Deity who could permit such hideous suffer- 
 ing that Dom Jerome hastily remanded him 
 to his wood-chopping. The heart of the 
 reverend Father in God was filled with acute 
 sadness, for he had now exhausted all the 
 remedies in his pharmacopoeia for the cure of 
 souls ; but at this very juncture he noted the 
 change which he had longed for in the de- 
 meanour of his ward, and wondered as to its 
 cause, until the monk in charge of the timber-
 
 The Flageolet of Saint Bruno 199 
 
 cutting made his report. He grieved to say 
 that he had discovered Aloysius seated by 
 the side of a young goatherd, showing him 
 how to play upon his Pan pipes. He further 
 explained that he had watched the offender 
 unseen, and that Aloysius had kept the letter 
 of the rule of silence, not speaking to the lad, 
 but teaching him by patient pantomime how 
 to evoke tuneful strains from his rustic in- 
 strument, and his lesson ended had left him 
 with the prescribed Carthusian greeting, 
 "Memento mori," accompanied by a shock- 
 ingly playful pat upon the shoulder. 
 
 To the surprise of the monk, his superior 
 had not only condoned this breach of disci- 
 pline, but had ordered him to pass over any 
 similar offence. 
 
 Scarcely was the General alone before he 
 opened with trembling eagerness a small 
 closet in the wall. It contained a few relics 
 of Saint Bruno, the plan of the monastery 
 believed to have been communicated to him 
 in a vision at Rome, and a still more revered 
 object carefully wrapped in a linen cloth. 
 Saint Bruno when locating the site of the 
 monastery had followed strains of celestial 
 music, and on the spot where the corner-stone 
 of his chapel had been laid the workmen had
 
 200 French Abbeys 
 
 found a flageolet. It was this instrument 
 which Dom Jerome now regarded reverently. 
 There was nothing to mark it as supernatural; 
 it was an ordinary ebony flute h bee with six 
 silver keys, and as the General cautiously 
 breathed into the mouthpiece the tones came 
 true and sweet, for it was in perfect condition. 
 He sank upon his knees beseeching Saint 
 Bruno to bless the design which he had 
 formed, and hiding the flageolet within his 
 robe, strode rapidly from the monastery. 
 
 That evening, Fadet the goatherd was over- 
 joyed at finding the flageolet on the hard 
 pallet of his lonely cabin. He carried it to 
 Aloysius on the following day, taxing him 
 with the gift. The novice shook his head, for 
 it was a surprise to him as well, but the 
 General of the stern order smiled as the notes 
 of the instrument were borne to him from 
 the neighbouring pines. 
 
 In teaching Fadet Aloysius had found an 
 interest outside of himself, and the General 
 knew that his salvation was assured. 
 
 And now into this haven of peace, this 
 sanctuary of a rescued soul, the fiend who had 
 wrought so much misery had penetrated, and 
 the fires of hell, which Dom Jerome fondly be-
 
 
 
 
 iuoi; I : 3 yi
 
 200 French Abbeys 
 
 found a flageolet. It was this instrument 
 
 which Dom Jerome now regarded reverently. 
 
 There was nothing to t as supernatural ; 
 
 'xie b bee with six 
 
 s, and as the General cautiously 
 
 brc nto the mouthpiece the tones came 
 
 .d swee- perfect condition. 
 
 He sank uj> knees beseeching Saint 
 
 Bruno to blest ie had 
 
 formed -vithin ha 
 
 mastery. 
 
 Saint Bruno Receiving the Desigri for theer- 
 Monastery of La Grande Chartreuse 'iard 
 
 nting by E. Le Sueur ir the Louvre. ^ ^ 
 (I*]'- rn*Eh. Paris.) 
 
 
 
 Ms haveri this 
 
 & a rescue no had 
 
 d, and 
 the dlybe-
 
 The Flageolet of Saint Bruno 201 
 
 lieved had been extinguished in the heart of 
 his spiritual child, flamed forth with new 
 intensity. 
 
 In the narrowest portion of the gorge up 
 which winds the road to La Grande Char- 
 treuse there shoots almost perpendicularly 
 from the precipice a pinnacle of rock called 
 the Needle. It would seem that some god 
 had cleft it from the equally vertical wall of 
 cliff, to afford the scantiest possible opening 
 for the road. 
 
 This opening, the Needle's Eye, the monks 
 had barred by double iron gates, capped by a 
 defending tower (no longer existing, but de- 
 scribed in ancient manuscripts as the "Fort- 
 alacmm de I'CEillet,"" The Little Fort of the 
 Eyelet"). 
 
 The fortified port was dwarfed to insigni- 
 ficance by the tremendous obelisk at its side, 
 which dominated it by a hundred and twenty 
 feet. 
 
 The surest footed chamois had never scaled 
 the sides of this natural spire and the eagles 
 built securely in its crevices. 
 
 Dom Jerome met the invading force at this 
 point, hauling up the iron portcullis for the 
 troops and bidding them pass freely on to the 
 monastery in whose refectory Aloysius had
 
 202 French Abbeys 
 
 spread an ample collation. But Des Adrets 
 halted his command and gazed fascinated at 
 the Needle. 
 
 " It is as if some steeple had run away from 
 its cathedral," he said to one of his officers. 
 "Ah, Biron, if I could once see a man leap 
 from that height ! ' ' 
 
 "Inconceivable, Baron, for first the man 
 would have to climb to the top, a manifestly 
 impossible feat." 
 
 The Baron sighed assent, and his eye fell 
 upon the Carthusian General and the monk 
 .Aloysius standing in the Eyelet. "Welcome 
 to our poor house," said Dom Jerome, bowing 
 deeply, but Aloysius stood the straighter, 
 with folded arms, staring at the Baron. 
 
 "How much farther must I ride before I 
 reach it?" asked the Baron with an oath. 
 "Have you nothing to drink here? I have 
 the thirst of the damned." 
 
 "I anticipated as much," said Aloysius, 
 "and have brought of our best elixir. A 
 cask of green Chartreuse is broached at the 
 monastery, but this flask of our oldest and 
 best I selected especially for your excellency." 
 
 As he spoke, Aloysius filled a glass with 
 such nervousness that Des Adrets's brows 
 drew together in a scowl of suspicion.
 
 The Flageolet of Saint Bruno 203 
 
 "Prepared especially for me," he said 
 mockingly. "Are you willing, young man, to 
 drink my health in this elixir which you have 
 so amiably concocted?" 
 
 Aloysius bowed and poured a second glass. 
 "If your excellency will join me, I will drink 
 with pleasure," he replied. "I prepare no 
 cup for another which I am not willing to 
 share." 
 
 Dom Jerome's hand closed upon his arm 
 with a grip like that of iron. "Pardon me, 
 Baron," he said, "but you come in such un- 
 usual guise that I can well understand your 
 demand for a guarantee of your safety in our 
 hospitality. Let me have the honour of act- 
 ing as your cup-bearer and of tasting this 
 liqueur. ' ' He lifted the glass to his lips, gazing 
 at the same time earnestly at Aloysius, who 
 answered his unspoken question frankly. 
 
 "You may drink it in safety, reverend 
 Father," he said. "I wrestled through that 
 temptation, and it is not poisoned." 
 
 But Des Adrets heard only the last word. 
 "Poisoned!" he repeated. "I thought so. 
 You seem uncommonly willing to die, and 
 you shall have your wish." 
 
 "Baron," besought Dom Jerome, "you 
 misunderstand. See, I drink the liqueur with
 
 204 French Abbeys 
 
 impunity. This young man is innocent of any 
 attempt to harm you ; and yet he has already 
 experienced your severity. He was among 
 those who leapt into the Rhone at Valence. 
 You will not condemn him twice to death." 
 
 "I died twice that night," said Aloysius, 
 "when the one I loved died in my arms. Let 
 him do his worst ; he can but send me to her." 
 
 "You shall have your choice, or at least 
 your chance," Des Adrets replied with a 
 sneer. "That is a pretty church spire you 
 have yonder, but it lacks its finial. If you 
 can set upon its summit the iron cross which 
 I see upon this gate you shall be untouched 
 by me or by my troops when you come 
 down." 
 
 "Tis a fair proposition," approved Cap- 
 tain Biron. "If your life is worth anything 
 to you, young man, earn it." 
 
 Aloysius looked at his superior and smiled 
 bitterly. "Pray for my soul, my General," he 
 said simply, and prepared for the task. 
 
 A soldier accompanied him to the convent 
 for such things as he deemed requisite, and he 
 returned promptly to the spot. Placing him- 
 self on the side of the Needle farthest from the 
 monastery he drew from his bosom a pigeon 
 which he had taken from her nest, and attach-
 
 The Flageolet of Saint Bruno 205 
 
 ing one end of a bobbin of thread to a foot, 
 let her go free. The bird shot up into the air, 
 circled once, and then flew toward its home. 
 "Shoot her," Aloysius cried to the crossbow- 
 men, and the pigeon fell dead at their feet. 
 Running to the spot, Aloysius took up the 
 thread and pulled it steadily. It was of stout 
 flax, and had fallen, as he had calculated that 
 it would, across a narrow ledge near the point 
 of the Needle. He had fastened a stout cord 
 with a slip-noose to the thread, and skilfully 
 manipulating the line, the noose presently 
 encircled the upper portion of the pinnacle, 
 and was pulled taut and firm. It would bear 
 his weight, and with a pouch slung over his 
 shoulder containing the iron cross and some 
 tools, he began the perilous ascent. 
 
 As he pressed his bare feet to the slippery 
 rock and grasped the cord, he turned to Dom 
 Jerome. "I confess, my General, peccavi!" 
 
 "And I grant you absolution," the other 
 replied; but as a look of ecstasy illumined 
 the penitent's face, Dom Jerome hastily added : 
 "I absolve and remit all sins of your past life 
 up to this present ; but when you have com- 
 pleted your task and fixed the sign of our 
 redemption on that height, add not the crime 
 of suicide to your account, but come down to
 
 206 French Abbeys 
 
 your duties and your penance, and God be 
 with you." 
 
 Steadily, carefully, Aloysius climbed, now 
 aiding himself by the rope, now daringly 
 making his way without its help, scaring the- 
 eagles from their eyries and sending particles, 
 of stone crashing with startling reverberations, 
 into the ravine below. He was watched in 
 utter silence until he reached the summit, and 
 the faint clink of his hammer was heard upon 
 the rock. Then the cross rose, and the 
 Huguenot soldiers for the first and last time: 
 in their lives threw up their caps and cheered 
 the sacred symbol, or rather the achievement 
 of the daring artisan. 
 
 Then steadying himself by the cross with 
 one arm Aloysius stood upright and looked, 
 not downward, but as though he saw a vision 
 into heaven. 
 
 Des Adrets leaped and capered like a mad- 
 man. "Jump!" he cried. "Jump, and be 
 damned!" 
 
 Dom Jerome extended his arms with an 
 appealing cry, "My son, my son!" but 
 Aloysius neither heard nor saw them, for he 
 was wavering under the influence of a great 
 temptation. It was the same which the arch 
 fiend dared to present to the sinless Christ.
 
 The Flageolet of Saint Bruno 207 
 
 The vertigo in the brain of the dazed monk 
 reinforced the desperation in his heart, and 
 he heard all around him the mocking voices: 
 "Cast thyself down. Cast thyself down!" 
 He wavered for an instant, and seemed to be 
 preparing himself for the fatal leap, when 
 clear and sweet a strain of music thrilled 
 through the air, piercing it like an arrow, and 
 reaching the dizzy brain of the man upon the 
 Needle's point. 
 
 "Play! play! Blow for your life, Fadet!" 
 cried Dom Jerome; and the goatherd blew, 
 his heart in his throat, the notes penetratingly 
 shrill, but discordant now, for he was too 
 excited to mind his stops. 
 
 Aloysius heard the yearning message and 
 stood transfixed. He had thought himself 
 unloved and unneeded in the world, but those 
 false notes told him the truth, little Fadet 
 both loved and needed his teacher. With that 
 revelation his own life became precious to 
 him, and with calm determination he started 
 upon a descent infinitely more perilous than 
 the upward climb. 
 
 Des Adrets, realising that Aloysius had 
 decided to attempt to retrace his steps, burst 
 into a volley of oaths. 
 
 "Shoot him!" he commanded, but not a
 
 2o8 French Abbeys 
 
 man stirred to execute the order, and Captain 
 Biron saluted. 
 
 "So please you, sir, it will not be necessary. 
 He can never reach the ground in safety." 
 
 "You are right," Des Adrets admitted; 
 ""and it is more exciting to watch the fool try 
 the impossible. There, look ! look ! The cord 
 has been worn through by that sharp rock. 
 He is falling ! No, by the Mass, he has lodged 
 in that pine! He is still scrambling down! 
 I have not had such enjoyment in a year, for 
 he is doomed. He has wrenched his wrist, and 
 it hangs limp. Ah ! At last he has leapt ! ' ' 
 
 But the distance was trifling, and Aloysius, 
 landing on marshy ground, was unhurt. 
 
 "Shoot him! Shoot him!" yelled Des 
 Adrets, as the novice staggered to his feet. 
 
 "Baron, he has our word," protested Biron. 
 4 'We are jointly responsible for what is done 
 on this expedition, and the word of Biron at 
 least shall not be broken in the presence of 
 his soldiers. Sergeant, give the order to 
 march to the monastery. All of the Char- 
 treuse liqueur is not poisoned, I fancy. If 
 the Reverend Father-General will oblige us 
 still further as cup-bearer and taster we may 
 find other entertainment as good in its way 
 as the performance of yonder acrobat."
 
 The Flageolet of Saint Bruno 209 
 
 Dom Jerome waved his hand to Aloysius, 
 or so the latter imagined; but when he 
 reached the Gate of the Eyelet there was no 
 one waiting to receive him but Fadet. 
 
 "The General bade me take you to the 
 cave where I pen the goats," sobbed the boy, 
 hysterical with joy; "and 'we are to remain 
 hidden there till he comes for us." 
 
 "And we shall have enough to do," replied 
 Aloysius, masking his emotion. "You must 
 practise many times that jig which you blub- 
 bered forth while I was upon the Needle, for 
 you played it very vilely, little Fadet, very 
 vilely indeed."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 FLEUR DEFINE 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE BOYHOOD OF SAINT LOUIS 
 (From undiscovered memoirs of the Sieur de Joinville) 
 
 /^ERTES it is a fair Abbey, that of Saint 
 ^-^ Denis, and a merry life as a lad I led 
 therein as pensionnaire of its school for noble 
 youths. Here for a time my late royal master, 
 Lotus IX. of France, then a lad of eleven 
 years, was my schoolfellow, and here we con- 
 tracted the intimacy which later blossomed 
 on his part into a confidence overweeningly 
 disproportioned to my talents, but not to my 
 affection. 
 
 True, in those days I made no display of 
 the love I really bore him, but contrari- 
 wise, as the manner of boys is, for I was 
 a sad scapegrace, and he with his seraphic 
 
 2IO
 
 Fleur d'Epine 2 1 L 
 
 beauty and spiritual nature was even then 
 too heavenly-minded for this present evil 
 world. 
 
 I mind me in this connection of an adven- 
 ture which threw all the monastery into a. 
 nine days' wonder and well-nigh cost the life; 
 of a very worthy man. 
 
 It had to do in the first place with the theft, 
 of that masterpiece of the goldsmith's art, the- 
 vase which the Abbot Suger left to the mon- 
 astery ; a vase of porphyry, mounted with the 
 golden head and wings and claws of some 
 great bird. It was commonly held to figure 
 forth the cock of St. Peter, the same that by 
 its crowing waked that cowardly saint to- 
 repentance, and yet it bore no so living a. 
 likeness to such a fowl. 
 
 This precious and venerated object had its. 
 place upon the high altar of the church be- 
 neath the oriflamme, the pennon of the 
 Abbey; and there lacked not great hue and 
 cry when upon a certain morning it was dis- 
 covered to be missing. The most diligent in- 
 vestigation availed nothing, for though a 
 window in the apse was broken, the orifice was 
 too high and too small for a robber to have 
 effected an entrance thereby, and all the doors 
 were bolted.
 
 212 French Abbeys 
 
 When all the pensionnaires were convened 
 and adjured to confess if we knew aught con- 
 cerning the disappearance of this treasure, 
 Prince Louis arose and told how he had seen 
 the sacred cock take flight from the altar of 
 itself, soaring through the opening in the 
 window, and that he following had witnessed 
 it make covert in the bosom of a stranger at 
 the foot of the Abbey garden. 
 
 This statement was so extraordinary that 
 those who heard, knowing that the con- 
 scientious child would have died rather than 
 have told a lie, had no other resource than to 
 believe that he had dreamed what he related. 
 ; Still, the vision coming so apt upon the dis- 
 appearance of the vase, the Abbot questioned 
 him closely. 
 
 "At what time was it, sweet Prince, that 
 thou sawest the bird fly away?" 
 
 "At midnight, my Lord, for the bell had 
 iDut struck the hour." 
 
 "And how couldst thou, in thy bed, have 
 seen what passed in the church?" 
 
 "So please you, my Lord, I was not in my 
 bed, but had come into the church, following 
 an apparition of the blessed Saint Denis, who 
 awakened me and bade me do so." 
 
 The Abbot shook his head. "Dear child,"
 
 Fleur d'fepine 213 
 
 he asked, "what said the saint, and how 
 looked his features?" 
 
 "He was all in white, my Lord, but he had 
 no face, for thou knowest that it was after his 
 head was chopped off that he came to this 
 Abbey. His voice came from his midst, and 
 he bade me follow the cock of Saint Peter, 
 for beneath the spot where it would alight I 
 should find buried the true and holy crown, 
 of thorns." 
 
 . "And didst thou find it, thou blessed inno- 
 cent?" 
 
 "Nay, my Lord, but the bird hovered over 
 the great eglantine by the garden wall, which 
 hath doubtless sprung from the sacred briar- 
 wreath, and there in its shadow awaiting my 
 coming was one of my human thorns." 
 
 "What meanest thou, sweet Prince, by thy 
 human thorns?" 
 
 "My wretched subjects, Sir Abbot, whom 
 I must change to roses, as Brother Ambrosius 
 taught me in the legend of The Eglantine of 
 Caiphas." 
 
 "Tell me the legend, dear child," com- 
 manded the Abbot, "for I mind it not."' 
 
 "At the time of the passion of our Lord,"* 
 said the Prince, in his sweet child's voice, 
 "there grew in Jerusalem, in the garden of
 
 French Abbeys 
 
 the high-priest, a wild-rose tree, like unto the 
 one in our garden, save that it had never 
 blossomed. 
 
 "It was from its briary stalks that the 
 brutal soldiers plaited the crown of thorns. 
 But when the eglantine drank the precious 
 blood a new sap swelled within its savage 
 -veins and a thorn changed to flower. And 
 even as the petals of the rose caressed the face 
 of our Lord there was borne to his ear the 
 confession of the penitent thief, that human 
 thorn changed to a rose of Paradise. 
 
 "And ever since whenever a soul is saved, 
 a thorn is changed to a rose on the briary 
 branches of the eglantine wherever it may 
 grow. 
 
 "Brother Ambrosius told me, moreover, 
 that a King's wicked subjects were his thorns, 
 that for the most part they were wicked be- 
 cause they were wretched, and that if I made 
 my people happier, and so better, in good 
 time all the eglantines in France would be- 
 come thornless." 
 
 "Brother Ambrosius hath distraught thy 
 sensitive mind with his mystical legends," the 
 Abbot declared angrily. "Sweet Prince, it is 
 but a dream. There was no man, and the 
 bird flew not."
 
 Fleur d'fipine 215 
 
 "Nay, my Lord, it was no dream, for Jean 
 de Joinville was in the church and saw the 
 cock fly. He followed me also to the garden, 
 for I heard him crouching along behind the 
 hedges, and he saw Fleur d'Epine for that is 
 the new name which I gave to the man who 
 hath the bird, seeing that he hath promised to 
 be a naughty thorn no longer, but a rose." 
 
 "Jean de Joinville, stand forth," com- 
 manded the Abbot; and sorely against my 
 will, with a hang-dog face and a thumping 
 heart, I obeyed. 
 
 ' ' Didst thou, Jean, indeed, see this wonder ? " 
 asked my inquisitor. 
 
 "Yea, my Lord Abbot," I answered halt- 
 ingly; "it is all as the Prince hath told thee." 
 
 "How earnest thou in the church?" 
 
 "I was wakeful and followed Prince Louis." 
 
 "And why hast thou not volunteered thy 
 testimony before ? " 
 
 "Because none would have believed me." 
 
 "The tale is indeed well-nigh incredible, but 
 speak the truth and fear not. How looked 
 this man, this Fleur d'Epine? Nay, ere thy 
 testimony is taken on that point the Prince 
 may retire, for we would see whether your 
 descriptions tally." 
 
 So I told the Abbot the truth concerning
 
 2i6 French Abbeys 
 
 the man, whom I had indeed seen: that he 
 was swarthy, ragged, and unshorn, and of 
 brawny build, that he carried a knotty club, 
 and so formidable was his appearance that I 
 trembled at first lest he would brain the 
 royal child; but that suddenly this wild 
 creature dropped his bludgeon and sank upon 
 his knees, and, mistaking Louis for some 
 saint, he cried, "Lord have mercy upon me 
 a sinner." 
 
 I related further how the Prince greeted 
 him kindly, and that the man confessed 
 that he had come to rob the poultry-yard of 
 the monastery of a little gamecock named 
 Dagobert, which Brother Herluin, keeper of 
 the fowls, had hidden, and which he had 
 entered in cooking-mains to the scandal of 
 the Abbey. 
 
 This my testimony was, on the further 
 examination of the Prince, confirmed in every 
 particular, and we each separately deposed 
 how Fleur d'Epine had declared that he was 
 desperate with hunger, and that his father 
 and mother also must starve unless some 
 miracle were wrought in their behalf. 
 
 "Then," continued the Prince, "I knew 
 why the cock had flown to him of its own 
 volition, and I bade him seize it as it fluttered
 
 2l6 
 
 the HMO, 
 
 - 
 -.'.. 
 
 
 that he 
 
 and of 
 
 ;ty club, 
 
 e that I 
 
 the 
 wild 
 
 
 urther 
 . and th, 
 Twelfth Geitttny Glass, Abbey of St. 
 
 ii a crater fcoloiir oPfiie*window by John Sanford 
 - ote the'curious portrait BTthe Abbot Suger with 
 
 hidd 
 
 ent, : king-ma .'i 
 the. 
 
 This my testimony 
 
 exa* rinc< 
 
 pai" ach 
 how 
 
 ; <:...: ' ' . " 
 
 and mother atec 
 miracle were v 
 
 "Then,' 
 
 why the cock h< 
 volition, and 1 
 
 . ! 
 
 was 
 
 . father 
 e unless some 
 >ehalf. 
 
 nee, "I knew 
 im of its own 
 it as it fluttered
 
 Fleur d'fepine 217 
 
 s 
 
 above his head, for that this was the blessed 
 bird of Saint Peter, and if entered in the 
 cocking-mam instead of Dagobert, doubtless 
 it would vanquish all contestants." 
 
 "What said the man to this?" the Abbot 
 asked of me; and I told how he had at first 
 gaped as one astonished, and then clanging 
 the metal work upon the stones, had said that 
 it was fair brass, and the bird's belly a jug of 
 stout red crockery, so that if the cock came 
 not to life to fight, it might fetch somewhat 
 from a dealer of old rags and iron. 
 
 I testified further that the Prince urged 
 him to venture upon the miracle, and that 
 thrusting the vase into his bosom, the man 
 made off over the wall, the Prince returning to 
 the dormitory with the exalted mien of one 
 who trod upon air. 
 
 "By the mouth of two witnesses shall every 
 word be established, ' ' quoth the Abbot. ' ' The 
 ground also, which I have carefully examined, 
 hath been trampled, the eglantine and its 
 trellis broken, and footprints are discernible 
 on the moist earth outside the wall. This, 
 therefore, was no dream or vision. The bird 
 of a verity flew, and the man who whistled it 
 to him must have done so by some devil's arts, 
 and have been a sorcerer.
 
 218 French Abbeys 
 
 "It is by no means unlikely that he will 
 carry out his boast of causing our venerated 
 treasure to be animated by some imp of hell, 
 which in this disguise will be invincible. The 
 rogue shall be sought at every cockrpit and 
 fete where lovers of this barbarous sport do 
 congregate; and when apprehended he shall 
 be burned for sorcery and sacrilege, for none 
 save the King himself can deliver him from 
 my hand." 
 
 When Prince Louis heard this, he wept ex- 
 ceedingly, for the King, his father, was absent 
 in Provence, and was moreover not of a very 
 tender heart, so that Fleur d'Epine stood in 
 jeopardy of his life. Moreover, the Prince 
 -would not be convinced that his flower of 
 the briar had gotten possession of the bird 
 through sorcery, nor of a truth did I think so, 
 nor was this the opinion of two of our young 
 comrades, Geoffrey de Sargines and Pierre de 
 Montreuil, who could have borne further tes- 
 timony in this matter had they so dared. 
 
 "He was a very honest man," the Prince 
 declared to us ; ' ' only he had been bred to no 
 trade, and could do naught but teach young 
 chicken-cocks to peck out each other's eyes. 
 But verily if he can so train men he would 
 make such a captain as I would fain have in
 
 Fleur d'fepine 219 
 
 my army. It would be a wicked deed to 
 burn this man, and it shall not be." 
 
 "It shall not be if I can hinder," I rejoined; 
 "I will warn him of his danger, but how, 
 since we know not his true name nor his 
 home?" 
 
 "We know his haunts," said Geoffrey de 
 Sargines, "and if thou hadst not informed 
 upon Brother Herluin he might have taken 
 thee to the next cock-fight; but now is the 
 sportive monk shut up under discipline." 
 
 "Perchance we can discover somewhat in 
 his cell," suggested Pierre de Montreuil, who 
 was always fertile in expedients. And there, 
 in sooth, we found a calendar wherein the 
 keeper of the poultry had marked the dates 
 and places at which he had purposed to enter 
 liis little gamecock Dagobert. 
 
 The next contest was to take place at 
 Argenteuil, and on that day, under pretence 
 of a visit to my aunt, I got a holiday. My 
 comrades aided me with their pocket money, 
 and I arrived safely at my destination, putting 
 up at a low tavern. But what was my 
 mingled satisfaction and alarm to find, here 
 publicly posted, a challenge to all the fighting- 
 cocks of the world to combat with the miracu- 
 lous cock of Saint Peter, which had slept
 
 220 French Abbeys 
 
 during the centuries, but would, as its owner 
 believed, now awaken and vanquish all 
 comers. 
 
 There was much incredulity and jesting 
 among those who read the challenge, and 
 many were ready to bet against the strange 
 contestant, whereas only one man appeared 
 to take the bets. Strange it was also that 
 this man was a Jew, whom one would not 
 have credited with belief in the story. As it 
 appeared, he was a receiver of stolen goods, 
 who had advanced Fleur d'Epine a certain 
 sum to wager upon the bird, recognising it to 
 be of value, and securing its possession in case 
 the bets were lost. 
 
 But the cocking-main came not off, for 
 while I sought for Fleur d'Epine with all 
 diligence, the officers of the law sought for 
 him also, and, hotter on the scent than I, 
 seized him, showing the vase unabashed, and 
 so dragged him back in chains to the jurisdic- 
 tion of the Lord Abbot of Saint Denis. 
 
 The testimony of the Prince also availed 
 him nothing, but on the contrary served to 
 condemn the accused, seeing that Louis 
 swore upon the rood that he recognised the 
 prisoner as the man who had whistled to him 
 the vase. Therefore the gentle Prince sobbed
 
 Fleur d'fepine 221 
 
 and prayed the livelong night; and Geoffrey 
 de Sargines and Pierre de Montreuil and I 
 were in even sorrier case, for we had remorse 
 upon our consciences. 
 
 But the next morning a swift courier 
 brought tidings of weighty import to the 
 Abbey, for King Louis VIII., father of our 
 Prince, was dead in Auvergne upon his way 
 home, having accomplished naught that was 
 indispensable in all his life, save the begetting 
 of so great a son. 
 
 It chanced that the news reached us as the 
 Prince sat at the Gate of Charity dispensing 
 loaves, and there had fallen upon their knees 
 before him an aged couple, the father and 
 mother of Fleur d'Epine, for they had come 
 to beg for the life of their son. 
 
 "Stay you here a little space, while I talk 
 with the Lord Abbot," Louis commanded. 
 And, having heard all his Lordship had to say, 
 Louis listened also to the letter of his mother, 
 Queen Blanche, bidding him write out a list 
 of his friends who should assist at his corona- 
 tion at Rheims. 
 
 "Madame's behest shall be obeyed," quoth 
 Louis; "and, my Lord Abbot, after thine 
 own name I prithee place those of my best 
 beloved comrades, Jean de Joinville, Geoffrey
 
 222 French Abbeys 
 
 de Sargines, and Pierre de Montreuil, and 
 following theirs that of Fleur d'Epine, the 
 poor man to whom I gave the vase of Suger." 
 
 "Nay," cried the Abbot, "what madness is 
 this! Hast thou forgotten that yon vaga- 
 bond lieth under sentence of death for sorcery 
 and sacrilege?" 
 
 "Par die!" exclaimed Louis, "hast thou 
 forgotten, Sir Abbot, that I am KING ? More- 
 over, here is no sorcery, for I overheard the 
 three friends whom I have named conversing 
 in the dormitory in the darkness of the night, 
 and charging themselves with sobs of peni- 
 tence with a jest, which, through thy severity, 
 hath well-nigh wrought the death of this my 
 very faithful subject." 
 
 "What jest?" demanded the Lord Abbot, 
 angrily, and, emboldened with the conscious- 
 ness that Louis would be our safeguard, we 
 made a virtue of our necessity, and confessed 
 our mad prank. For our unregenerate na- 
 tures had revolted against the abnormal piety 
 of the Prince, when he had declared to us his 
 intention of one day going in quest of the 
 holy crown of thorns; and Geoffrey de Sar- 
 gines, wrapped in a sheet, had personated 
 Saint Denis; while Pierre de Montreuil (even 
 then most ingenious in all mechanical con-
 
 Fleur d'fepine 223 
 
 trivances) had led a wire from the high altar 
 to the eglantine, on which by means of a 
 pulley the bird of Suger had been made to 
 travel, flapping its wings in grotesque carica- 
 ture of flight. Our intention being to lead 
 the too credulous Prince straight into the 
 briar-bush, and when he had gotten himself 
 well scratched to rise up and revile him. 
 
 Our plots were well laid, but, as I have 
 since learned in the greater affairs of state- 
 craft, there often come in unknown factors 
 which cause the most plausible schemes to 
 have other outcomes than those which they 
 who devised them foresaw. It was even so 
 with our pranking. The man, Fleur d'Epine, 
 was the unknown factor, for who could have 
 foreseen that he would have chosen this night 
 to rob the Abbey hen-roosts, or that all these 
 perversities should have worked together as 
 I have written out for our own befooling? 
 When we had confessed our malefaction, 
 Louis cried in triumph, "Thou seest, Sir 
 Abbot, that Fleur d'Epine's only fault was 
 belief in my assurance that God would work 
 a miracle in his behalf, and in that I find him 
 a better Christian than thou." 
 
 "Pardon, my Liege," cried the Abbot, 
 upon his knees, "pardon me that I have
 
 224 French Abbeys 
 
 spoken -thoughtlessly and pridefully. As for 
 these naughty varlets who have wrought 
 all this mischief, they shall smart for their 
 misdeeds." 
 
 "That shall they not, my Lord Abbot, for 
 I bear them no malice, since they meant 
 none. Listen, therefore, to the first com- 
 mands of King Louis IX. These my friends 
 shall be well appointed to offices about my 
 person, and the man who has suffered on 
 our account, the doughty and valiant Fleur 
 d'Epine, I do now create Captain of my body- 
 guard, and he shall bear the oriflamme before 
 me what time I go forth to the Holy Land, and 
 shall there wear out his lustiness upon the 
 Saracens." 
 
 So he spake, and so it was done. And 
 what further is there for me to say in this 
 place, seeing that of the King's public life, his 
 acts, and his crusades I have written else- 
 where with prolixity ? All the world knoweth, 
 moreover, how the King obtained that pre- 
 cious relic, the true Crown of Thorns, and 
 caused to be built for it by Pierre de Mon- 
 treuil (who became his architect) that most 
 fitting reliquary, the Sainte Chapelle in Paris. 
 Neither did he forget his human thorns, but 
 founded for them many leproseries and hospi-
 
 Fleur d'fepine 225 
 
 tals ; nor was he unmindf til of the Abbey which 
 he loved, but completed it after the plans of 
 Abbot Suger. 
 
 And we three, his boyhood friends, loved 
 him as our own souls; the valiant knight 
 Geoffrey de Sargines protecting him in the 
 day of battle, as Louis himself said, "even as 
 a good servant protects his lord's tankard 
 from the flies." 
 
 So also did the very valiant Captain Fleur 
 d'Epine make his breast at all times the 
 King's buckler, dying at last transfixed with 
 many spears at the ill-fated battle of Man- 
 sourah what time Louis was taken prisoner 
 by the Infidels.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 THE GREEN DRAGON OF FECAMP 
 
 IT all came about through that sly rogue, 
 Brother Hilarius. 
 
 Merry and ingenious, his society was not 
 alone the delight of his fellow-monks, but he 
 had brought the Abbey of St. Ouen fame and 
 wealth by his incomparable skill as scene 
 painter and maker of properties for the 
 mystery-plays, which were annually enacted 
 in the great "Place" of Rouen. His in- 
 fernos were so realistic and so melodramatic 
 that they were held in higher esteem than 
 the hells of any other dramatic company 
 either secular or religious, while he had a 
 complete monopoly in every species of loathly 
 monster, from ordinary green dragons to his 
 unapproachable fire-belching Beelzebub. So 
 terrific was the appearance of this hobgoblin 
 
 226
 
 The Green Dragon of Fecamp 227 
 
 that ladies of nervous temperament were 
 warned in advance to leave the auditorium, 
 and at its sight hardened sinners had been 
 known to cry out for mercy, and promise 
 amendment. 
 
 It will be readily understood that much 
 could be pardoned so invaluable a member of 
 the brotherhood, but Hilarius presumed upon 
 his indispensability, and his manners becom- 
 ing insufferable, the Abbot saw that it would 
 be necessary to discipline him, and con- 
 demned him by way of penance to retire for 
 a season to the small priory of Valmont on 
 the Normandy coast, not far from the Bene- 
 dictine Abbey of Fe*camp. 
 
 Hilarius wisely employed his banishment, 
 in painting scenery for the approaching mys- 
 tery play of Saint Anthony, a barn having, 
 been granted him as an atelier and his tools, 
 sent from Rouen. 
 
 It was during one of the intervals of his 
 work, while strolling in a neighbouring field 
 which belonged to the Abbey of Fe"camp, that 
 a bit of good fortune befell him in the dis- 
 covery of a small deposit of what appeared 
 to him to be cinnabar, from which he well 
 knew vermilion could be fabricated. He 
 trembled with delight, for vermilion was- a
 
 228 French Abbeys 
 
 very expensive colour; so costly indeed was it 
 that it was only doled out to the illuminators, 
 while he was obliged to content himself with 
 duller reds for his lurid scene-painting. Here 
 was enough, not alone for his own artistic 
 needs, but a valuable source of revenue to his 
 Abbey. He immediately notified the Abbot 
 of Saint Ouen of his discovery, and received a 
 prompt reply to his letter. 
 
 It was indeed a pity, wrote his superior, 
 that so rich a deposit should be in the posses- 
 sion of a rival monastery, and Hilarius was 
 directed to interrogate Orosius Abbot of Fe*- 
 camp as to the possibility of purchasing the 
 land. But though the good monk had no idea 
 of the particular treasure hid in his field and 
 coveted by the Abbot of St. Ouen, he had 
 liis own secret reason for not desiring to part 
 ivith the meadow, for here, and nowhere else 
 in France, grew certain wild plants which he 
 liad mingled with garden herbs and distilled 
 into a liqueur so adorable that he believed 
 it worthy to be presented to the King 
 himself. 
 
 Finding that the land could not be pur- 
 chased by fair means, Hilarius determined to 
 employ a trick. He ascertained that the 
 monks held their deed of the Abbey from the
 
 The Green Dragon of Fecamp 229 
 
 Seigneur de Bailleul, and that it had been, 
 granted for a peculiar service. 
 
 Though the Seigneur feared neither God 
 nor man he was horribly afraid of hobgoblins. 
 His castle was at a considerable distance from 
 Fe"camp, at the foot of a range of hills called 
 the Falaise du Serpent, on account of a tunnel 
 which still pierces it and was supposed to be: 
 the burrow of a hideous monster, who was. 
 often heard bellowing in his subterranean 
 caverns, and who sometimes came forth to> 
 feast on human prey. 
 
 Jean de Bailleul had called upon the Abbot 
 of Fecamp to exorcise this dragon, and the 
 brotherhood had followed their spiritual 
 father into the bowels of the earth, chanting 
 masses with chattering teeth. Nothing had 
 been seen of the creature either at that time or 
 since, and even the noise of his snoring had 
 ceased, so that the monks could fairly claim 
 to have performed their part of the bargain. 
 
 When Jean de Bailleul learned that the 
 Abbot of St. Ouen was willing to pay him a 
 large sum for the Abbey lands he regretted his 
 unaccustomed generosity, but the grant had 
 been legally made, and there was no repudiat- 
 ing it. 
 
 Hilarius saw the disappointed covetousness
 
 230 French Abbeys 
 
 in the eyes of the Seigneur, and suggested 
 craftily: 
 
 "If the monks of Fecamp of their own ac- 
 cord ask to exchange their present seat for 
 another less valuable in some other part of 
 Normandy, will you not sell it to us?" 
 
 "Most certainly," replied Jean de Bailleul; 
 "rid me of those clowns, and the estate shall 
 be secured to your Abbot." 
 
 All this time Orosius, quite unconscious 
 of the machinations of the wicked, behind the 
 locked doors of his laboratory was indus- 
 triously concocting the divine nectar which 
 he trusted would make the reputation of his 
 Abbey, as indeed it did. So seductive was 
 the cordial that, from frequent tasting, to be 
 sure that it was correctly mingled, he had a 
 vision of serpents such as Dante saw and 
 some of the old sculptors wrought in stone 
 about the doors of churches. The Abbot 
 knew that such visions were not infrequently 
 sent by the devil to admonish drunkards, and 
 he wisely resolved upon radical reform, pur- 
 suing a regime of abstinence with such hero- 
 ism that he filled flask after flask with his 
 adorable liqueur without ever allowing a drop 
 of it to pass his lips. He would never have 
 confessed to his visions had it not been that
 
 The Green Dragon of Fecamp 231 
 
 other members of the community were about 
 this time affected by similar ones. 
 
 Andrew, the gatekeeper, had heard from 
 the monks of the Priory of Valmont that the 
 great serpent which the Abbot Orosius had 
 exorcised had been seen making its way 
 toward the coast. The monk gave a most 
 thrilling account of the number of unfortunate 
 victims which the creature had devoured. 
 "Heaven forfend that he should come our 
 way!" 
 
 Soon other alarming rumours were heard. 
 One peasant had seen a monster prowling 
 around the ateliers of Valmont at night. Its 
 eyes shot fire, and it left a terrible stench of 
 brimstone in its wake. As yet it had de- 
 voured no human being in the vicinity, but 
 pigs and poultry had been carried off, and 
 there was no telling what it might do. 
 
 Some of the monks at Fecamp had been in 
 the procession which followed their Abbot 
 into the loathly lair, and they doubted not 
 but the monster, feeling a grudge against 
 their good Abbot, would be likely to revenge 
 himself upon his helpless flock. 
 
 One night the entire community heard a 
 most terrific roaring, and, shaking in their 
 dormitory, not one of them dared sally forth
 
 232 French Abbeys 
 
 to investigate the ominous sounds. On the 
 morrow the track of the serpent was plainly 
 visible around the Abbey. Orosius sprin- 
 kled it with holy water, and when the roaring 
 was heard again, made the sign of the Cross 
 and plucked up courage enough to look out 
 at the window. But the sight which he saw 
 filled him with such terror that he fell back- 
 ward in a faint. 
 
 A monstrous green dragon, with eyes like 
 balls of fire, was rumbling and grunting along 
 the avenue which led to the entrance of the 
 Abbey. The creature paused here, and belch- 
 ing forth a torrent of sulphurous flame, which 
 would certainly have set fire to the building 
 had it not been built of stone, was distinctly 
 heard to utter the ominous words, "I thirst, I 
 thirst for blood!" 
 
 After having reduced the occupants of the 
 Abbey to the extremity of mortal terror, the 
 dragon ambled slowly away to the accom- 
 paniment of peals of fiendish laughter. 
 
 The next morning the monks begged their 
 Abbot on their knees to flee with them, but to 
 their surprise they found him calm and resolute. 
 
 "I shall not abandon my post of duty," he 
 declared, "and since this hellish monster 
 thirsts I will give him to drink."
 
 The Green Dragon of Fecamp 233 
 
 A cry of dismay went up from the little 
 company, for they believed that their Abbot 
 had resolved to sacrifice himself for their 
 sakes and to go out alone to meet the dragon. 
 
 "Nay," he replied, "the foul fiend shall 
 have a beverage far more delicious than my 
 poor blood. Hasten to carry the great soup 
 kettle to the avenue. I will fill it with an 
 elixir which cannot fail to tempt his nostrils 
 and to soften his heart." 
 
 Apparently the good monk had not over- 
 estimated the qualities of his cordial, for 
 though the monster overturned the kettle in 
 his first blind rush toward the Abbey, he 
 seemed either to have some difficulty in rolling 
 the heavy obstacle from his path, or the per- 
 fume of the spilled liqueur exercised a fasci- 
 nation upon him. At all events he remained 
 for a long time on the spot, and the anxiously 
 watching monks thought they discerned shad- 
 owy forms, doubtless those of devils, at first 
 moving cautiously, and later dancing about 
 it in the obscurity of the tall hornbeam 
 hedges. 
 
 At length the creature retired unsteadily, 
 and a great relief filled the hearts of the monks 
 of Fecamp. 
 
 But in the morning as they scrutinised the
 
 234 French Abbeys 
 
 -spot where the apparition had been seen they 
 found the soaked ground trampled and 
 marked by human feet, instead, as they had 
 expected, by the hoof -prints of fiends, and a 
 light began to break in upon their mental 
 darkness. It was possible nay, probable 
 that they were the victims of some scurvy 
 trick. They filled the caldron again and 
 waited, this time not with fear and prayer, 
 but with clubs and staves. 
 
 The dragon returned, but as the door of the 
 Abbey was thrown open, and the light of all 
 its lamps shone upon it, the beast attempted 
 to turn tail. Too late ! A dozen stout monks 
 were upon it, twenty-four strong arms be- 
 laboured it to the sound of derisive laughter, 
 until from its painted canvas sides there is- 
 sued cries for mercy, and there crawled from 
 the broken effigy two bedraggled men, who 
 writhed and cursed and threatened and im- 
 plored, but were relentlessly manacled and 
 dragged before the Abbot. 
 
 One of the rascals was recognised as the 
 scoundrel Hilarius, but what was the astonish- 
 ment of the community to find in the other 
 their landlord, the mighty Seigneur de Bail- 
 leul. For Hilarius had taken him into his 
 confidence, and the cowardly bully (who
 
 The Green Dragon of Fecamp 235 
 
 would have died of terror had he met un- 
 warned the mechanical "fire-belching Beel- 
 zebub") considered the joke such a rare one 
 that he insisted in participating in carrying it 
 out. 
 
 The tables were turned, and the Abbot 
 Orosius made his own terms with his crest- 
 fallen prisoners. Hilarius was allowed his 
 liberty, leaving Beelzebub as a trophy to 
 Fecamp, where he remains in chains to this 
 day; and Jean de Bailleul was glad to pur- 
 chase the silence of the monks by assuring 
 them the possession of their lands for ever, in 
 return for an annual offering of a cauldron of 
 the precious elixir. 
 
 The story leaked out at last along with the 
 flowing cordial at his own board. 
 
 "It was the best bargain I ever made," he 
 declared; "for what could the Abbot of St. 
 Ouen have given me comparable to this ador- 
 able liqueur of the Benedictines of Fe"camp?"
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 MADEMOISELLE DE FOLLEVILLE 
 
 AN EPISODE IN THE HISTORY OF THE ABBEY OF MONT 
 
 SAINT MICHEL, AS RELATED BY THE HUGUENOT 
 
 SOLDIER, RAOUL DE RABLOTIERE 
 
 I 
 
 MOST beautiful of my early visions most 
 terrible of all the memories of a life 
 spent for the greater part in warfare the 
 most potent influence in all my life, that 
 is what the Abbey stands for to me. 
 
 And yet I have spent but one hour within 
 its walls, an hour which showed me hell and 
 gave me heaven; but patience you shall 
 have the story in due order. 
 
 You know the spot, a rocky pinnacle, an 
 island when the tide is in, and when it is out 
 more dangerous of approach from the treach- 
 ery of moving quicksands. Not unfittingly 
 did they choose as its patron saint the 
 
 236
 
 STATUE OF THE MONK VINCELLI, INVENTOR OF THE BENEDICTINE ELIXIR. 
 By permission of Neurdein Freres.
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville 237 
 
 commander of the hosts of the archangels. 
 Huguenot though I am, I could almost 
 believe that Saint Michel has ever hov- 
 ered with his legions above the Mount, 
 and that he garrisoned it not alone with 
 angels, but with devils. For, even before 
 successive fighting Abbots girdled the peak 
 with its cincture of walls, and sentinelled them 
 with friars who knew their manual of arms 
 better than their breviary, the Prince of the 
 Power of the Air, whom Saint Michel chained, 
 summoned his tempests to protect the Abbey. 
 Saint Michel au Peril du Mer it has always 
 been, but never in peril from man. Through 
 the century of war with England, when all the 
 west of France was lost, Mont Saint Michel 
 remained invincibly French, and now that 
 our Henri of Navarre had swept the League 
 from the same region, the monks of the for- 
 tress Abbey chanted their masses in impudent 
 security. 
 
 It was in vain that the Bearnais had set the 
 ablest officer in his command, my lifelong 
 friend, Gabriel de Montgomery, the task of 
 reducing Mont Saint Michel, and that he had 
 cut off all succour for the Abbey from the land- 
 ward side ; swift-sailing sloops from Saint Malo, 
 manned by descendants of those Malouin
 
 238 French Abbeys 
 
 corsairs who had delivered the Mount from the 
 English in the Hundred Years' War, would 
 elude the vigilance of our harbour officials, and 
 bring the beleaguered monks provisions. 
 
 "I will make myself master there yet," 
 Montgomery growled; "there and in one 
 other quarter that I wot of. The Abbey is 
 like a provoking coquette. It beckons me on 
 and holds me at a distance continually, but I 
 will not be so played with by a fortress of 
 mere stone. No, nor defied by a pretty 
 woman who gives herself the airs of that 
 same Abbey." 
 
 I knew better than to ask her name then, 
 sure that I would learn it in good time and 
 confident, too, that Montgomery would make 
 good his boasting, and that the citadel and 
 the woman would alike yield to his rough 
 wooing. 
 
 Meantime I came to know the Abbey in 
 many aspects. I had sailed around it in 
 reconnoitring trips, had felt the charm of its 
 flashing attractiveness from the seaward side, 
 and had heard the chiming of its bells and the 
 chanting of the angelus borne softly land- 
 ward by the sea-breeze. 
 
 It was more varied in its moods than a 
 coquette, for there were times when it struck
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville 239. 
 
 me with the chill terror of the supernatural. 
 And this was not when the waves were dash- 
 ing shoreward like mad horsemen to cut it. 
 off from all approach, but in the gathering; 
 twilight, when the tides were out, and only a. 
 pool here and there red as blood upon the 
 brown sands reflected the afterglow. Then 
 the fog came in and wreathed the base of the 
 Mount with fantastic curling shapes, like 
 ghosts joining hands in a mysterious dance, 
 who waved and beckoned and seemed ta 
 call, "Come, come to your death, under the 
 shifting quicksands." 
 
 At such times as these Mont Saint Michel 
 seemed to me so intolerably sad and sinister 
 that I would liefer have received orders ta 
 any desperate fight in a fair field than to have 
 known, as we did later, that the fortress was. 
 to be ours simply for the walk across those 
 haunted sands. 
 
 But before that ordeal came, with its, 
 tragical consequences, much was to happen of 
 supreme moment both to France and to me, 
 for it was the midsummer of 1588, the year of 
 the coming of the Spanish Armada for the 
 conquest of England, and the summer in 
 which I first saw Mademoiselle de Folleville. 
 
 Therefore, if I now make a divergence from.
 
 240 French Abbeys 
 
 Mont Saint Michel, be assured that it is but a 
 circuitous road for the necessary relation of 
 certain events instrumental in bringing us to 
 the Abbey; I having never learned the craft 
 of those romancers whose tales fly as straight 
 to their end as an arrow to a target. 
 
 On this summer then the entire coast of 
 Normandy was patrolled by Montgomery's 
 men, for he was determined to carry out the 
 orders of Henri of Navarre that no Spaniard 
 should land on French soil or receive help of 
 any kind from Frenchmen. The Comte de 
 Montgomery, who had his hands filled by the 
 task of keeping the Saint Malo fisher fleet 
 shut up within their harbour, and so from aid- 
 ing the Spaniards, deputed to me the inspec- 
 tion of that portion of the Norman coast which 
 lies between Cherbourg and Honfleur. I had 
 instructions to make my headquarters at the 
 little hamlet of Lion-sur-Mer; not from the 
 fact that there was any likelihood that an 
 incursion might be expected here, but because 
 my friend was desirous of impressing the 
 ladies of the chateau with his solicitude for 
 their welfare. 
 
 "I must confess," the Count admitted to 
 me, ''that though I have long wooed her, 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville has never granted
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville 241 
 
 me any very assuring proofs of her favour. 
 She is a tantalising little witch, endowed with 
 more than her share of coquetry; and yet I 
 fancy that she might love me were it not that 
 she is a bigoted Catholic. I depend upon you, 
 my dear Raoul, to dissipate her prejudices. 
 I have in this letter begged her widowed 
 mother, for the sake of their greater safety at 
 this perilous time, to grant you and a few 
 of your command the hospitality of their 
 chateau. 
 
 "It is a delicate mission which I confide to 
 you, my friend, but I count not only on your 
 affection for me, but also not a little on your 
 never-failing tact and your prepossessing 
 personality." 
 
 "Nonsense," I answered, but flattered in 
 despite of my disclaimer. "Nonsense as to 
 the latter qualifications, but you may count 
 on my devotion now and always." 
 
 I delivered my friend's letter immediately 
 upon my arrival at Lion-sur-Mer; but its 
 reception augured little for the success of my 
 errand. The sour-faced old servitor who took 
 it showed me into a long drawing-room, 
 where I was left to cool my heels for a length 
 of time which I might have regarded as in- 
 sufferable but for a little incident that caused 
 
 16
 
 242 French Abbeys 
 
 it to pass very pleasantly. As I entered the 
 salon I noticed at its farther end a pretty 
 maid-servant in a somewhat peculiar plight. 
 
 She had climbed from the back of a chair 
 to the mantel-shelf in order to wind a clock, 
 which hung upon the wall above the mirror, 
 and, startled by my entrance, had endeav- 
 oured rather precipitately to descend, but in 
 so doing had pushed the chair beyond her 
 reach. She now knelt with her face to the 
 wall, for the shelf was too narrow to permit 
 her to turn, and was making frantic efforts 
 with one pretty slippered foot to find the back 
 of the treacherous chair. She could see my 
 reflection in the mirror, by whose frame she 
 steadied herself, and I regret to confess that 
 my face was convulsed with mirth. 
 
 I was ungallant doubtless in offering her no 
 escape from her predicament, but she was far 
 too bewitching in her rosy embarrassment to 
 permit of any act on my part which would 
 have ended the enforced tte-k-tete. 
 
 Her dress I cannot now recall. It was of 
 some light material which then seemed to me 
 appropriate to her condition, but marvel- 
 lously becoming. The bodice, I remember, 
 was cut square, and showed the lovely curves 
 of her neck clustered with little rings of au-
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville 243 
 
 burn hair, which escaped from a mob-cap, 
 such as housemaids wear, and ladies also, as- 
 I have since learned, in their morning negligee. 
 
 I had hardly time to observe so much as 
 this when, recovering her self-possession in. 
 spite of my quizzical stare, the little rogue 
 made me a saucy mou. "Why do you not. 
 help me down, imbecile?" she asked with 
 a pique which was as charming as her 
 confusion. 
 
 Thus challenged, I promptly encircled the 
 shapely waist with my great hands. 
 
 "No, not in that way, Monsieur Imperti- 
 nence," she cried. "Give me the chair." 
 
 "And what will you give me in return? a. 
 kiss?" 
 
 "Certainly not, insolent creature. The: 
 chair, I say, the chair!" 
 
 "Oh, very well, remain where you are," I 
 replied, removing the chair a little farther 
 and seating myself in it. "You make an un- 
 commonly charming mantel ornament." 
 
 "Insufferable! Francois! Francois! Au 
 secours!" 
 
 "If Francois is the name of the old tub of 
 vinegar who admitted me," I rejoined, "I 
 am happy to inform you that he is out of hear- 
 ing, having gone in search of your mistress."
 
 244 French Abbeys 
 
 A slight spasm, entirely incomprehensible 
 to me, shook the frame of my fair prisoner. 
 Fearing that she would fall, I was at her side 
 in an instant, and again held her securely. 
 
 "Unhand me," she insisted, but she was 
 not angry for all her pretence, for to my 
 astonishment the minx was choking with 
 laughter. 
 
 "He is looking for my mistress!" she re- 
 peated. "If he had asked me her where- 
 abouts he would have found her the sooner." 
 
 "It is fortunate for me," I replied, "that 
 lie did not ask you." 
 
 "Perhaps you are not so fortunate as you 
 imagine," she retorted. "What is your busi- 
 ness with my mistress, Monsieur Sauce-box?" 
 
 "I have come to pay her a visit." 
 
 "How so, when she does not know you." 
 
 ""How do you know that, little one?" 
 
 The maid gave an involuntary gasp, but 
 answered promptly: 
 
 "Because Mademoiselle is very particular 
 about her acquaintances. Nothing is so re- 
 volting to her as freedom of manners. For 
 instance, you would never dare hold her by 
 the waist as you are holding me." 
 
 "Assuredly not, and as probably I would 
 liave no yearning to attempt it."
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville 245 
 
 "So we have a different etiquette for fine 
 ladies. I would have you to know that my 
 mistress is very fond of me, and would turn 
 you from the chateau if you offered me the 
 least discourtesy." 
 
 "I mean you none, my dear, and, as I fore- 
 see that we are to be good friends, pray tell 
 me your name. I am sure it is a pretty one." 
 
 "You may call me Coralie if you stay; 
 but I am by no means certain that you will be 
 permitted to do so. Why have you come to 
 Lion-sur-Mer?" 
 
 "To woo your mistress, and I want your 
 help." 
 
 "You are frank, surely. Do you imagine 
 that it would help your cause if she should 
 discover you now, or that either of us would- 
 be pleased to know that you were making love 
 to both?" 
 
 " I do not think she will mind," I ventured,, 
 "if you do not." 
 
 Again Coralie started, and this time so 
 violently that she fell backward from the 
 mantel plump into my arms. 
 
 "You are the most audacious man I ever 
 met," she exclaimed, as she extricated herself 
 from my embrace. "What do you mean by 
 such an extraordinary remark?"
 
 246 French Abbeys 
 
 "" I mean that it could be no concern of your 
 mistress if I should fall in love with you, since 
 I have come to woo her, not for myself, but 
 for a friend." 
 
 * ' Indeed, this is very interesting. And who 
 Is this chicken-hearted friend who cannot do 
 his own wooing? Tell me of him, but be 
 franker with me than you will be with 
 Mademoiselle. Does he really deserve her? 
 Since he is as bashful as you are bold, is he as 
 brave with men as he is timid with ladies?" 
 
 "Yes, to both questions. He is good and 
 brave, noble-born and attractive of person. 
 He is Count Gabriel de Montgomery." 
 
 Coralie's nose took an upward cock. ' ' Nay, 
 you may dislike him," I protested, "but you 
 cannot despise him. His deeds prove his 
 worth. He has made himself master of Nor- 
 mandy. Only the fortress Abbey of Mont 
 Saint Michel still defies him, and he will be 
 commander there ere long; and he will win 
 your mistress, for these are his two great am- 
 bitions, and where he sets his heart he ever 
 succeeds." 
 
 "He will never win Mademoiselle de Folle- 
 ville," she persisted, "heretic that he is, and 
 son of the man who killed the good King 
 Henri II. by perfidy in the joust."
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville 247 
 
 "Not by perfidy," I maintained. "It was 
 an accident that the splintered lance pierced 
 the King's brain; and it was Catherine de' 
 Medici's unreasoning rancour which drove 
 the father of my friend into affiliation with 
 Coligny. His murder in cold blood after he 
 was taken prisoner is the deed which his son 
 Count Gabriel de Montgomery will never 
 forgive. But for that heritage of revenge he 
 would be a merciful man." 
 
 "You may cease your praises," said Coralie, 
 "for here comes Francois," and she slipped 
 quickly through the long window into the 
 garden, as the old servitor shuffled in with the 
 letter still on his tray. 
 
 "I cannot find Mademoiselle," he said, 
 "though I have looked for her all over the 
 chateau, and Madame, who is an invalid, 
 bade me take the letter to her for an 
 answer." 
 
 "Francois, come here," called Coralie from 
 the garden, and the old man hurriedly re- 
 sponded to the summons. He returned pre- 
 sently, bringing the response of Mademoiselle 
 de Folleville, which was to the effect that as 
 the Comte de Montgomery was for the present 
 military commander of the district, his right 
 to billet soldiers on the householders was not
 
 248 French Abbeys 
 
 to be denied, and a room in the chateau was 
 at my service, while my men could be lodged 
 in the outbuildings. 
 
 Indignant as I was at this arrogance, I 
 made no retort, trusting to the tact which my 
 friend had vaunted to overcome the preju- 
 dices of my ungracious hostess. I was soon 
 disillusioned, although I could not complain 
 of my entertainment in any other respect. 
 Madame and Mademoiselle de Folleville 
 persistently denied me their company, even 
 taking their meals in their own rooms, and 
 giving me no opportunity to hypnotise them 
 into receptivity of my friend's suit. 
 
 Personally I was quite indifferent to the 
 airs or sulks of these grand dames, for if the 
 mistresses were unkind, the maid was gen- 
 erous of her sprightly conversation. As I 
 confessed to Coralie, though well born my- 
 self, I am always somewhat abashed in the 
 presence of noble ladies. Etiquette and 
 courtesy and all the artificialities of polite 
 society are to me well-nigh insufferable; and 
 I would not have reached so familiar a footing 
 with Mademoiselle de Folleville in a score of 
 years as that on which I found myself with 
 her bewitching maid after our first half -hour 
 of badinage. Nor was she such an empty-
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville 249 
 
 headed minx as I may unwittingly have 
 painted. For all her kittenish playfulness 
 she knew how to keep my respect. If her 
 tongue was free so were not her manners, and 
 her spirits never ran away from her control. 
 So that I oft fell to wondering that a girl of 
 her lowly station should possess her innate 
 refinement. I was sure, even before I ob- 
 tained an inkling of her history, that some- 
 where in her ancestry there had been a 
 strain of gentle blood. Standing one morn- 
 ing before a portrait of the late Leonce de 
 Folleville, Seigneur of Lion-sur-Mer, I was 
 struck by Coralie's resemblance to the old 
 Baron. There was the same curling red-gold 
 hair, the same green-blue eyes and elusive, 
 mocking smile. 
 
 Only and I strove to analyse the differ- 
 ence I found Coralie's face charming, and I 
 liked not overmuch the one upon the canvas. 
 
 And yet there was no cruelty or sensuality 
 in the distinguished features, which might 
 have been those of a statesman, so intellectual 
 was the forehead, so crafty keen the slant, 
 half-shut eyes. It was not the pointed red 
 beard alone which gave the face a vulpine 
 look ; ruse and deceit were stamped in the in- 
 sincere smile, and the sensitive nostrils were
 
 250 French Abbeys 
 
 drawn close in a hateful sneer, as though in 
 scorn of his victim. 
 
 Coralie's eyes frequently regarded me with 
 an indefinable expression, which resembled 
 this. It was as though she were acting a part, 
 and glanced swiftly askance to see how her 
 audience of one accepted it. At such mo- 
 ments a smile, sweet but derisive, curled her 
 lips, and she would banter me unmercifully 
 on my ill-success in wooing Mademoiselle for 
 my friend. 
 
 4 'Nay, how can I succeed, since she will not 
 see me?" I would reply. 
 
 "And if I bring about an interview," she 
 would ask mischievously, "will you swear to 
 me that you will not woo her for yourself?" 
 
 And when I protested that I would not so 
 woo her, nay, not if she were an angel and I 
 loved her with my whole heart, for that were 
 disloyalty to my friend, she laughed and 
 railed on me, saying that I had not the spirit 
 of a mouse to make love to a woman either 
 for myself or another. 
 
 I admitted that this might well be in the 
 case of ladies of quality, of whom I ever stood 
 in awe, but that I blessed Providence that 
 had fenced her with no such barriers of rank 
 and breeding, but had made her the sweetest
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville 251 
 
 wild rose that ever grew in the hedges. All 
 this badinage on her side was such pretty 
 mockery, and she so evidently found her mis- 
 chief diverting, that I loved her the more the 
 less I understood her. But now, as I noted 
 lier resemblance to the Baron, her playfulness 
 seemed an innate passion for deceit, with no 
 other end in view than the mere pleasure of 
 making a dupe. 
 
 "She is enough like him to be his daughter," 
 I said, to myself as I fancied, for I had not 
 marked that the old butler was standing be- 
 -hind me. 
 
 "She is his daughter," he answered. 
 
 I wheeled sharply. "It is time Monsieur 
 knew the truth," he continued steadily. "If 
 Mademoiselle .chooses to pass for what she is 
 not, I will be no party to the deception, for I 
 would not see her make a fool of an honest 
 man." 
 
 "Your conscience may rest easy," I replied 
 coldly. "I am content with as much or as 
 little as Mademoiselle Coralie desires to tell 
 me." 
 
 She entered as I ceased speaking, and 
 Frangois slunk guiltily away. Her eye 
 -glanced from me to the portrait with keen 
 intuition.
 
 252 French Abbeys 
 
 "Francois has told you," she said. 
 
 "He has told me," I replied, "but what- 
 ever may have been the fault of your parents, 
 it is not yours. Be assured that it matters 
 not to me that you are the half-sister of 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville. Nay, it does 
 make a difference; for any trouble you may 
 suffer I ask the right to share. I love you the 
 more because you bear this family no envy or 
 malice, but hide your grief under a sweet 
 gaiety which is nothing short of heroism, and 
 I shall count it the highest honour of my life, 
 Coralie, if you will be my wife." It must not 
 be thought that it cost me nothing to make 
 this speech, for though not of the haute no- 
 blesse I am a gentleman, and I had before my 
 eyes the consternation of my mother when 
 she should hear that I was to mate with a 
 menial. Nevertheless, my mind was made 
 up and I poured it forth. Coralie gave me 
 no answer for a little space; wonder and 
 blank dismay, and other emotions inexplic- 
 able to me, strove with her happiness, and so 
 wrought upon her that at last she broke into 
 hysterical laughter, clinging to me the while 
 and hiding her face upon my shoulder. 
 
 "So you love me in spite of everything," 
 she said. "Oh! you are good, good, Raoul,
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville 253 
 
 though a Huguenot. Religion shall not part 
 us. Nothing shall part us after this, if what 
 you protest is true." 
 
 "True, as I know that you are Coralie. 
 Henceforth, let us have no secrets from each 
 other. Why did you not tell me all before? 
 You might have trusted me. ' ' 
 
 "I could not tell you, Raoul, that I was the 
 illegitimate daughter of the Baron de Folle- 
 ville, for I do not believe it. It is not true. 
 My mother is a saint." 
 
 "I will love you and believe in you what- 
 ever else I may be forced to believe," I as- 
 serted, "for I am sure that you would never 
 intentionally deceive me." I could say no 
 more, for I was convinced from the marvellous 
 resemblance to the portrait that Frangois had 
 spoken the truth, as indeed he had. 
 
 So we were betrothed, to wait on fortune 
 for our spousals until the wars should be 
 ended. And now suddenly there was sprung 
 upon me other work than the wooing of 
 maids whether of high or low degree. For 
 the business on which I was ostensibly sent 
 proved to be other than the sinecure Mont- 
 gomery had thought. The Armada was 
 even then sailing up the Channel in all its 
 pride and vainglory; but Hawkins had word
 
 254 French Abbeys 
 
 of its approach, and he and Howard of 
 Effingham, with some of Drake's privateers, 
 came out to meet it. The engagement took 
 place nearly opposite Lion-sur-Mer, as we 
 were soon to have proof. 
 
 One of my men, Goupigny by name, whom 
 I had posted as nearest coast-guard, brought 
 me the first intimation of the arrival of the 
 fleet, for he had noted extraordinary agitation 
 among the fisher folk. The women kept a 
 constant watch to seaward, while the men 
 were continually flitting hither and thither 
 in their small craft on the lookout for other 
 hauls than fish. They were many of them 
 wreckers, and were soon to have opportunity 
 to pick casks of Spanish wine and other com- 
 modities from the flotsam and jetsam which 
 the tides brought in; for two days later a 
 fierce westerly gale drove the dismantled 
 Spanish galleon, San Salvador, upon the reef 
 before Lion-sur-Mer, and strewed all our coast 
 with wreckage. 
 
 At the first news of what had occurred, I 
 took horse and rode to the cliff where was the 
 little lookout in which I had posted Gou- 
 pigny. He was not there ; nor did I marvel, 
 for, as I looked seaward, I could see the tre- 
 mendous surges pounding the stranded ship.
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville 255 
 
 which was fast breaking up, and throwing 
 upon the sands with every return some dark 
 object, bales and splintered beams tangled 
 with cordage, and here and there the bodies 
 of sailors, the life beaten out of them by the 
 sea. 
 
 As I looked I saw one flung upon the beach 
 who was not quite dead. He stumbled to his 
 feet, ran a few steps, then dropped exhausted, 
 just out of reach of the ebbing wave, which 
 reached out a treacherous fringed paw for its 
 prey, and then fled backward to wrench more 
 plunder from the ship. An instant later a 
 man hurried along the base of the cliff to the 
 shipwrecked Spaniard. I saw him rifle his 
 pockets, take from his neck a gold chain, and 
 he was hacking off his fingers with a knife in 
 order to secure his rings when the pain 
 brought the Spaniard to his senses, and he 
 dealt the thiei a blow in the face. The 
 wrecker drew off, running back for his gun, 
 which he had left at a distance, and as he 
 raised it to take aim, I recognised my per- 
 fidious coast-guard Goupigny. 
 
 I shouted with all my might, but the roar 
 of the winds and waves drowned my voice, 
 and the Spaniard would certainly have been 
 killed but for the sudden appearance of an
 
 256 French Abbeys 
 
 intrepid horsewoman, who galloped toward 
 the miscreant, striking at him with her whip. 
 Goupigny grasped at the reins, but the reso- 
 lute woman dropped her whip and drew a 
 cavalry pistol from its holster, whereupon 
 the coward fell to his knees and whined for 
 mercy, presently retreating under the edge of 
 the cliff, and so out of my sight. Coralie (for 
 it was none other) sprang from her horse, and 
 binding the Spaniard's wounded hand with 
 her kerchief, assisted him to mount, walking 
 by his side and leading the horse. 
 
 I was eager to meet the actors in this little 
 drama, but the face of the cliff was too pre- 
 cipitous for me to descend at this point, and 
 when I reached the shore it was deserted by 
 the three persons whom I have mentioned. 
 But other bodies were being brought in by 
 the tide, and presently the wreckers gathered 
 like vultures, and I had business enough be- 
 fore me. Fortunately, my squad of soldiers 
 arrived upon the scene in time to enforce my 
 authority, and there was no more robbing of 
 the dead. Of slaying there was no need, for 
 the sea had had its will upon them all. Pre- 
 sently Goupigny himself joined us, and, not 
 knowing that I had been a witness of the late 
 occurrence, asserted that Mademoiselle de
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville 257 
 
 Folleville had brought a band of armed re- 
 tainers, and had rescued from his safeguard a 
 formidable Spanish officer whom he had 
 valiantly taken prisoner. 
 
 With that I ordered my men to seize him, 
 and told him how I had witnessed his at- 
 tempt to murder a helpless man, having first 
 robbed him ; and, the booty being found upon 
 his person, I ordered him to be put in irons 
 until the coming of Montgomery, who would 
 certainly have him hanged. 
 
 The knave retorted right insolently that 
 Montgomery's explicit orders were at all 
 hazards to prevent the landing of Spaniards, 
 and if, on searching the chateau of Lion- 
 sur-Mer, this one were found concealed and 
 nourished, I and not he would stand a good 
 chance of hanging. 
 
 I winced at that, for he spoke not far from 
 the truth, and I made speed to tell Coralie 
 that I knew of her exploit, and to beg her to 
 allow me to send the Spaniard under escort 
 to Montgomery. But this she roundly refused 
 to do, fearing for his safety. 
 
 "You should know me well enough," she 
 said, "to be assured that I will always help 
 the losing side. That will be your side soon. 
 
 Your precious Montgomery will never attain 
 17
 
 258 French Abbeys 
 
 his pet ambition of becoming master of Mont 
 Saint Michel. The Spaniards, after they 
 have conquered England, will cross the 
 Channel and sweep the Huguenots out of 
 France. The tables will be turned then, for, 
 instead of your protecting us, we shall have 
 to protect you." 
 
 "Would you help me, Coralie," I asked, 
 "if my life were in your hands?" 
 
 "Surely," she answered. 
 
 "Then help me now that my honour is at 
 stake," I pleaded. "I have sent an express for 
 Montgomery, and when he comes, even if I 
 hold my tongue in regard to this man, Gou- 
 pigny will not. The chateau will be searched, 
 and the Spaniard will gain nothing by my 
 disgrace." 
 
 She thought for a moment. "I do not de- 
 sire your dishonour," she mused. "Ah! I 
 have it. Mademoiselle shall deal with your 
 master. She has as much wit as I, and is 
 more personable and winsome." 
 
 "That were impossible," I vowed. 
 
 "Nay," she persisted, "were we equal in 
 other respects, there is an attractiveness in 
 rank and fine clothes, my dear Raoul, which 
 will lend to any woman an added charm. 
 If I have won your heart, Mademoiselle, with
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville 259 
 
 lier greater advantages, can surely win him 
 to mercy. Only let your prisoner bide here 
 until Montgomery comes, for indeed he is not 
 able to march as far as Caen." 
 
 "The Comte de Montgomery is a stronger 
 man than I, Coralie. Your mistress could 
 not swerve him from his duty. I will keep 
 the Spaniard here if you insist, but when the 
 Comte comes, I shall deliver him up." 
 
 Her eyes danced with triumph. "'Tis all 
 I ask," she cried. "Search the chateau. 
 Nay, I will not put you to that trouble. He 
 is in the room above your own, and here is the 
 key. Arrest him, make your report to Mont- 
 gomery. You will surely not be to blame if r 
 in spite of all your precautions, the bird will, 
 have flown." 
 
 "Coralie," I answered, seriously, "I will not; 
 be your accomplice. I warn you that I shall 
 do all I can to keep my prisoner." 
 
 "Do your best, do your worst," she chal- 
 lenged me, "and I will outwit you." 
 
 I had a premonition that she spoke truly, 
 but when I had seen the Spaniard I did not 
 greatly care, for I found him slight of figure, 
 of gentle manners, and suffering, moreover,, 
 from the nervous shock occasioned by his late 
 experiences.
 
 a6o French Abbeys 
 
 What Montgomery would do with him I 
 knew not. The best that could be hoped for 
 was rigorous imprisonment until his status 
 could be determined, and in his condition 
 this might mean death. I therefore locked 
 him into the room and posted an incorrupti- 
 ble guard before the door, as in duty bound, 
 hoping all the while that Coralie might find 
 some way to keep her word. 
 
 My quarters at the chateau were on the 
 third floor above the main entrance, the win- 
 dows giving view in two directions. From 
 one I could look down upon a rich dormer in 
 the Renaissance style which lighted Made- 
 moiselle de Folleville's apartment and some- 
 times afforded me a glimpse of Coralie. In 
 the angle of the walls between there was a 
 slender tourelle, holding (as I judged from 
 studying it from without) a spiral staircase. 
 I could see that it might very easily be a 
 means of communication between Made- 
 moiselle's room and the Spaniard's, and one 
 would naturally expect to find a door leading 
 from this staircase to my room as well. 
 
 It was therefore a little odd that the only 
 apparent entrance to my chamber and to the 
 one above it was upon the other side, from a 
 large hall running through the centre of the
 
 CHATEAU OF LION-SUR-MER.
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville 261 
 
 chateau. I examined the wall carefully upon 
 the inside. It was panelled in oak, and feel- 
 ing along the moulding I presently lighted, 
 upon a spring which would have released a 
 sliding door had it not been firmly nailed up 
 from the staircase side. The points of the 
 nails driven through the panel and moulding 
 protruded slightly into my chamber. They 
 were untarnished by rust, and shining. I 
 concluded, therefore, that they had been re- 
 cently driven, to keep me from using the: 
 staircase. I doubted whether the same pre- 
 cautions had been taken in the case of the 
 Spaniard, and, if not, saw that he could very 
 easily elude my guard and leave the chateau 
 in this way. I had a guess, too, of where he 
 would go, and by what means; for a mys- 
 terious, swift-sailing pinnace had been sighted 
 that evening by one of my coast-guards, who 
 knew it for one of the Saint Malo fleet, manned 
 by the half -pirate Malouins whom Mont- 
 gomery was striving to keep in their inner 
 harbour, but who were always eluding his 
 vigilance and stealing forth to smuggle sup- 
 plies to Mont Saint Michel, or otherwise aid 
 the Catholic cause. My man recognised this 
 particular pinnace from its sails, patched with 
 bars of red cloth, making the double cross of
 
 262 French Abbeys 
 
 the house of Lorraine; while the bouquets of 
 blessed box on the mastheads further an- 
 nounced the faith of her captain, who had 
 probably witnessed the sea-fight, and had 
 followed the San Salvador, hoping to be of 
 some assistance when it was driven upon our 
 coast. I doubted not but some Catholic 
 fisherman would inform Mademoiselle of the 
 presence of the pinnace, and that the Span- 
 iard would be taken on board that very night. 
 
 I had strained a point in winking at this 
 evasion for Coralie's sake. What was my 
 vexation, therefore, as I lay awake, to hear 
 light footsteps tripping up and down the 
 spiral staircase, and in the morning the rest- 
 less tread of my prisoner pacing the floor at 
 intervals. 
 
 To add to my embarrassment, the Comte de 
 Montgomery arrived sooner than I had ex- 
 pected, and though for two days there was 
 business enough demanding his attention re- 
 lative to the wreckage of the San Salvador, 
 which included guns and other munitions of 
 war, at last all was done, and I could not 
 longer delay reporting the presence of the 
 Spaniard. Meantime the Count was better 
 entertained than I had been, for the apparte- 
 ment de parade with the oriel windows was
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville 263 
 
 assigned to him, and the ladies dined with 
 him daily, a privilege which had never been 
 granted me. Nevertheless, when I finally 
 opened to him he was in bad humour. 
 
 "Why have you not told me this before?" 
 he asked; and then, regarding me keenly, 
 added : 
 
 "You need not reply, Raoul. I can see the 
 hand of Mademoiselle de Folleville here, and, 
 were it not that I know you to be an honour- 
 able man, I might also reproach you that, 
 with all your opportunities, you have not 
 advanced my interests with her one whit." 
 
 I swore that it irked me to confess it, but 
 I had had no opportunity, having never been 
 allowed speech with Mademoiselle. 
 
 "That is a little remarkable," he replied, 
 drily, "for she has had much to tell me of her 
 conversations with you. How else, indeed, 
 could she have learned of my ambition to be 
 Military Commander of Mont Saint Michel?" 
 
 I saw that Coralie must have betrayed 
 my confidences to her lady, who had told 
 him. 
 
 "Mistress or maid, what does it matter?" 
 he asked. "It remains that we have been 
 juggled with, and that this Spaniard has 
 doubtless escaped."
 
 264 French Abbeys 
 
 "Pardon me," I contradicted. "I believe 
 he is still in the chateau," and I led Mont- 
 gomery to the room in which I had locked my 
 prisoner; but, though the sentry still stood 
 before the door, it was empty. The door 
 communicating with the spiral staircase in the 
 tower was, like that in my own chamber, a 
 secret one, and though I could see the crack 
 where the sliding panel had not been com- 
 pletely closed, I did not even then point it 
 out to my friend. Nor did I object when he 
 bade me go with him to Mademoiselle to sift 
 the truth. Coralie had kept her word and 
 tricked me, but I bore her no malice, for I 
 still believed that she loved me. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville was standing at 
 the window of her boudoir, watching, as I be- 
 lieve, for our departure, for Montgomery had 
 bidden her farewell, and the groom held our 
 horses below. She turned with a quick move- 
 ment as though she would have fled, but she 
 was fairly trapped, and faced us bravely, 
 though there were tears in her eyes. This 
 tendered me not, no, nor her regal beauty, as 
 she stood gowned like an empress in pearl- 
 broidered satin, with pearls braided in her 
 hair. 
 
 Neither her beauty nor her emotion moved
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville 265 
 
 me one whit, naught save my astonishment 
 that this queenly woman who answered to 
 Montgomery's greeting as Mademoiselle de 
 Folleville who was indeed Mademoiselle 
 was also my Coralie, whom I had believed 
 so childlike and innocent in all her sweet 
 blithesomeness. 
 
 What my friend said to her I did not hear. 
 I only looked, and looked again, bereft of my 
 right senses. She dared not meet my eyes 
 though she faced Montgomery resolutely, and 
 his reproaches, angry at first, quieted under 
 her calm gaze. 
 
 "All this is true, Monsieur," I heard her 
 admit at last; "but even so, in what have I 
 wronged you? If I believed that my guest's 
 life was not safe in your hands, and strove to- 
 save him in other ways than through wheed- 
 ling you with a pretence of affection, am I so 
 much to blame?" 
 
 1 ' And what of me ? Have you been as open 
 and true with me?" I cried. 
 
 "I will answer you another time, Monsieur 
 de Rablotiere," she replied, still avoiding my 
 eyes. 
 
 "Nay, you will answer me now, or never," 
 I insisted. "It suited not with your ideas of 
 honour to purchase favours of my friend for
 
 266 French Abbeys 
 
 love, you boast. Then, what was the mean- 
 ing of this game you played with me?" 
 
 "The game I played with you " she echoed 
 my words without a tremor "was sprung 
 upon me by the accident of our meeting. It 
 liad no other motive at first than a lonely 
 girl's whim, her enjoyment in the acting of a 
 little comedy. Afterwards the game had 
 other stakes than the moment's pleasure, or 
 than this man's life " But here her voice 
 broke, and she turned her back upon me. 
 God forgive me, I thought her feigning, to 
 dupe me again, and I broke out hotly : 
 
 "So it was all a farce! The curtain is 
 down at last, and I congratulate you on your 
 skill as an actress, Mademoiselle." 
 
 "I do not know of what you are talking," 
 bawled Montgomery, "unless you have made 
 a, fool of Rablotiere as well as of me, and are 
 striving to make us forget the question in 
 hand. I believe that you are still secreting 
 this Spaniard, and I demand that you sur- 
 render him to me, if he is not your lover. In 
 which case, Mademoiselle, I would respect 
 your right to retain him." 
 
 Montgomery spoke with a bitterness only 
 pardonable in a rejected suitor. Mademoi- 
 selle flushed to the roots of her hair, which
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville 267 
 
 seemed also to burn with an intenser flame. 
 She turned with folded arms, and for the first 
 time in this conversation met my gaze, though 
 :she still spoke to Montgomery. 
 
 "You are right thus far, Monsieur," she 
 ^said. "The man whom I love is underneath 
 this roof." 
 
 Then to my wonder for she had seemed so 
 strong she dropped in a swoon. 
 
 I sprang forward, but Montgomery's iron 
 grasp was on my arm. "She is acting still," 
 .he said; "ring for her servants, and let them 
 call the jade's lover. This is no place for us, 
 Raoul; we are both well rid of her, and of all 
 women, say I, for the rest of our lives." 
 
 II 
 
 How the Armada was broken by that en- 
 counter with the English sea-dogs, and fled up 
 the North Sea before them, not daring to re- 
 turn as it had come, but striving to round the 
 British Isles and thus make its way back to 
 Spain; how the winds and the waves fought 
 for England and sunk the ill-fated ships, or 
 drove them upon the Irish coast, where the 
 barbarians brained the shipwrecked mariners 
 with clubs and stones ; and how only a pitiful
 
 268 French Abbeys 
 
 remnant of those who had sailed away so 
 arrogantly ever reached Spain, where the 
 Admiral of the flotilla was spat upon by 
 mothers whose sons had perished through 
 his cowardice, all this is an old and a well- 
 known story, and needs not that I recite it 
 here. But what is not so well understood in 
 France is that this beating which the Roman- 
 ists received at the hands of Protestant Eng- 
 land also put an end for ever to Catholic 
 despotism in France. Only a show of power 
 the party maintained, and such horrors as the 
 Inquisition or the Saint Bartholomew could 
 never come again by royal consent or with 
 that of the people of France. Though of 
 what savagery still remained in out-of-the- 
 way corners to be subdued I was yet to be a 
 witness. 
 
 Scarce a year from this time the day came 
 for which Montgomery had so ardently 
 longed, and the assault of Mont Saint Michel 
 was offered him with every likelihood of suc- 
 cess, for treachery within co-operated with 
 valour without the walls. 
 
 That double - traitor Goupigny, false to 
 every cause as well as to every master, had 
 escaped from prison and been granted asylum 
 at the Mount. In recompense for this kind-
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville 269 
 
 ness he had immediately entered into nego- 
 tiation with the Comte de Montgomery, 
 promising for two hundred crowns, whose 
 receipt I witnessed, to introduce our troops 
 into the fortress, where we could fall upon 
 the little garrison unawares, and then easily 
 subdue the defenceless friars. 
 
 I had no stomach for this adventure, and 
 this not alone because I would liefer win in a 
 fair fight, but also that I had too much faith 
 in Goupigny's unfaith, believing him capable 
 of betraying whatever side suited his own 
 advantage. His greeting was somewhat too 
 oily when I remembered how I had handled 
 him at Lion-sur-Mer. There was a shadow of 
 that treatment in the ugly look he gave me 
 when he said : " It will be the happiest moment 
 of my life when I have the honour of welcom- 
 ing you to Mont Saint Michel, Monsieur de 
 Rablotiere." 
 
 The night was moonless and but fitfully 
 starlit between scudding clouds when our 
 band, two hundred strong, marched out from 
 Pont Orson across the sands, between the ebb 
 and flow of the tide. The Mount loomed be- 
 fore us uncommonly grim and sinister, as it 
 seemed to me. I am no coward, but the 
 consciousness that I was on no honourable
 
 270 French Abbeys 
 
 errand oppressed me horribly. At that mo- 
 ment what the Abbey had stood for in the 
 past (that Christianity which is the common 
 heritage of Romanist and Huguenot) ap- 
 pealed to me. I thought of the order of 
 knighthood instituted here, and seemed to 
 see the chevaliers kneeling in their pillared 
 hall. I saw, too, the building monks making 
 their beloved Abbey strong, and carrying 
 such a passion into their incredible labour 
 that the intractable granite flowered into- 
 beauty, and even the drudgery of quarrying^ 
 and hauling the heavy masses of stone be- 
 came pure joy. 
 
 And with these pictures in my mind I 
 almost forgot that the old days of sanctity 
 and devotion were past, that the commend- 
 atory Abbot of Mont Saint Michel was a child 
 of the house of Lorraine, but five years of 
 age, and that the Sieur de Boissuze, who was 
 deputed military governor of the Abbey, was 
 a cut-throat scoundrel. 
 
 Led by a sure guide we threaded the quick- 
 sands, and presented ourselves silently be- 
 neath the wall at the spot appointed, at the 
 foot of the cliff beneath the merveille. Silent 
 and ominous that wall of masonry lifted itself 
 above our heads, with but one light twink-
 
 ENTRANCE TO THE ABBEY OF MONT SAINT MICHEL.
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville 27? 
 
 ling from a window in the salle du cellier, in 
 the lowest of the three stories, but still high 
 in air. 
 
 It was Goupigny's signal that all was well,, 
 and that he was in waiting. 
 
 There was a little platform jutting from this 
 window, with a windlass, by which the monks 
 were in the habit of hoisting their provisions. 
 Goupigny and a confederate were at the 
 windlass, and would pull us up silently until 
 enough had gathered in the cellier to assault 
 the corps de guard. 
 
 Montgomery liked the trick by which we 
 were to enter as little as I, but he had given 
 his consent, and was there to stand by the 
 event. Other faces showed blanched in the 
 moonlight beside our own. I remember that 
 as the rope swung down by which Goupigny 
 was to hoist us, a great fellow marching next 
 to me, whose bravery had never been im- 
 peached, was trembling like a leaf. He strove 
 to wrench a ring from his little finger, asking 
 me the while to give it to his wife if he never 
 came down; but his finger had thickened 
 about it since his wife gave it to him, and he 
 needs must let it be. 
 
 One by one our men swung upward, dang- 
 ling like gallows' prey between sky and land.
 
 272 French Abbeys 
 
 Not a sound came back to us after they 
 stepped within the window, and in this fear- 
 some stillness ninety of our two hundred 
 mounted. At last Montgomery grew uneasy, 
 for he saw lights springing forth here and 
 there in other parts of the building, and they 
 were streaming from the Almonry, a great 
 liall communicating with the cellier; but we 
 were too far beneath to see figures flitting 
 about or to hear the clash of arms, and could 
 not surmise what devil's work was going on. 
 
 So when Goupigny shouted, "Holloa! 
 there, Montgomery. Come up, the fight is 
 on!" he sprang to the rope; but I held him 
 back; and the Sieur de Sourdeval, sharing 
 my suspicions that treachery might be afoot, 
 cried, "Throw us down a dead monk, Gou- 
 pigny, to prove what you say." 
 
 There was no answer for what seemed to us 
 a long space, and then with arms outstretched 
 like the wings of a great bird of prey, there 
 fell at my feet the corpse of a monk. Sourde- 
 val, a little farther away than I, cried, "It is 
 all right, Montgomery. See, the monks fly!" 
 
 But I knelt at the dead man's side ; his face, 
 even if I had known him, was unrecognisable, 
 for it had been mangled not alone by the fall, 
 by many slashes before the unfortunate
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville 273 
 
 had been cast from the window. "This is no 
 work of my honest fellow-soldiers," I thought 
 as I marked the brutal gashes, and I disposed 
 his arm so that the sleeve of the frock covered 
 the mutilated face. As I did so, my eye 
 caught an object which startled me so that 
 the blood rushed back upon my heart, a 
 ring upon the little finger, sunk deep into the 
 flesh. 
 
 I could not be certain that this was my 
 comrade at arms whom they had dressed as a 
 monk to deceive us ; for all I knew to the con- 
 trary, the monks might also wear their sweet- 
 hearts' rings. But I snatched the rope from 
 Montgomery's hand, saying, "Let me go up 
 first. I will find out what they are doing up 
 there. Follow not unless I call you." 
 
 As I reached the platform Goupigny 
 clutched my arm with a grip which I knew 
 betokened no friendship; but his look of 
 exultation as I faced the flaring cresset 
 changed to one of disappointment. " It is not 
 Montgomery," he cried, "but only his truck- 
 ling minion, Raoul de Rablotiere." 
 
 Then a dozen men threw me to the earth, 
 overpowered and disarmed me, and dragged 
 me into the next hall, and I knew that I was 
 in the jaws of death. 
 
 i3
 
 274 French Abbeys 
 
 But what froze my blood at this supreme 
 moment was not fear for my personal safety, 
 but a great horror of what I saw, for I stood 
 in a human slaughter-house. The pavement 
 was slippery beneath my feet with the blood 
 of my ninety murdered comrades, whose 
 corpses were stacked like faggots on every 
 side. 
 
 A brawny executioner, stripped to his 
 waist, and red to his elbows, lifted a dripping 
 sabre, and Goupigny pushed me toward a 
 block hacked by many cuts. "On your 
 knees," he sneered, "and I only wish Ma- 
 demoiselle de Folleville could see us now." 
 
 At that word a dark-eyed, dark-faced man 
 in the garb of a novice darted across the room, 
 struck Goupigny in the face, and returning 
 spoke passionately to the Governor of the 
 garrison. It was the Spaniard, my escaped 
 prisoner, and I could see that he was begging 
 for my life. 
 
 I had scarcely time for recognition, none to 
 wonder at his act, or at his monastic dress, for 
 Boissuze", the monster who had instituted all 
 this villainy, roared to Goupigny to hold his 
 tongue, and to the headsman to put by his 
 sword. 
 
 "Young man," he said to me, "if you do
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville 275 
 
 not care to join your comrades, listen to what 
 I say. We are impatient to welcome Mont- 
 gomery. He should not lag thus behind his 
 men. Go to that window, and shout to him 
 that all is well, and you have my pledge that 
 you, and you alone of all his command, shall 
 leave Mont Saint Michel in safety." I made 
 no reply, not that I had any intention of 
 consenting to such infamy, but I am slow 
 at speech, and the revolt in my soul was too- 
 great for words. He mistook my silence. 
 
 The Spaniard approached me. "I beseech 
 you to save your life, Signer, for her sake," he 
 said in a low voice. A great astonishment 
 filled me. " I will explain afterward," he said, 
 "only go, go at once, and do as the commander 
 bids you. Your refusal will avail your friends, 
 nothing." 
 
 They pushed me to the window, and the 
 cool night air revived me somewhat (for what 
 I had seen had sickened me) . A great longing 
 for life surged up within me. Somehow the 
 words of the Spaniard had convinced me that 
 I had misjudged Coralie, and that she was 
 true to me in spite of all. Even so I would 
 not win her by foul means, and putting 
 that temptation behind me, I craned forth 
 from the window like a gargoyle, my hands
 
 276 French Abbeys 
 
 clutching the sill, while some of those within 
 held me by my heels. I could see my 
 friends, and Montgomery saw me. "Is all 
 well, Rablotiere?" he cried. "Nay, nay!" I 
 shouted. "Treason! A trap! A trap! Flee 
 for your life!" 
 
 With that they pulled me in so violently 
 that my head struck the floor, and I swooned 
 with the pain, believing all at an end for me 
 in this world. 
 
 But when I came to my senses I found my- 
 self alone, save for the Spaniard, who was 
 bathing my face, and for Boissuze", who 
 towered over us. 
 
 "'Twas the prettiest thing I have seen in 
 all my life," said he. "Will you bide as my 
 lieutenant, lad? No? I thought not. Well, 
 go to your dear Montgomery. I would I had 
 any one in my command who loved me so 
 well." 
 
 With that he clanked off, and the Spaniard 
 led me, by many staircases and winding 
 passages, to the shore, whence we were guided 
 "by a monk who knew the way between the 
 dangerous quicksands to the mainland, which 
 Montgomery, believing me past mortal aid, 
 liad already regained with the remnant of his 
 command.
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville 277 
 
 I have remarked on the ominous silence of 
 the Abbey as it lay in wait for us. Now, on 
 the contrary, as we retreated, its great bells 
 boomed out its triumph and defiance. I have 
 heard nothing in all my life more awful than 
 the clangour of those bells, tolling with such 
 fiendish glee the death of so many brave men. 
 
 There came to me, however, a light even 
 in that gloom, for on the way I besought the 
 Spaniard to tell me what he meant when he 
 urged me to save my life for Mademoiselle's, 
 sake. 
 
 "Because she loves you," he replied, "and 
 methinks you should know it already.'* 
 
 "But I heard her admit to Montgomery 
 that she loved you," I answered. 
 
 "Think over what she said," the Spaniard, 
 returned. "I was standing on the spiral, 
 staircase with the door ajar, and I, too\ heard 
 her, but I attached no such meaning to her 
 words." 
 
 "They were plain enough," I replied, "and 
 they are graven indelibly upon my memory: 
 'You have spoken truly,' she said to Mont- 
 gomery, 'the man whom I love is beneath 
 this roof ' ; and you have just admitted that 
 you were there." 
 
 "But was I then her only guest?" the
 
 278 French Abbeys 
 
 'Spaniard asked with a smile. "You were 
 beneath her roof at the same time. Had she 
 .given you no reason to believe that she loved 
 you? Ought you not to have understood 
 her ? After you went away it was long before 
 we could bring her from that swoon, and her 
 first words to me on awaking were to bid me 
 leave her chateau, for she had saved my life 
 at the expense of her own happiness. 
 
 "Fortunately, one of the Malouin fishing 
 boats touched at Lion-sur-Mer that night and 
 brought me to this Abbey. When I learned 
 of the fate of the Armada, I gladly took upon 
 myself the vows of a monk. I am horrified 
 by what has been done here. It is that 
 ruffian Boissuz6 who is responsible, and not 
 the main body of the monks, who knew 
 nothing of what was passing. Lay not that 
 crime to the brotherhood. 
 
 "Tell Mademoiselle that I congratulate her, 
 as I could not have done had you taken my 
 advice and saved your life at the expense of 
 your honour, and so farewell." 
 
 It was years before I could blot the memory 
 of what I had seen at Mont Saint Michel from 
 my mental vision. Waking or dreaming, that 
 ghastly human shambles was before my eyes, 
 insomuch that when the wars were over and
 
 Mademoiselle de Folleville 279 
 
 the Comte de Montgomery being offered the 
 command of the garrison, and in spite of his 
 former ambition desiring to depute this post 
 to me, I, still less than he, could endure to 
 abide there, or even to hear the tolling of its 
 bells across the sands, but gave the Mount a 
 wide berth in all my journeys. 
 
 It was a misfortunate asylum for Gou- 
 pigny, for I heard that a dismantled hulk 
 (conceived to be that of one of the Spanish 
 galleons) drifting into the bay shortly after 
 our visit, he went out to it secretly at low tide, 
 seeking treasure, and was sucked under by 
 the quicksands. 
 
 And what more is there to say ? 
 
 Surely, unless my reader is as dull of wit 
 as he who writes these memoirs, needs not 
 that I make more plain what even I under- 
 stood at last, that my dear lady, knowing 
 well my loyalty to my friend, and that for his 
 sake I would never have wooed her in her 
 proper person, had deceived me for my own 
 unutterable gain. My eyes being now opened, 
 I made immediate opportunity to betake my- 
 self to Lion-sur-Mer, and there was I received 
 as one from the dead, for rumour had it that 
 I had perished in that horrible massacre. 
 
 And now that Henri of Navarre is crowned,
 
 280 French Abbeys 
 
 and toleration the fashion, there is respect on 
 both sides for the other's religion, which in 
 all true men and women I have found differs 
 but in the outward expression, and is the same 
 at heart. 
 
 So, though the Lady of Lion-sur-Mer still 
 goes to the Mass and I to the preaching, there 
 is no happier husband in all France than 
 I, nor more contented wife, as I oft hear 
 Madame de Rablotiere declare, than she who 
 was once Mademoiselle de Folleville.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A FUGITIVE ABBOT 
 
 IN all Normandy there is no Abbey so en- 
 chanting in its ruin as Saint Wandrille. 
 Nature has dealt tenderly with it: where an 
 arch has been broken, the ivy flings its fes- 
 toons ; where a stone is missing, a wild flower 
 stops the chink. It hides itself coquettishly 
 a little apart from the ordinary track of 
 tourists, but is a favourite haunt of artists, 
 and easy of access from Caudebec or 
 Yvetot. 
 
 Though a small Abbey, it is one which has 
 grown in beauty through the centuries. 
 Exquisite bits of early Gothic and sturdy 
 earlier Norman are to be found here side by 
 side; but most conspicuous of all is the style 
 which the Pompadour made the vogue in the 
 eighteenth century. 
 
 Graceful but ostentatious, it tells us that 
 281
 
 French Abbeys 
 
 men of noble family who spent the major part 
 of their lives at Court loved to make the 
 Abbey a luxurious retreat for lazy day-dreams 
 in the intervals of a too fatiguing social life. 
 .And such were its Commendatory Abbots, vo- 
 luptuaries whose dilletante taste might well 
 have planned this little palace, but who would 
 hardly have lavished their wealth upon so 
 hidden a paradise. Who, then, was the man 
 whose munificent generosity executed these 
 later buildings ? 
 
 The guardian who showed them had her 
 tradition of a nameless benefactor, who, for 
 the sake of the woman he loved, gave up all 
 this otium cum dignitate on the very day upon 
 which he was appointed Abbot. 
 
 The proof that the legend was true lay to 
 Tier simple mind in the fact that it was all 
 -written out in a time-yellowed manuscript, 
 said to have been discovered in Canada, 
 which some visitor had left at Saint Wandrille. 
 
 It was a strange story that we read under 
 the broken arches, but its strangest part is 
 confirmed and vouched for in the Relations 
 of the Jesuits, and some warfare like this 
 must have been fought out in those tor- 
 tured hearts ere they found their way to 
 peace.
 
 A Fugitive Abbot 283 
 
 THE MANUSCRIPT 
 
 I cannot remember the time when I did not 
 love Madeleine de Chauvigny. 
 
 Our fathers' estates joined, and were sepa- 
 rated only by a brawling stream, which was 
 our favourite resort. I know now that we 
 saw so much of one another because the 
 garde-chasse to whom I was entrusted was in 
 love with the little girl's nurse, and the brook 
 was their trysting-place. It was for this reason 
 that my Isidore showed me how to set otter- 
 traps on its banks, and built the rustic bridge 
 which was crossed so often by our childish 
 feet, and that Madeleine's Opportune was al- 
 ways seeking for berries or herbs on our side of 
 the stream, while their charges speared frogs 
 and built dams or climbed the trees for birds' 
 nests. 
 
 Later we rode to hounds in company, for 
 Madeleine was something of a tomboy and a 
 good comrade. We quarrelled at times, as 
 over the question as to which of us it was who 
 killed the boar. And this incident I may as 
 well relate, as it is a typical one. I was 
 fourteen then, she twelve. It was the sum- 
 mer before we were both sent away to school 
 and the beginning of our troubles. 
 
 We were hunting with Isidore, the hounds
 
 284 French Abbeys 
 
 in full cry, following, as we supposed, a deer; 
 but the ground was hard, the track faint, and 
 when we came up with the dogs we found a 
 boar at bay. 
 
 I flung my reins to Madeleine, sprang to my 
 feet, and took aim at short range; but she, 
 carried away by the excitement of the mo- 
 ment, lifted her gun to shoulder and fired 
 without dismounting. It was a reckless thing 
 to do, for I might have been killed. I heard 
 her bullet sing past my ear and bury itself in 
 the trunk of a tree at the very instant that 
 my own pierced the brain of the boar. 
 
 Isidore arrived a moment later and gave 
 the creature its coup de grace with his hunting- 
 knife, but it had already received a death- 
 wound. 
 
 ' ' I killed it, ' ' Madeleine boasted. ' ' I saved 
 Rene's life." 
 
 "Indeed, you very nearly took my life," I 
 retorted angrily; "and I will thank you not 
 to do so again." 
 
 We wrangled all the way home, Madeleine 
 insisting that it was my shot which had gone 
 wild, and finally bursting into tears, and de- 
 claring that even if it were not so, if I cared 
 for her at all I would have given her the credit 
 of the exploit.
 
 A Fugitive Abbot 285 
 
 That put a new face upon the matter, and 
 I yielded at once, letting her tell the story 
 in her own way, and allowing myself to be 
 ridiculed for my poor marksmanship ; the ex- 
 asperating effect of this magnanimity being 
 that she grew to believe her own version, and 
 I got no credit, even in her own eyes, for my 
 generosity. 
 
 It was our last quarrel for many a long day, 
 for that summer my mother died, and my 
 home-life ended. The monks of Saint Wan- 
 drille at this time conducted a pensionnat for 
 ten boys destined to be choristers, and my 
 father taking counsel of his friend, Francois 
 de Harlay, Archbishop of Rouen, I was sent 
 to their school. 
 
 Music was my passion. There was a good 
 organ in the chapel, and the choirmasters of 
 the Abbey had been musicians from the time 
 of Gervold. I spent three years at Saint 
 Wandrille in uneventful but congenial study, 
 when I was summoned to the chateau by the 
 death of my father. My future was now to be 
 decided upon with my guardian, but before it 
 came to that I felt that I must see Madeleine 
 de Chauvigny; and she was at home now, 
 having returned from the Ursuline convent 
 where she had received her education.
 
 286 French Abbeys 
 
 I met her leaning on the rail of the rustic 
 bridge as I took the path through the park to 
 her father's chateau, and I was at her side at 
 once, striving to pour forth my declaration. 
 
 Striving, I say, for I had but blundered into 
 it when she stopped me. "I never was like 
 other girls, Rene*," she said kindly; "I am 
 less so now. I would not make a good 
 wife." 
 
 " No matter," I cried, ' ' but you are a capital 
 good fellow, Madeleine. Only say you do not 
 detest me, and we will be two boon com- 
 panions, as in the old days." 
 
 "Nay, but listen, Rene". The reason lies 
 deeper than you think. It is not you but 
 marriage itself that I detest; and if you care 
 for me as much as you say, you can help me 
 now. You asked me a moment ago to inter- 
 cede with my father for you. You need no 
 intercession. He told me this morning that 
 he would offer my hand to you through your 
 guardian before you leave the chateau. Only 
 tell him that you refuse the honour, and I 
 shall believe that there is such a thing as 
 disinterested friendship." 
 
 ' ' Refuse you, Madeleine ! " I cried ; ' ' never ! ' ' 
 
 "Very well, then, I shall have to defy you 
 both, and if you knew how difficult my father
 
 A Fugitive Abbot 287 
 
 is, Rene", 1 think you would be willing to make 
 things easier for me." 
 
 "But what will you do with your life?" I 
 asked. 
 
 "When I can bend circumstances to my 
 will, I shall go back to the Ursulines, and be- 
 come a nun." 
 
 "You a nun, Madeleine! You could not 
 endure that slavery." 
 
 "I have lived with them three years. I 
 should know by this time what it is. Be as- 
 sured that I would not take this step unless I 
 saw in it the way to a career. I cannot tell 
 you all, Rene", but I have not surrendered my 
 ambition. I have my idea!" 
 
 I did not wholly understand her schemes. 
 I thought she was dreaming of becoming 
 Abbess of the convent. What I did under- 
 stand was that I was as nothing in her plans. 
 Nothing, unless I could help to their realisa- 
 tion, and for that she would walk unscrupu- 
 lously on my heart. 
 
 "Have your own way," I replied bitterly, 
 when this had dawned upon me, "for if these 
 are your true feelings, nothing would induce 
 me to marry you." 
 
 It was in this surly mood that I debated 
 my vocation with my guardian.
 
 288 French Abbeys 
 
 "Had your father been spared," he said, 
 "he would have secured for you an appoint- 
 ment in the army. Alas ! I have no influence 
 in that direction; but Monsieur de Chauvigny 
 offers with his daughter wealth which will 
 unlock any career. Your refusal of his propo- 
 sition is unalterable?" 
 
 "Absolutely so." 
 
 "Then I must say, my dear Rene", that I do 
 not see what you propose to do." 
 
 "I have some means, I suppose?" 
 
 "Ample, ample, for the aimless life of a 
 country gentleman ; but is that your choice ? " 
 
 "Not at all. I shall go back to Saint Wan- 
 drille. Thank heaven, I have learned to love 
 it. I will become a monk." 
 
 "God forbid!" exclaimed the Archbishop; 
 and this ejaculation coming from such a 
 source greatly surprised me. 
 
 "My dear boy," he explained, "you shall 
 not with my consent take upon yourself 
 sacred vows from mere pique. Go back to 
 Saint Wandrille, if you choose ; interest your- 
 self in its restoration, as its patron, if it 
 pleases you so to do, but remain free until 
 your majority, that you may not in after 
 years reproach yourself and me for the deci- 
 sion of this hour."
 
 A Fugitive Abbot 289 
 
 So I returned to my dear Abbey at a most 
 interesting period in its history. Beautiful it 
 had always been from the time that Wan- 
 drille, friend and courtier of Dagobert, first 
 founded it. But it had suffered cruelly in the 
 Huguenot wars, when Gabriel de Montgomery 
 mutilated its noble buildings. The pathos of 
 its broken arches was most appealing. The 
 monks laboured with trowel and chisel, hod 
 and barrow to repair the ravages. I thought of 
 my old love no longer with rancour, but with 
 gentle melancholy, and in my twenty -first year 
 I assured the good Archbishop that I had def- 
 initely made up my mind to devote myself to 
 the religious life and my fortune to the Abbey. 
 
 He consented on condition that I would go 
 with him to Versailles and lead for a season 
 the life of a man of the world, that I might 
 know what I was relinquishing. Francois de 
 Harlay has been called a worldly prelate, but 
 he used the world as an instrument for the 
 Church. He knew that preferment came 
 through the influence of women, and he had 
 even then the design of asking for me from the 
 King the promise of appointment as Abbe" 
 Commendataire of Saint Wandrille, when the 
 then aged incumbent should be gathered to 
 
 his fathers. 
 19
 
 290 French Abbeys 
 
 I was accordingly introduced to the most 
 prominent Court Ladies, my talent for music 
 being the opening wedge. I led the choristers 
 at the royal chapel, played in several of the 
 great churches of Paris, and, finally, highest 
 honour and privilege ! was invited by a reign- 
 ing beauty to accompany at her salon an opera 
 singer then the rage. The lady's name was 
 Madame de la Peltrie . I had heard her spoken 
 of as one of the most popular of the women 
 of the Court, but I knew not to what I owed 
 my invitation until I recognised in my hostess 
 none other than Madeleine de Chauvigny. 
 
 To find her leading a mundane, frivolous 
 life, and married to a man in every way my 
 inferior, when I had fancied her a professed 
 nun, and was about myself to take vows be- 
 cause of her influence and example, was indeed 
 a violent shock. I was rude to her, I know, 
 disregarding her extended hand, and passing 
 at once to the harpsichord, where I punished 
 the unoffending instrument for my displeas- 
 ure. I played vilely and offended the vocalist 
 by my inattention and discourtesy, and I could 
 think of no taunt cruel enough to launch 
 against the woman I had loved. 
 
 "So this is the way in which you forsake 
 the world and mortify the flesh," I said to her
 
 A Fugitive Abbot 291 
 
 in a low voice when she approached me with 
 eager appeal crying to me from every feature 
 of her expressive face. 
 
 She winced, for the blow had struck home,, 
 but there were wondering eyes fixed upon us, 
 and she replied, quite as though I had asked 
 a question in regard to the songs which I was. 
 turning over: 
 
 "Yes, it is exceptional, this old chanson 
 which I have chosen as my part in our little 
 performance; but it should present no diffi- 
 culties for you, Monsieur. I was sure you 
 would understand it." 
 
 And then she sang, in a thin voice, with no< 
 power or range, but with infinite pathos,, 
 " L' habit le moine ne fait pas." 
 
 To my ear it was a confession that her life 
 was one long penance. If she suffered, I told, 
 myself, she deserved to do so; but I thought 
 it mere pose and dissembling like the affecta- 
 tion of enthusiasm of the other ladies for the 
 Canadian missions. Their patroness, the 
 Duchesse d'Aiguillon, was present, and all 
 the talk was of the Society of Jesus* then so 
 much the vogue. 
 
 "Zeal for martyrdom, indeed!" I said: to 
 my guardian afterward; "they are a set of 
 hypocrites, who make fanatics of silly women.
 
 292 French Abbeys 
 
 How many of them would endure the least 
 pain for the sake of the souls of the Indians 
 for which they pretend such concern?" 
 
 "Softly, softly!" said the Archbishop; "the 
 Jesuits practise what they preach, and are 
 many of them heroes." 
 
 "The more fools they," I insisted. "Does 
 God call us to martyrdom now ? Can we not 
 serve Him while enjoying with thankfulness 
 the comforts which He gives us?" 
 
 ' ' As, for instance, the Abbacy of Saint Wan- 
 drille?" the Archbishop asked quizzically. 
 "I had hoped so, my dear Rene"; but I am 
 sorry to tell you that I have not succeeded in 
 gaining an audience with the King on that 
 head. I fear that there is another candi- 
 date with more powerful influence in the 
 field." 
 
 Not long after this experience we bade adieu 
 to Versailles, my guardian returning to Rouen, 
 and I to my chateau, as my estate demanded 
 my attention. I was reminded here at every 
 turn of Madeleine. Now it was Isidore, the 
 garde-chasse, who referred to the time when 
 she saved my life by shooting the boar. 
 
 Her point of view had become the accepted 
 tradition, though at the time Isidore had 
 had his doubts. He had married Opportune,
 
 A Fugitive Abbot 293 
 
 Madeleine's nurse, who annoyed me still more 
 by her reminiscences. 
 
 I had been at the chateau but a few months 
 when a most unexpected crisis occurred, and 
 Opportune rushed into the library, where I 
 was trying to read, exclaiming: "My poor 
 lamb ! My poor lamb ! He is dead ! he is dead ! ' ' 
 
 "Monsieur de Chauvigny?" I cried, feeling; 
 instinctively that this touched Madeleine. 
 
 "No, would to heaven that it were her 
 father. It is Monsieur de la Peltrie who has. 
 just died. My poor lamb ! I must go to her,. 
 Monsieur." 
 
 "Stop!" I commanded. "Tell me the 
 truth, Opportune. Is not this event a re- 
 lease for Madame? I have heard that there 
 was no love between them." 
 
 "A release to the cloister, Monsieur. She 
 was crazy to be a nun, but her father would 
 not permit it. Now she will be still more 
 possessed to leave the world, and he will not 
 be able to prevent her. Ah! what a loss! 
 What a shame! And she so young, so 
 beautiful ! Oh ! Monsieur, you loved her once. 
 Save her now." 
 
 "Woman," I cried, "is this the time to 
 think of such things? Go to her, and hold 
 your tongue."
 
 294 French Abbeys 
 
 She kissed my hand. "Bless you, Mon- 
 sieur, for that word. It is not the time now. 
 And I will hold my tongue, for you will save 
 her." 
 
 All that night I paced my room in a de- 
 lirium of hope; for my love for Madeleine, 
 which had never died, flamed up in my heart 
 with new intensity. "Surely," I told my- 
 self, "the hand of Providence is here. It 
 must be for this that I am not yet a monk, 
 that my guardian failed in securing the 
 benefice which he desired for me, that I saw 
 Madeleine at Versailles, and that she let me 
 see her regret. But does she regret?" I 
 asked. ' ' Is it possible that she loves me ? If 
 so, surely she will make some sign." 
 
 Scarcely had I reached this conclusion 
 sfter some weeks of alternate hope and de- 
 spair, when she sent to me bidding me ask her 
 of her father as my wife. Wonderful as this 
 statement must seem, it is not so strange, so 
 impossible, as the truth which lay behind it, 
 for it was no ordinary marriage to which I 
 was bidden. 
 
 The messenger was a Jesuit, called Pere 
 Ignace, whom I liked not at first sight, and 
 whom later I was bitterly to hate. First 
 pledging me to secrecy, he told me that
 
 A Fugitive Abbot 295 
 
 Madeleine appealed to me as the only friend 
 whom she could rely upon in a supreme mo- 
 ment. She had decided to go to Canada as 
 missionary to the little Indian girls; but her 
 father, who had previously thwarted her 
 vocation, was so unalterably opposed to this 
 desire, that he had threatened to disinherit 
 her, insisting that she should immediately 
 remarry as guarantee that she would not adopt 
 a religious life after his death. 
 
 Madame de la Peltrie desired to secure his 
 fortune for her enterprise, and begged to be 
 allowed time; but Monsieur de Chauvigny, 
 knowing himself to be the victim of an in- 
 curable disease, demanded an instant carry- 
 ing out of his commands. 
 
 In this emergency the Jesuit felt that a 
 pious subterfuge was allowable, and suggested 
 a sham marriage to quiet the father's fears. 
 The only embarrassment so far was to find 
 a disinterested gentleman who would oblige 
 them by going through with a mock ceremony, 
 and so conduct himself afterward that Mon- 
 sieur de Chauvigny would have no suspicions. 
 
 It was Madeleine's father who had unwit- 
 tingly suggested me. He had marked my 
 continued presence in the neighbourhood, 
 and had recalled my former refusal of his
 
 296 French Abbeys 
 
 daughter's hand. ' ' I believe on my soul that 
 you were at the bottom of that," he had 
 said to Madeleine, "and that the lad loves 
 you still. I would die content if I could 
 see you his wife." 
 
 "Madame de la Peltrie has confided to me," 
 the Jesuit added, "how entirely Monsieur de 
 Chauvigny is mistaken in the nature of your 
 regard for her; and this, with information 
 which I have obtained from the Prior of Saint 
 Wandrille that it is your intention to enter the 
 cloister convinces me that you are the man 
 destined for this peculiar service." 
 
 I broke out here with an indignant refusal 
 to have anything to do with such crooked 
 proceedings. The wily Jesuit allowed me to 
 exhaust myself, and then returned to the 
 charge with smiling persistence. 
 
 "If I understand the drift of Monsieur's 
 objections to the course of conduct which I 
 suggest," he replied suavely, "they are en- 
 tirely based on a misconception which does 
 honour to the sensitiveness of his conscience. 
 When unusual situations face us, is it not our 
 duty to refer the decision to our spiritual 
 guides?" 
 
 I calmed at that, and replied that I was 
 willing to submit the question to his Grace
 
 A Fugitive Abbot 297 
 
 Francois de Harlay, Archbishop of Rouen, 
 and the Jesuit accepted him as arbiter. 
 
 What was my surprise a fortnight later 
 when my guardian, instead of writing me that 
 he had given the Jesuit his quietus, himself 
 knocked at my door, having come for the 
 especial purpose of forwarding the scheme. 
 I did not know until afterward that the argu- 
 ment which had convinced my kind friend 
 was the promise that if I served the Jesuits in 
 this matter their influence would secure for 
 me the Abbacy of Saint Wandrille. 
 
 I do not now remember the arguments 
 with which the Archbishop convinced me, or 
 whether I was convinced at all, that what I 
 was to do was honourable. I only remember 
 that he gave me a little book, The Imitation- 
 of Christ, with this passage marked to medi- 
 tate upon: 
 
 "In commanding it is possible to err, in 
 obeying never." And this dictum, though it 
 seemed to me a paradox, I could not set 
 myself up to gainsay, so obeyed it. 
 
 And here I must confess that I might not 
 have been so yielding but for Madeleine her- 
 self. While I was still recalcitrant, she 
 granted me an interview by appointment at 
 our old playground. The rustic bridge had
 
 298 French Abbeys 
 
 fallen in ruin. "It is a bad omen," she said 
 as we faced each other on opposite banks. 
 "You cannot cross to me nor I to you." 
 
 "Nay," I replied, "there is no barrier which 
 can keep me from you if you will that I cross 
 it," and retiring a little and taking a running 
 leap I fell at her feet, and clasping her about 
 the knees covered her hands with kisses. 
 
 "Can you not see, do you not understand," 
 I cried, "that the reason I cannot meet your 
 wishes in this matter is that I love you too 
 much to endure it. I could not bear to be 
 near you, and to feign blessedness which I 
 can never hope for." 
 
 She smiled mysteriously. "And who pre- 
 vents your hoping?" she asked. 
 
 I caught her in my arms again. "Do you 
 mean it? No; you are coquetting with me. 
 It was the Jesuits' bidding, that all means 
 are justifiable to gain your end." 
 
 "Listen, Rene", for I am telling you the 
 truth. How can we know the result of any 
 step? We can only do what our spiritual 
 guides tell us is our duty. If the end is dif- 
 ferent from what they and we proposed, 
 surely it is God who makes it so, and it must 
 be right." 
 
 "Then if I make you love me, you will re-
 
 A Fugitive Abbot 299 
 
 pudiate this detestable subterfuge," I asked, 
 "and be in very truth my wife?" 
 
 "Surely," she promised, "if I love you 
 enough; for in that case I shall not be able 
 I shall not wish to do otherwise." 
 
 That one blessed chance in ten thousand 
 was enough, and after that I was as clay in 
 their hands. 
 
 So the settlements were signed and the 
 sham marriage took place, Monsieur de 
 Chauvigny making a new will and leaving his 
 daughter all his fortune. The registrar of 
 the contract was himself deceived, for when 
 we both as principals and our witnesses 
 signed our names apparently in the book of 
 records, it was upon a sheet of paper 
 cleverly interleaved by Pere Ignace, which 
 being removed left no trace either of the 
 transaction or of any mutilation of the pages. 
 Also above our signatures he afterwards 
 wrote out the vow of chastity, which, being 
 repeated to us in Latin instead of the marriage 
 office, we solemnly took upon ourselves, 
 what time Monsieur de Chauvigny fondly im- 
 agined that we were being united in holy 
 matrimony. 
 
 After the ceremony, which left us white as 
 the dead, there was much embracing by my
 
 300 French Abbeys 
 
 deluded father-in-law, congratulations by the 
 wedding guests, and a banquet which choked 
 me, and, without a wedding journey, I took 
 Madame to my chateau, which was henceforth 
 to be her home. 
 
 The world knows by our depositions and 
 those of our servants what manner of life we 
 led. 
 
 Our apartments at the chateau were con- 
 nected, or rather divided, by a small boudoir, 
 which was converted into the sleeping-room 
 of my serving-man. That he ever really 
 slept at his post I do not believe. He was at 
 that time a Jesuit in novitiate, and a faithful 
 sentinel, and he well knows that my foot 
 never passed the threshold of my lady's 
 chamber. 
 
 Her maid kept constant guard also, and we 
 were never alone together. Save for this, our 
 life was like that of other husbands and wives- 
 of our rank. We went much into society and 
 entertained much, and none of our guests sus- 
 pected our double lives. I strove to reach 
 her heart through music, but it never seemed 
 to convey to her the message which I intended. 
 I read to her from the poets while her hands 
 were busy with some light fancy-work, but, 
 though I watched her furtively, I caught no*
 
 A Fugitive Abbot 301 
 
 personal application of the eloquent passages 
 which I selected. 
 
 We talked often of the interests which we 
 had in common and of those which divided 
 us the missions, which always angered me, 
 and my plans for restoring the Abbey, which 
 she treated with frank indifference. We 
 never touched on either of these subjects 
 without quarrelling, quite after the manner of 
 married people as I have observed them. 
 
 Pere Ignace smiled when he listened to our 
 controversies; for, acute as he was in most 
 things, he did not know that the more vio- 
 lently we disputed the more we regretted 
 afterward our hasty words and extravagant 
 expressions. If we could only have fallen out 
 more seriously there might have been com- 
 plete understanding long before it came, and 
 we were very near it once. 
 
 I was reproaching her for her lack of ap- 
 preciation of architecture. " If you had ever 
 seen Saint Wandrille," I said, "you could not 
 help loving the old Abbey as I do. Every 
 stone of it is precious to me." 
 
 "I should never care for it," she replied; 
 "and the reason is that we are essentially 
 different. You are interested in things, I in 
 people. You in art and its masterpieces, I in
 
 302 French Abbeys 
 
 history and the deeds that make history. 
 You would be content to spend your life like 
 so many other unknown Abbots and archi- 
 tects in making this Abbey a thing of beauty 
 and then pass away, ignored and unremem- 
 bered. Is it not so, Rene"?" 
 
 "Gladly," I replied, "so the Abbey were 
 admired and loved." 
 
 "Well, so would not I. I care not for love, 
 but admiration I must and will have while I 
 am living to enjoy it, and fame after I am 
 gone. I want to do something splendid, some- 
 thing worth the living, and I am willing to dare 
 and to suffer for it as Joan of Arc did if I can 
 have her reward. I will make the world ad- 
 mire me some day. What is more, I will 
 make you admire me, Rene". You smile and 
 think me romantic, silly ; but there will come 
 a day when you will say without smiling: 
 'She was a heroine." 
 
 "I think," I replied, "that heroism is un- 
 conscious. I do not believe that Joan of Arc 
 did what she did for the sake of being ad- 
 mired, but for the sake of France, simply be- 
 cause God called her and she could not do 
 otherwise." 
 
 She flushed. "Is love of admiration, then, 
 so despicable a motive, when it prompts to
 
 A Fugitive Abbot 303 
 
 noble deeds? What is your love for your 
 Abbey but placing higher value on stocks and 
 stones than on human lives and souls ? You 
 would have played the part of the Abbot 
 of Jumieges, Nicolas le Roux. You know 
 that to save his Abbey from destruction by 
 the English, he became one of the judges who 
 at Rouen sent Joan of Arc to the stake. 
 It was a question whether his precious 
 Abbey must burn or only a girl only the Sav- 
 iour of France. So, if the alternative arose, 
 you would let me burn, instead of Saint 
 Wandrille." 
 
 I remembered those passionate words after- 
 ward. I remember them now, and that is 
 why I am where I am. 
 
 I was on the point of telling her how much 
 more than the Abbey I loved her, how will- 
 ingly I would see it fall into complete ruin if 
 she would but abandon her wild dreams for 
 my sake. The pendulum had swung far 
 enough to the wrangling side for this reaction 
 indeed, her last words seemed to challenge 
 it ; when the Jesuit who had been pacing in 
 the shrubbery and had overheard all, pre- 
 sented himself blandly. 
 
 ''What, quarrelling again?" he said, 
 smoothly; "this will never do, and on such
 
 304 French Abbeys 
 
 entirely reconcilable lines. The aims to 
 which you have individually so solemnly de- 
 voted yourselves are incontestably best for 
 each. As Madame could only be happy in 
 the career of heroic achievement which she 
 lias chosen, so Monsieur's temperament fits 
 liim for a life of solitude and study. Do not 
 quarrel, my children, because your natures 
 are incompatible. Be thankful that you are 
 not fettered for life in a relation which would 
 have meant not alone the relinquishment of 
 your highest ambitions, but the intolerable 
 friction of discordant tastes and unreconcil- 
 able opinions." 
 
 I was silent, devouring Madeleine's face for 
 some sign of revolt from this dictum, but there 
 was none visible. Except for that outburst 
 of anger, she held herself in admirable self- 
 control ; but for me the situation became more 
 and more impossible, and who with the spirit 
 of a man could have borne such an ordeal? 
 
 The inevitable thunderbolt which was to 
 clear the atmosphere came with the death of 
 Monsieur de Chauvigny, a sudden death 
 though possible at any time, as we had long 
 Imown. It was after the interment that Pere 
 Ignace voiced the thought which was upper- 
 most in my mind.
 
 A Fugitive Abbot 305 
 
 "And now that all need of concealment is 
 removed, the truth as to your relations must 
 be announced to the world." 
 
 "Yes," I replied, eagerly; "no more deceit, 
 the truth, the real truth." 
 
 "Not yet," Madeleine pleaded. "Let the 
 will be read first, and the property secured to 
 me. It is my desire that the revelation shall 
 be made at Tours, at the Ursuline convent 
 where I was educated, in the presence of the 
 dear Mother Superior and of all the nuns 
 whom I loved. They shall elect from their 
 number the Abbess of the convent which I 
 will found in Canada. Invite the Duchesse 
 d'Aiguillon, the Archbishop of Rouen, and 
 whom you will to be present. Let it be 
 a very formal as well as sacred ceremonial, 
 but do not mar it by any premature an- 
 nouncement." 
 
 Madeleine's legal business was at last com- 
 pleted, and her property so arranged that a 
 signature or two could turn it over to the 
 purpose which she contemplated. There was 
 no longer any excuse for delay, and we set 
 out for Tours in a travelling carriage, accom- 
 panied by Pere Ignace. 
 
 For four days we rode together, the longest 
 and the shortest of my life. The shortest, for
 
 306 French Abbeys 
 
 creep as we might each evening brought us in- 
 exorably nearer the end. The longest, be- 
 cause I lived much in that time, seeing all 
 my past and all my future with the clearness 
 which comes to men upon their deathbeds. 
 I said nothing, for Pere Ignace was always 
 seated opposite, apparently absorbed in his 
 breviary, though I know that he read my feel- 
 ings in my tell-tale face, for more than once 
 he laid his book open upon his knee, and we 
 could see unfolded within its leaves a written 
 paper bearing our signatures, the vow of chas- 
 tity which we had signed in the Hotel de Ville, 
 when the wedding guests imagined that we 
 were recording our names in the register of 
 marriages. 
 
 Madeleine did not recognise this paper until 
 the last afternoon of our journey. We had 
 reached Saint Symphorien, the northern fau- 
 bourg of Tours, and the last stage of our jour- 
 ney. As we alighted at an inn for supper, 
 Madeleine remarked on the beauty of the view, 
 and proposed that we should walk a little way 
 upon the stone bridge which spans the Loire, 
 while Pere Ignace ordered supper. 
 
 He could not refuse, but he opened his 
 breviary and pointed to the pledge. She met 
 his significant look with dignity. "I have
 
 A Fugitive Abbot 307 
 
 not forgotten, my Father, but as this is the 
 last opportunity which I shall have for a fare- 
 well conversation with Monsieur de Bernieres, 
 I trust that you will permit it." 
 
 He looked at us suspiciously, and, only half 
 satisfied, entered the inn, muttering that he 
 would join us presently. 
 
 "Quick, quick, ReneT' she whispered, and 
 we hurried out upon the bridge. 
 
 "That was the compact which binds us to 
 our vows," she said to me in a choking voice. 
 
 "Is it possible that you regret it?" I 
 exclaimed. 
 
 "Can you doubt it?" she replied faintly. 
 
 "Then it is not too late," I declared. "I 
 can wrench it from his hands and we shall be 
 free. You can endow the mission with your 
 fortune. That will appear a sufficient reason 
 for this journey and the invitations you have 
 sent your friends to be present, but you need 
 not go. I will give up Saint Wandrille, every- 
 thing for you, my love, my love !" 
 
 She was faint with emotion, and leaned 
 giddily on the parapet of the bridge. There 
 was no one near, and my arms were about her. 
 Passionately I begged her to reconsider her 
 resolution. 
 
 "If the paper were destroyed, Pere Ignace
 
 308 French Abbeys 
 
 would still witness against us," she an- 
 swered. 
 
 " I can silence him," I replied. " It is only 
 money which he wishes. He shall have all of 
 yours and as much of mine as he demands." 
 
 "But the other witnesses? We cannot be 
 free so long as they live." 
 
 "There were no other witnesses save the 
 Archbishop," I protested, "and I can win 
 .him. The others who saw us write our names 
 knew not what we signed. Pere Ignace is the 
 only other human being who knows of the 
 existence of our vow." 
 
 "But we know, Rene*, and God was witness. 
 You cannot so sin against your conscience." 
 
 "Yes," I replied, "I can. I will give my 
 rsalvation for your love." 
 
 "You cannot have it on those terms," Pere 
 Ignace sternly asserted. He had followed un- 
 perceived, and had heard my last excited 
 utterances. 
 
 "You cannot bribe me, for I watch over her 
 soul as one who must give an account." 
 
 "Then render that account now," I cried, 
 and throwing myself upon him suddenly with 
 all my force I hurled him over the parapet 
 and into the river. 
 
 "Murderer!" cried Madeleine, and in that
 
 A Fugitive Abbot 309 
 
 word I heard the death sentence of all my 
 hopes. 
 
 "I can swim," I panted. "Shall I save 
 him ? Think well what it means. ' ' 
 
 "Save him! Save him!" she entreated; 
 and I leaped the parapet and was battling the 
 river for dear life nay, but for two hateful 
 lives, that of my enemy and my own, which 
 was no longer dear to me. It was a harder 
 matter than I thought, for he mistook my 
 kind intentions and struggled in my grasp; 
 but at last I brought him unconscious to the 
 shore. Madeleine's cries for help had brought 
 a knot of bargemen who assisted us to the inn, 
 where Pere Ignace presently revived. 
 
 "And do you tell me that this man saved 
 my life?" he asked of the witnesses. 
 
 "Most gallantly," they all assured him.. 
 "At the risk of his own," the innkeeper added,, 
 "for I was on the bridge, having come to call! 
 you to supper, and saw him leap after you 
 into the water." 
 
 Pere Ignace was silent for a space, but 
 when we were alone together he said : ' ' Even 
 this bribe I will not accept, for I count my life 
 as nothing as weighed against my duty." 
 
 "And my happiness is nothing," I replied, 
 "in comparison with hers. I relinquish alL'*
 
 French Abbeys 
 
 "Then, my son, I absolve you,*' he said, 
 kindly, "for you have expiated your fault. 
 There are none who are not tempted. You 
 have my respect and my silence." 
 
 I need not relate, for it is everywhere 
 known, how the next day in the chapel of the 
 Ursulines Madeleine and I publicly repu- 
 diated and relinquished each other, and how 
 a few weeks later the little band of devoted 
 women sailed from Brest, followed by the 
 prayers and tears of a vast multitude. 
 
 Madeleine was heroic to the last; but my 
 guardian led me away half demented from 
 that embarkation, for my heart was broken. 
 
 I retired to Saint Wandrille, taking the 
 vows of a simple monk, and devoted all that 
 I possessed to its restoration. The dear Arch- 
 bishop visited me frequently, for he loved 
 to retreat to this exquisite spot from his 
 many cares. He was aging sensibly, growing 
 heavy in mind and body, but more benignant 
 than ever. Our Abbe Commendataire never 
 came near Saint Wandrille, but he filled it 
 with costly objects of ecclesiastical art until 
 it resembled a palace rather than a religious 
 house. 
 
 So five years passed, and one memorable
 
 CLOISTER OF SAINT WANDRILLE. 
 By permission of Neurdein Freres. 
 
 CLOISTER, L'ABBAYE DE LA ViGNE.
 
 A Fugitive Abbot 3 11 
 
 day my guardian arrived with the news that 
 our absentee Abbot was dead. He delivered 
 the tidings with no note of regret, but with a 
 sweeping gesture which took in the sump- 
 tuously appointed library added: "It is a 
 well-lined nest which his successor will enjoy, 
 is it not, my Rene"?" 
 
 "And to think," I replied, "that our late 
 Abbot never saw the luxuries which he has 
 provided for a man in whom he had no 
 interest." 
 
 "Eh! What? The late Abbot provided 
 all this? You are greatly mistaken, Rene". 
 It was I who donated these treasures of art to 
 Saint Wandrille, and they are to be enjoyed 
 by a man in whom I have a very great in- 
 terest. None other than Rene" de Bernieres, 
 the new Abbot of Saint Wandrille. Nay, do 
 not look so incredulous. Here is Brother 
 Xavier of the Society of Jesus, who comes 
 directly from his Majesty with your appoint- 
 ment. Pere Ignace has not been unmindful 
 of what he and the Society at large owe you. 
 The Jesuits have laboured diligently in antici- 
 pation of the long-expected death of the late 
 Abbot. Indeed, your credentials were signed 
 two years since, and it only remained to affix 
 the date to-day."
 
 312 French Abbeys 
 
 I expressed my sense of obligation, but 
 while I entertained my guests in the almost 
 regal palais abbatial, I reflected bitterly that 
 all this had come to me as the price for the 
 part which I had played the rescue of Pre 
 Ignace and my supposed voluntary relinquish- 
 ment of Madeleine. 
 
 As fate would have it, another guest 
 knocked at the Abbey gate that night, Father 
 Jogues, a Jesuit missionary returned from 
 America, having escaped after incredible tor- 
 tures from the hands of the Iroquois. Taken 
 captive by the heathen, he had witnessed the 
 martyrdom of his associate, and had admin- 
 istered the rites of religion to other captives 
 as they were being burned to death. He had 
 been starved, frozen, given over to the Indian 
 children true imps of Satan to be tortured, 
 and had retaliated by baptising them, thus 
 snatching their souls from the clutches of the 
 devil. One of his thumbs had been burned 
 off in a red-hot calumet, and his hands bored 
 with hot irons, until they seemed to bear the 
 sacred stigmata. His savage masters had 
 taken him to Albany on one of their trading 
 expeditions, and the Dutch, taking pity upon 
 him, had concealed and sent him to New 
 York, whence he had been given passage
 
 MJ If*
 
 3 12 French Abbeys 
 
 I expressed my sense of obligation, but 
 while I entertained my guests in the almost 
 regal palais abbatial, I reflected bitterly that 
 all this had come to me as the price for the 
 part which I had played tl > rescue of P6re 
 Ignace and my supposed vol- relinquish- 
 
 ment of Madeleine. 
 
 As fate would have it, another guest 
 knocked at the Abbey gate that night, Father 
 Jogues, a Jesuit missionary returned from 
 America, having escaped after incredible tor- 
 tures from the hands of the Iroquois. Taken 
 
 captive byrthe ^athen, heJiacL witnessed the 
 
 J Xne. TTeturn uf theMLssionarv- . 
 martyrdom of his associate. anqT nad anmin- 
 
 From the painting by Vibert. 
 
 istered the rites of religion to other captives 
 as they were being burned to death. He had 
 been starved, frozen, given over to the Indian 
 children true imps of Satan to be tortured, 
 and had retaliated by baptising them, thus 
 snatching their souls from the clutches of the 
 devil. One of his thumbs had been burned 
 off in a red-hot calumet, and his hands bored 
 with hot irons, until they seemed to bear the 
 sacred stigmata. His savage masters had 
 taken him to Albany on one of their trading 
 expeditions, and the Dutch, taking pity upon 
 him, had concealed and sent him to New 
 York, whence he had been given passage
 
 A Fugitive Abbot 313 
 
 to England, and had at last arrived in 
 France. 
 
 As I contrasted the living martyrdom of 
 this missionary with my own life of selfish 
 ease, I could but admit that if I believed what 
 I professed, then he had indeed chosen the 
 infinitely better part. But did I believe? 
 Did the Archbishop himself believe? I saw 
 him, entirely unmoved by Father Jogues's 
 recital, offering his lap-dog a lump of sugar 
 from his coffee, and I could scarce repress my 
 indignation. 
 
 Then suddenly overwhelming my sympathy 
 for the missionary and all other considera- 
 tions, like an inrushing tide came the realisa- 
 tion that Madeleine was exposed to all these 
 dangers, and might even now be a captive in 
 the hands of these devils. 
 
 I had thought of her as safe and com- 
 paratively comfortable in the fortress of 
 Quebec ; but, as I interrogated Father Jogues, 
 he told us that the new mission had been 
 established in the Huron village of Sil- 
 lery, quite beyond the protection of the 
 garrison. 
 
 He had seen her there, caring for the In- 
 dian children, who were dying with the 
 smallpox, and happier in these loathsome,
 
 314 French Abbeys 
 
 perilous surroundings than when she was the 
 admiration of all France. 
 
 More than this he told me, and it was the 
 spark which set fire to my resolve. 
 
 He had learned in the Iroquois country 
 that an incursion was to be made upon their 
 hereditary enemies, the Hurons, during the 
 coming season, and not the converted In- 
 -dians alone, but their devoted teachers and 
 missionaries were in the greatest danger. 
 
 He had written to Frontenac, but doubted, 
 even if the information were received, that the 
 heroic little band of Ursulines could be per- 
 suaded to abandon their mission. 
 
 Not a moment did I sleep that night. The 
 Iroquois would not go upon the war-path, 
 Father Jogues had explained, until mid- 
 summer. I would have time to reach Can- 
 ada if I left at once; and my resolution was 
 quickly taken. The manner of my going 
 .alone remained to be decided upon. Should 
 I, after resigning my new sinecure, endeavour 
 to be freed from all religious vows and join 
 the army, or be transferred into the Society 
 of Jesus ? Either alternative demanded time, 
 and submitted me to slavery. If I were to 
 save Madeleine at this juncture, I must go at 
 .once and secretly. I therefore delayed only
 
 A Fugitive Abbot 3 J 5 
 
 to speed my guests, not even taking my 
 guardian into my confidence, for I knew how 
 he would oppose the step. 
 
 I kept back suspicion and search for a time 
 by telling the Prior of the Abbey that I was 
 going to Paris and would be absent for several 
 weeks, engaged upon matters pertaining to 
 my new appointment, and so left Saint 
 Wandrille for ever. 
 
 Disguised as an emigrant, I took passage a 
 few days later in a ship which I was fortunate 
 ^enough to find about to sail for Canada. But 
 arrived at Quebec, my story of having met 
 Father Jogues was not believed by the Comte 
 de Frontenac. 
 
 The Iroquois had sent messengers of peace 
 to the last conference ; there seemed to be no 
 danger of an incursion, and no soldiers were 
 posted at the Sillery Mission. 
 
 Despairing, powerless to protect the woman 
 I loved, knowing that it would be worse than 
 useless to make myself known to her, I still 
 visited Sillery and talked with the converted 
 Indians. I found them devoted to their mis- 
 sionaries, for whom they had built a chapel 
 and some huts. I warned them of the hostile 
 intentions of the Iroquois, and was comforted 
 by their promise to be on their guard, and to
 
 3 1 6 French Abbeys 
 
 protect their benefactresses with their lives. 
 I spoke to Mother Marie de 1' Incarnation, and 
 I saw thee, Madeleine, bending over a sick 
 child, but I left the village, making no sign. I 
 could not, however, leave its neighbourhood, 
 and in reconnoitring the site, I saw that a 
 promontory to the west commanded a view 
 not alone of the village nestling at its foot, 
 but of the reaches of the river. A sentinel 
 posted here could descry the first approach of 
 the war-canoes of the Iroquois, and I resolved 
 to be that sentinel. Here, my Madeleine, I 
 abide in the guise of a hermit. Each morning 
 I behold the smoke curl upward from the rude 
 cabin which serves thee as a cloister; and 
 when I note thy slight figure leading the little 
 Indian girls to the chapel, I kneel before the 
 cross which I have carved in the bark of the 
 tree before the door of my cave and join thee in 
 thy devotions. My gun and my spy -glass stand 
 side by side. I have arranged a series of signals 
 with the Hurons : a pennant from the top of the 
 blasted pine by day, a lantern by night, to 
 tell of the approach of danger. And here I will 
 guard thee and thy work until death do us part. 
 
 The story of Rene* de Bernieres ended 
 abruptly here.
 
 A Fugitive Abbot 317 
 
 Upon the envelope in another hand was 
 this endorsement: 
 
 "This MS. was discovered buried in a 
 metal box in 'The Hermit's Cave' near Sil- 
 lery. The locality bore its name from the 
 fact that a human skeleton, supposed to be 
 that of an unknown man, whose presence 
 many years before had provoked much curi- 
 osity, had been found here. Its position, 
 with the knees drawn up, and the skull 
 crushed as though by an Indian war-club, 
 seemed to imply that the mysterious stranger 
 had been surprised while sleeping, and had 
 thus met his death at the hands of the 
 Iroquois." 
 
 Madame de la Peltrie removed with her 
 companions from Sillery before the incursion, 
 and lived to old age. Her romantic adven- 
 tures are still related with admiration by the 
 Ursulines of Canada.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 THE SIN OF ABBOT NICOLAS 
 
 **La vieillesse couronne et la mine acheve, 
 II faut a 1'^difice un passe" dont on r6ve 
 Deuil, triomphe ou remords. 
 
 "Muette en sa douleur Jumiege gravement 
 Etouffe tin triste echo sous son portail Normand, 
 
 Bien souvent le passd couvre plus d'un secret 
 Dont sur un mur vieilli la tache reparait. 
 Est ce qu'aucun noir forfait, sem dans ta racine. 
 Pour jeter quelque jour son ombre a ta mine, 
 Ne mele a tes lauriers son feuillage hideux?" 
 
 VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 OTATELY and masterful the twin towers 
 ^ of the Abbey of Jumieges still dominate 
 in lordly dignity the beautiful ruins of the 
 once powerful monastery, and the long, level 
 reaches of the Abbey seignory, bounded by 
 
 318
 
 <
 
 The Sin of Abbot Nicolas 319 
 
 the great loop of the Seine. Rouen lies just 
 to the east, hidden by a purple haze, but as 
 far as the eye can discern all is solitude and 
 peace; the tiny hamlet at the Abbey gate 
 has fallen asleep and the ringing of the 
 reapers' scythes in the meadows is the only 
 sound that strikes the ear. But the roofless 
 ruin is lovingly guarded, the strong Norman 
 towers will resist the tooth of time for many 
 a century, and Jumieges may, perhaps, be 
 the last of the Abbeys to crumble, as she was 
 among the first to rise. For the annals of the 
 Abbey antedate the authentic history of 
 France. Its best-known tradition is that of 
 the coming of the enervfc, the two rebellious 
 sons of Colodowig II. and Queen Bathilde, who, 
 with the muscles of their legs and arm severed, 
 were laid in an open boat and set adrift upon 
 the Seine, to be carried to their death. 
 
 The current brought them, instead, to Ju- 
 mieges, where the monks received and kindly 
 cared for them in their helplessness. Their 
 tombs are still preserved in the little museum 
 of the Abbey, the mutilated effigies of the 
 Merovingian princes, with their long hair 
 bound by narrow crowns, and their belted 
 robes and mantles witnessing to the origin 
 of the legend.
 
 320 French Abbeys 
 
 But another tomb stirs a livelier interest 
 than can be evoked by these almost mythical 
 personages. It is that of the gentle and 
 beautiful Agnes, Lady of the Manor of Mesnil- 
 sous-Jumieges. Of her unpretending home, 
 to which she returned to die, there remains 
 little to reward the sight-seer. Perhaps in 
 her own time it was as unostentatious, cur- 
 tained from view by purple -tasselled wistaria, 
 a hidden retreat from the burden of mag- 
 nificent notoriety. The same sweet scents 
 of blossoming lilacs must have environed it, 
 for 
 
 "L'air du pays et demeurance heureuse 
 A ne sais je quoi de douceur amoureuse, 
 Qui laisse au cceur un joyeux souvenir, 
 Et Vappetit d'y vouloir revenir" 
 
 Not such the scents which linger in memory 
 as we think of the Abbey of Jumieges. Its 
 beauty of clinging vine and sculptured stone 
 was marred for us that sultry day by an in- 
 definable suffocating odor, vaguely disagree- 
 able, pervasive yet inexplicable. 
 
 "It is the smoke from brush-heaps which 
 the peasants are burning in the fields," said 
 the gate-keeper. 
 
 " It is our dinner burning uncared-for in the
 
 The Sin of Abbot Nicolas 321 
 
 kitchen," we said to the innkeeper, as we 
 took our seats in the worst hostelry in all 
 Normandy. The Inn of the Enervated Ones, 
 F. persisted in translating the inscription 
 upon its sign-board, declaring that no guest, 
 unless disabled as completely as the two 
 Merovingian princes, could have refrained 
 from fleeing at the first whiff of the fetid fumes 
 which now assailed our nostrils. 
 
 "You perceive it, then, a faint but noisome 
 scent of scorching flesh?" remarked a man in 
 black, who, like us, was awaiting service in 
 the dining-room of the inn. "Have no 
 solicitude, it is not your dinner which is being 
 consumed. Do you not detect also the acrid 
 smoke of pitch and the nauseating fumes of 
 sulphur?" 
 
 "I cannot analyse its composition," I re- 
 plied, "but it is the most un-Christian odour 
 which I have ever encountered, and my 
 experience in Italy and France has been 
 comprehensive . ' ' 
 
 The stranger bowed. " ' Un-Christian,' Ma- 
 dame, is its precise designation, for it has 
 to do with a crime the burnt-offering of the 
 Abbot of Jumieges. He bears the weight of 
 opprobrium, though the sin was shared by all 
 the Norman Abbots of his time, for they saved
 
 322 French Abbeys 
 
 their Abbeys from destruction by complicity 
 in the same shameful sacrifice." 
 
 Perceiving a story in perspective, we 
 feigned entire ignorance, and the stranger 
 launched eagerly forth, giving, with more of 
 detail than memory serves to reproduce, the 
 substance of the following tale : 
 
 Nicolas le Roux, in the early half of the fif- 
 teenth century, fifty-ninth Abbot of Jumieges, 
 loved his Abbey more than his own soul, and 
 this he would have confessed, for he counted 
 it to himself as a virtue. It was such a 
 magnificent and venerable Abbey, of such 
 wealth and power and illustrious history that 
 he deeply realised the responsibility as well 
 as the honour of being its ruler and protector 
 in the troublous times which had now fallen 
 upon France. 
 
 The King himself had "droit de gite" (right 
 of entertainment) at Jumieges, and the royal 
 apartment boasted a lit de parade with velvet 
 curtains bordered with ermine, and the very 
 washstand had a velvet petticoat and a silver 
 ewer. 
 
 The Abbot well remembered his sovereign's 
 only visit to the Abbey, though he had re- 
 alised little good from that royal procession, 
 for the King was half -crazed and took no
 
 The Sin of Abbot Nicolas 323 
 
 note of his surroundings. But the Dauphin 
 Charles, who accompanied the party, though a 
 silent lad, inspired the Abbot with hope. 
 
 During a hunt in the forest, the prince's 
 pony had gone lame, and as this occurred not 
 far from the Manor of Mesnil recourse was had 
 to its stables for a substitute. A mettlesome 
 palfrey, the Lady Agnes's own, was offered,, 
 but seeing how the creature, frightened by the 
 unaccustomed confusion, bit and struggled 
 with the grooms, the timid prince concluded 
 that it was unbroken and dangerous, and 
 feared to mount. Seeing this, the Lady Agnes y 
 at that time a mere slip of a girl, sprang to 
 the side of her pet and quieting it with 
 caresses and sugar, curvetted twice around 
 the haras, Prince Charles regarding her all the: 
 time with mingled shame and admiration. 
 
 "You are surely not afraid to ride my 
 palfrey now?" she said, as she dismounted! 
 before him. 
 
 "Nay," he answered sullenly, "I am not 
 afraid to do anything which a maid can do." 
 But as he looked at her and saw that she was. 
 not holding him up to ridicule, his pique- 
 vanished, and he said more gallantly,. "I 
 mean, pretty damsel, that I can do anything; 
 if you will but show me the way."
 
 324 French Abbeys 
 
 The Prince stopped at the manor to bid 
 her farewell as the royal cortege returned to 
 Rouen. 
 
 "Sweet mistress," he said, "will you not 
 leave this wild forest and dwell at Court?" 
 
 But the fair Agnes shook her head: "The 
 Court is more dangerous for maids than our 
 forest for princes," she made answer modestly, 
 and the Dauphin watched her yearningly as 
 he rode away. 
 
 "I shall come again, my Lord Abbot," he 
 had said as he left Jumieges. "Keep my 
 guest-room ready," and he had sung the old 
 chanson about the sweetness of the air and 
 the longing to return with which it inspired 
 his heart, for no mephitic smoke at that time 
 tainted innocent Jumieges. 
 
 Nicolas le Roux built many a hope for 
 his Abbey on this favourable impression. 
 "When the Prince is king he will be our 
 powerful patron," he thought, and in his 
 mind's eye the Abbot saw new and palatial 
 buildings springing up around the antiquated 
 structure. 
 
 When the English overran the country he 
 fortified and defended the monastery until, 
 on the fall of Rouen, the terrible Duke of 
 Bedford appeared before Jumieges with a
 
 The Sin of Abbot Nicolas 325 
 
 division of the main army and summoned it 
 to surrender. 
 
 "I give myself for my Abbey," said le Roux,, 
 as he tendered his submission. 
 
 "A worthy peace-offering," replied the 
 duke smoothly, for he had his uses for the 
 Abbot of Jumieges. "You have but to ac- 
 knowledge, as all of your brother Abbots, 
 have done, the spiritual authority of His; 
 Grace the Cardinal Bishop of Winchester,, 
 and everything else shall remain as it has; 
 been." 
 
 "Have all the Abbots of Normandy, then,, 
 submitted?" asked Nicolas. 
 
 "Even to Abbot Jolivet of that strongest, 
 Abbey of all, the Mont Saint Michel." 
 
 It was true; the cowardly Jolivet was at. 
 Rouen, where he had gone to surrender the: 
 keys of his fortress monastery; but in his- 
 absence his warlike flock repudiated his mis- 
 sion and, resisting for eight years all at- 
 tacks, kept the Abbey virgin in its loyalty to 
 France. The monastery of Bee, which had 
 garrisoned its donjon-keep with French sol- 
 diers, also resisted, but had been put to flame 
 and sword and its Abbot carried a prisoner 
 to Rouen. The other Abbots had attempted 
 no opposition, but looked each other in the
 
 326 French Abbeys 
 
 face with no acute feeling of shame as they 
 swore allegiance, for as yet they knew not 
 the dirty work which would be demanded of 
 them. 
 
 There was a French ecclesiastic at Rouen, 
 however, whom with one accord his comrades 
 cordially despised. This was Pierre Cauchon, 
 Bishop of Beauvais. 
 
 He, while his city was still in the possession 
 of the French, had turned traitor, and to save 
 himself from the fury of his townspeople had 
 run away to England. Here he had wormed 
 .himself into the good graces of the Bishop of 
 Winchester, who had sent the self -exile to 
 Rouen, promising that he should one day 
 be its archbishop if he served England well. 
 
 It was not until the capture of Joan of Arc 
 "that Winchester drew upon the promissory 
 notes with which the Abbots had ransomed 
 their Abbeys. Her capture alive was the 
 best fortune which could have befallen the 
 English. To her were due all the French vic- 
 tories in the last campaign. It was she who 
 had effected the coronation of Charles VII. 
 at Rheims. The French believed in her 
 divine mission, and she must not die until 
 it was discredited. She must be proved an 
 impostor.
 
 326 
 
 French Abbeys 
 
 face with no acute feeling of shame as they 
 swore allegiance, for as yet they knew not 
 the dirty work which would be demanded of 
 them. 
 
 There was a French ecclesiastic at Rouen, 
 however, whom with one acv comrades 
 
 cordially despised. TH < mchon, 
 
 Bishop of Beauvai*. 
 
 He, while : 
 
 of the French, h& P, and 
 
 himseJh 
 
 run away to oMM* t 
 j oan oi 
 
 himself IT,' 
 Winchestt 
 Rouen 
 be 
 
 It was 
 that Wincher 
 
 their 
 
 t fortune 
 English. To 
 
 'es in the last 
 had effected I 
 at Rheims. The F 
 divine mission, and die 
 
 P, and to save 
 had 
 
 :e< * 
 of 
 
 J xile to 
 
 England well. 
 
 fnlWfi the 
 
 ch vic- 
 
 was she who 
 
 arles VII. 
 
 d in her 
 
 not die until 
 
 it was discredited. 
 impostor. 
 
 She must be proved an
 
 The Sin of Abbot Nicolas 327 
 
 She had been captured at Compiegne in the 
 diocese of Beauvais, and in the circumstance 
 Winchester saw his opportunity. Joan should 
 be tried by the traitor bishop, for Pierre 
 Cauchon was his creature, body and soul. 
 
 Cauchon placed her prosecution in the 
 hands of the Grand Inquisitor of France, and 
 made up his tribunal of judges from French 
 prelates known to be favourable to the Eng- 
 lish, and among these were the Abbots of 
 eleven Norman Abbeys who had given their 
 submission to the Bishop of Winchester. 
 
 When Nicolas le Roux understood at what 
 a price he had purchased the safety of 
 Jumieges he was aghast and would have fled. 
 
 "Be not daunted," said the monk Isam- 
 bard, who had brought him the summons; 
 "I am a Dominican, a servant of the Holy 
 Office, and as such must play my part in 
 this matter. Should not some honest men 
 be employed in it? It may be that God 
 has called us to see that justice is done." 
 
 This excuse Abbot Nicolas gave to Agnes 
 of Manoir Mesnil when he called upon her to 
 explain his proposed journey. The girl be- 
 lieved in his good faith. 
 
 "You will save her," she exclaimed, "even 
 as she has saved France! For indeed with
 
 328 French Abbeys 
 
 the great victories of Orleans and Patay, and 
 Charles crowned as king, its salvation is as- 
 sured. Ah! where is Charles now? He, who 
 boasted here that he could do anything which 
 a maid could do, why has he not followed the 
 example of this glorious maid?" 
 
 "With your pardon, sweet mistress," cor- 
 rected the Abbot, "the Dauphin said rather 
 that he could do anything if you would 
 show him the way." 
 
 "Nay," replied the Lady Agnes, "he hath 
 better counsellors than I, and if he is so inert, 
 so sunk in sloth that he will not heed the 
 voice of his own conscience, neither would he 
 listen to mine. It is for you, my Lord Abbot, 
 to champion the champion of France, and to 
 win the reward of a hero." 
 
 Encouraged by the girl's faith, a noble im- 
 pulse flared in the Abbot's heart, and at the 
 first convocation of the tribunal he rose and 
 impeached the authority of Pierre Cauchon 
 to try the case. "This trial is not legal," he 
 declared, "for the Bishop of Beauvais has 
 acknowledged himself hostile to the prisoner, 
 and is therefore no unbiassed judge. More- 
 over, he cannot question her divine mis- 
 sion, since that has been already established 
 by his spiritual superior, the Archbishop of
 
 The Sin of Abbot Nicolas 329 
 
 Rheims, from whom the See of Beauvais is 
 holden." 
 
 Cauchon was furious and arrested the dar- 
 ing Abbot, who protested that he had no 
 authority to do so as he was under no juris- 
 diction but that of the Archbishop of Rouen. 
 
 But the Duke of Bedford supported Cau- 
 chon, and Nicolas le Roux had time in prison 
 for reflection which cooled his ardour. Cau- 
 chon was endeavouring to have him con- 
 demned to be sewn in a sack and thrown into 
 the Seine; but his brother Abbots bravely 
 demanded his release and the Inquisitor- 
 general insisted that he should take his place 
 upon the tribunal, sending him at the same 
 time a confidential hint that his friends would 
 not be able to save him a second time if he 
 had not the sense to bridle his tongue. 
 
 The trial lasted from the 2ist of Febru- 
 ary to the 3oth of May, 1431. The court 
 held forty sittings, but on none of these 
 did Nicolas le Roux again attempt to take 
 the part of the poor girl condemned from the 
 outset. Bravely she struggled against the 
 efforts to trap her in her unadvised state- 
 ments, without counsel, without a single 
 member in that tribunal who knew not that 
 his life was at stake if he attempted to treat
 
 33 French Abbeys 
 
 Jtier with fairness. Isambard de la Pierre 
 alone endeavoured to aid her, advising her 
 by signs how to answer her cross-examiners; 
 but, this being discovered, he was rudely ex- 
 pelled from the court-room. This is not the 
 place to follow the iniquities of that process. 
 Every device that fiendish cruelty could im- 
 agine was employed against the defenceless 
 girl by the prosecution. 
 
 At last the Abbots, troubled in conscience 
 at the thought of condemning her to be burned 
 as a witch, begged her to save her life by sign- 
 ing a paper confessing that she might have 
 been in error as to her visions. 
 
 "I had rather sign than burn," she said 
 with a shudder. 
 
 This ill-considered mercy of her judges 
 made her condemn herself in the eye of the 
 public. She had been regarded heretofore 
 as a heroine, and every means was now taken 
 by Bedford to give what was called her re- 
 cantation the utmost publicity. Two stands 
 were erected in the cemetery of the Abbey 
 of Saint Ouen in the centre of Rouen before 
 the door of the Marmousets. On one sat the 
 Bishop of Beauvais, with the Cardinal of 
 Winchester and the court ; to the other Joan 
 was conducted, and in the presence of the
 
 The Sin of Abbot Nicolas 331 
 
 multitude signed not the paper which had 
 been read to her, but, as was afterwards 
 proved, a formal abjuration of her preten- 
 sions to her divine mission, and an acknow- 
 ledgment of the crimes of which she was 
 accused. This paper was read aloud to the 
 audience, but Joan, worn out by her suffer- 
 ings, neither understood nor heard. 
 
 Having confessed, she could not be put to 
 death, but, recovering from her weakness and 
 being told what she had done, she bravely 
 disavowed her abjuration, and two days later, 
 May 30, 1431, the heroic maid was led out 
 through crowds of weeping people, whom 
 ranks of English soldiers kept back, to her 
 death in the market-place. 
 
 One friend stood at her side at the scaf- 
 fold's foot; it was the monk Isambard. No 
 crucifix had been given her, and he rushed 
 into a neighbouring church and brought one 
 from the altar, holding it before her until her 
 death, though Joan herself begged him to 
 step back as the devouring flame shot up 
 between them. Through a rift in that ter- 
 rible curtain he heard her utter the name of 
 Jesus and saw her head fall forward upon her 
 breast. 
 
 The Cardinal Bishop of Winchester wept,
 
 33 2 French Abbeys 
 
 and so did others of her judges, crying, "Woe 
 unto us, we have killed a saint!" And 
 Nicolas le Roux, struck with unavailing re- 
 morse, fled from the sight, beating his breast 
 in his despair. 
 
 He was rowed in his barge as swiftly as. 
 his oarsmen, assisted by the current, could 
 convey him to his Abbey of Jumieges, pur- 
 chased by his shameful forfeit. At the land- 
 ing-place, awaiting news from Rouen, was a 
 group of villagers, and among them the Lady 
 Agnes on her white palfrey. She rode quickly 
 to the Abbot, crying, "What tidings, my 
 lord, of the Maid?" 
 
 As she listened the blood left her face and 
 surged to it again in indignation. "And you 
 who call yourself a man suffered this? And 
 the King himself, for whom Joan gained so 
 many victories, lifted no hand for her rescue ! 
 Then, since manhood exists no longer, France 
 must be saved by its women." 
 
 With that word of scorn she left him, nor 
 did the Abbot see her again for many years. 
 The manor-house at Mesnil-sous-Jumieges 
 was deserted, and it was said that its mis- 
 tress had gone to friends in Touraine. 
 
 Meantime a strange transformation had 
 befallen the hitherto indolent and apparently
 
 The Sin of Abbot Nicolas 333 
 
 feeble-minded King of France. Under the 
 influence, so it was rumoured, of a new mis- 
 tress, his better nature had awakened and he 
 had shown ambition, patriotism, and unsus- 
 pected ability. Taking the field in person at 
 the siege of Montereau, he fought in the 
 trenches up to his middle in water, and was 
 the first to mount the scaling-ladders and 
 enter the town, sword in hand. 
 
 Province after province was retaken from 
 the English, and in November, 1437, he 
 made his triumphal entry into Paris, and was 
 hailed as Charles the Victorious. Last of all, 
 Rouen surrendered to Dunois, and the Eng- 
 lish were driven from Normandy. 
 
 Charles's first concern after this was to ren- 
 der tardy justice to the memory of the hero- 
 ine to whom he and France owed so much. 
 Pope Calixtus III. gave his sanction to the 
 "process of rehabilitation" which was begun 
 at the Cathedral of Notre Dame, the Arch- 
 bishop of Rheims presiding. But it was not 
 enough that Joan should be proclaimed a 
 martyr here ; the Court was transferred to the 
 archiepiscopal palace of Rouen, and in the 
 city which had put her to death the articles 
 upon which sentence had been rendered 
 twenty years previously were pronounced
 
 334 French Abbeys 
 
 false and calumnious and the process null and 
 of no effect. 
 
 It was, moreover, ordained that a eulogy 
 should be delivered in the cemetery of the 
 Abbey of Saint Ouen at the door of the Mar- 
 mousets, on the very spot where her act of 
 abjuration had been so shamefully obtained, 
 and that on this site and on that of her 
 martyrdom two crosses should be erected in 
 expiation of the crime and to perpetuate her 
 memory. 
 
 That this reparation was due not so much 
 to Charles VII. as to the woman who wakened 
 him to wholesome remorse for his neglect 
 the burghers of Rouen understood, for they 
 spread garlands before her as she rode in 
 that expiatory procession, and Nicolas le 
 Roux, the half-crazed Abbot of Jumieges, 
 coming to his Abbey door to welcome his 
 King who claimed again his right of shelter, 
 started to recognise in this "Queen of the 
 left hand" Agnes Sorel, the whilom Lady of 
 the Manor of Mesnil. 
 
 "I saved the Abbey for you, my liege," the 
 Abbot had murmured. 
 
 "But at what a price!" cried Agnes, and 
 the glance of the Abbot fell. 
 
 ' ' Dinner is preparing, ' ' he muttered. ' ' For-
 
 ABBEY CHURCH OF SAINT OUEN, ROUEN. 
 By permission of Levy et Fils. 
 
 L'A3BAYE AUX DAMES, CAEN.
 
 The Sin of Abbot Nicolas 335 
 
 give me, my liege, that our dolt of a cook is 
 burning the roast. He always burns it. The 
 stench of scorching flesh pervades the entire 
 Abbey. It is not a perfume for a king's 
 nostrils. Have open the windows. Bid the 
 altar boys bring the censers and sweeten the 
 apartment." . 
 
 "I perceive naught but the pleasant scent 
 of blossoming lilacs," said the King. 
 
 The monks looked at one another signifi- 
 cantly, but were silent until the Abbot had 
 bustled away, when one of them took it upon 
 himself to explain. 
 
 ' ' So please your royal Highness, there is no 
 joint upon the spit, and the fires are not yet 
 lighted upon the kitchen hearth. Our af- 
 flicted Abbot hath been for twenty years like 
 that. When the smoke of the pyre of Joan 
 of Arc ascended, the wind drove it in his face, 
 and it hath never left his nostrils." 
 
 It never left them while he lived, which 
 was but a short space longer, hounded to his 
 death by the furies of remorse, who used as 
 their scourge not the fearful sight which he 
 had witnessed nor the heart-breaking cries to 
 which he had listened, but a stranger instru- 
 ment of torture the memory of an odour. 
 
 The work of Agnes Sorel was accomplished.
 
 33 6 French Abbeys 
 
 She also died the following year at her Manor 
 of Mesnil-sous- Jumieges. Charles VII. placed 
 her body in a magnificent tomb in the chapel 
 of the Chateau of Loches. But she left her 
 heart to the Abbey of Jumieges, and the in- 
 scription upon the slab which covered it may 
 be read to-day: 
 
 "Cy gist la noble damoiselle Agnes Sourelle. 
 
 "En son vivant dame de Beaulte", piteuse entre 
 toutes gens, et qui largement donnait de ses biens aux 
 ^glises et aux pduvres, laquelle trespassa le neuvieme 
 jour de fevrier Tan de grace 1449." 
 
 As the man in black concluded his tale we 
 could not forbear a query. If the Abbot's 
 punishment existed only in his imagination 
 what, then, was this very real odour of burning 
 flesh mingled with sulphur which at present 
 offended our senses? 
 
 "Ah! that," replied the stranger, spread- 
 ing his hands, "our host and others interested 
 in the fair fame of Jumieges will tell you is 
 also a product of the imagination; but we 
 know better. We know," he repeated, "that 
 it is the smoke of the torment of the Abbot 
 Nicolas le Roux, roasting in hell for ever and 
 ever!"
 
 ii 
 
 O c
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 ABBEY PILGRIMAGES 
 
 Oh! those old Abbey gardens 
 
 With their devices rich, 
 Their fountains and green, solemn walls, 
 
 And saints in many a niche. 
 I would I could call back again 
 
 Those gardens in their pride, 
 And see, slow walking up and down, 
 
 The Abbot dignified. 
 And the fat monk with sleepy eyes, 
 
 Half dozing in his cell ; 
 And him, the poor lay brother, 
 
 That loved the flowers so well. 
 Alas ! the Abbey lieth low ; 
 
 The Abbot's tomb is bare, 
 And he, the Abbey-gardener, 
 
 Is all forgotten there. 
 
 MARY HOWITT. 
 
 I 
 A LITTLE TOUR IN NORMANDY 
 
 FOR those who would go on pilgrimage, 
 either for the mere joy of wandering in 
 pleasant places or for serious research, no 
 more delightful itineraries could be planned 
 
 337
 
 33 8 French Abbeys 
 
 than the exploration of the most typical and 
 accessible of the French Abbeys. 
 
 First of all the reverend brotherhood, step- 
 ping from the mainland as though to meet 
 and welcome the trans- Atlantic traveller, we 
 must rank Mont Saint Michel. If one could 
 see but this example he would still have a fair 
 conception of the power of monasticism in 
 mediaeval times. 
 
 But pre-eminent though it stands, this 
 Abbey is not the first which the tourist will 
 find most convenient to visit. 
 
 If he disembarks at Cherbourg it will be 
 easy to stop for a day at Caen, that old Nor- 
 man city so saturated with memories of 
 William the Conqueror. Here he will find 
 in excellent preservation the Abbaye aux 
 Hommes and the Abbaye aux Dames, which 
 William and Matilda built in penance for 
 their irregular marriage. It was Lanfranc, 
 afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury, who 
 persuaded the Pope to grant them an in- 
 dulgence, who was first Abbot of the Abbaye 
 aux Hommes, while their daughter, C6cile, 
 became Abbess of the Abbaye aux Dames. 
 Queen Matilda's tomb is in its chapel, and 
 she left its trtsor her crown and sceptre, 
 the trappings of her saddle-horses, besides
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 339 
 
 many rich vestments and other objects of 
 value. 
 
 Some amusing old rites and customs sub- 
 sisted here up to the eve of the Revolution. 
 During the fte of Sainte Trinite" the Abbess 
 governed the town and garrison, the general 
 in command reporting to her for orders. On 
 the day of the Holy Innocents, the F$te de la 
 Petite Abbesse was celebrated, a merry holi- 
 day, in which an Abbess of the day was chosen 
 from among the novices, the real Abbess giv- 
 ing up her cross to the new incumbent and 
 submitting to her rule until midnight, when 
 the festival ended in a dance in the convent 
 park. 
 
 We visited the Abbey one windy evening in 
 early spring, and as we walked in the grounds 
 were startled to see ghostly forms flitting be- 
 tween the trees, joining hands and leaping 
 wildly as in some frantic Druidical dance. 
 
 "Can it be the festival of la Petite Ab- 
 besse," we asked, "which we have unwit- 
 tingly chanced upon?" 
 
 But on nearer approach a very common- 
 place explanation was given of the weird 
 phenomenon. It was only the convent linen 
 agitated by the night breeze, the contortions 
 of many flapping sheets striving with their
 
 340 French Abbeys 
 
 fastenings and thus grotesquely simulating 
 the dance of the sportive novices. 
 
 After Caen one pauses most naturally at 
 Lisieux to enjoy the old timbered houses 
 which lean toward one another like gossiping 
 crones whispering their scandals across the 
 narrow streets. Here, too, one must glance 
 at the cathedral and not miss its beautiful 
 Lady Chapel, the Chapelle Expiatoire of 
 Pierre Cauchon, built in remorse for his 
 crime in the prosecution of Joan of Arc. 
 Between Lisieux and Rouen lies the famous 
 Abbey of Bee, but its beautiful tower will 
 scarce repay the ordinary traveller for the 
 inconvenience of its railway connections. 
 It is difficult to go wrong in Normandy, for 
 the province is sown thick with noble cha- 
 teaux and quaint old towns, while its billow- 
 ing hills are covered with apple orchards 
 indescribably beautiful in the springtime. 
 But, with the exception of the excursion to 
 Mont Saint Michel and a pause en route at 
 Caen, our tourist who is at all limited in 
 time may confine his first itinerary to a 
 driving-trip in the neighbourhood of Rouen. 
 For the principal Norman monasteries are 
 most invitingly grouped around the ancient 
 city, and its magnificent Abbey-church of
 
 3> 
 
 ~tgs MI ' ulating 
 
 glance 
 
 . 
 
 lus 
 
 \ of Arc, 
 
 n lies the famous 
 
 E^cpnflfi il^cat ion of Robe$|ijtjge t^W^- will 
 
 From a painting by Jean Paul L^fe,. f Qr fly, 
 
 nee oi , connections. 
 
 ? difficult Normandy, for 
 
 the provb 'ioble cha- 
 
 ix and qu. billow- 
 
 ing hills .rds 
 
 indescribably be; 
 
 But, with th< i to 
 
 at Saint ?> e en route at 
 
 n, our ited in 
 
 : ary to a 
 
 ring-trip ii oi Rouen. 
 
 steries are 
 
 nviting! =1 the ancient 
 
 its church of
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 341 
 
 Saint Ouen makes an excellent centre and 
 point of departure. Its slender columns 
 shoot like lily-stalks from the pavement, 
 framing one hundred and thirty-five glorious, 
 windows, set so close together that from, 
 within the walls seem built of resplendent, 
 gems like those of the heavenly city "as it- 
 were transparent glass." 
 
 The cloisters, meadows, gardens, and other 
 dependencies of Saint Ouen originally ex- 
 tended over a large portion of the present 
 city. 
 
 "When one thinks," says Quicherat, "that the vast 
 edifice which we call to-day the hotel-de-ville, where 
 the municipal service of more than one hundred 
 thousand souls is installed, is only a fragment of the 
 former Abbey, one comprehends what must in the 
 days of real faith have been the grandeur and power 
 of this celebrated house." 
 
 So near to Rouen that it may be visited in 
 an afternoon is the once wealthy Abbey of 
 Saint Georges de Boscherville, founded by 
 Raoul de Tancarville, chamberlain of William 
 the Conqueror. Its power and rank were at 
 all times disproportioned to its size, for it 
 was one of the smallest of the Norman re- 
 ligious communities, never numbering more
 
 34 2 French Abbeys 
 
 than ten brethren. But the Abbot was al- 
 ways of noble birth, and took his seat at 
 great conclaves with the Abbots who ruled a 
 thousand monks. 
 
 It has its romance, a tragedy of passion 
 and jealousy and violent death. 
 
 On the opposite side of the Seine are the 
 ruins of the castle of Bardouville. Married 
 to its savage lord was an unfortunate lady 
 who had loved and been loved in vain by a 
 certain knight. What parted them is of 
 little moment. They remained ' ' falsely true, " 
 and the knight, to be near his lady, became the 
 Abbot of Saint Georges de Boscherville. 
 
 Each evening that the baron was absent 
 the baroness signalled her too faithful lover 
 by means of lights, and he crossed the river, 
 swimming it, so the legend asserts, like a 
 second Leander, until the rumour of the torch 
 which flamed in his absence reached the sus- 
 picious ears of the husband, and the gallant 
 Abbot was slain in his lady's bower. 
 
 The Abbey will afford a purpose for a de- 
 lightful drive from Rouen through the noble 
 forest of Roumare; but, except for the 
 archaeologist, the drive will be found more en- 
 joyable than the end in view, for the chapter 
 house and church are all that are left of the
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 343 
 
 monastic buildings, the former ruinous and 
 invaded by the cows of a neighbouring dairy- 
 farm, and the decorations which graced the 
 interior of the latter hidden under barbarous 
 whitewash. 
 
 A little farther to the west the Seine makes 
 a great sweep to embrace the still stately 
 ruins of the Abbey of Jumieges, which may 
 be visited from Rouen by steam launch or 
 by the circuitous railroad. 
 
 En route from Jumieges to Saint Wandrille 
 one should not fail to pause at Caudebec, 
 famous for its high tides and its exquisite 
 spire, and for the most comfortable hostelry 
 in all this region. Saint Wandrille will tempt 
 the artist to remain an entire season and fill 
 his portfolios, and the inn of Caudebec is near 
 enough to make this possible. 
 
 From Saint Wandrille the pilgrim should 
 press on to Fe"camp, whose old Abbey-church 
 with its wonderful jub6 is quite eclipsed by the 
 "fake" Abbey, which has proved so clever an 
 advertisement of the liqueur Benedictine. The 
 monks were expelled at the time of the Revo- 
 lution, but their recipe, it is pretended, was 
 handed down to his children by the former 
 steward of the Abbey, and an immense fortune 
 has been realised from its fabrication. An
 
 344 French Abbeys 
 
 amusing scene is depicted in a stained-glass 
 window of the mock Abbey. The founder of 
 the distillery grasps the globe with one plump 
 hand, while he extends the other for the sa- 
 cred recipe which is given him by an angel! 
 
 More or less authentic antiquities, said to 
 have once graced the ancient Abbey, are dis- 
 tributed throughout the theatrical building, 
 which flaunts a chapter house and even a 
 chapel; but the architect who created this 
 phantasmagoria could hardly have imagined 
 that the most naive could take his jest seri- 
 ously and fancy that he is treading the halls 
 of the veritable monastery. 
 
 The legend which led to the founding of 
 the Abbey of Fecamp affirms that Joseph of 
 Arimathea finding, after assisting in the de- 
 position from the cross, that his glove con- 
 tained some drops of the blood of Christ, 
 concealed it in a hollow in a fig-tree which grew 
 in his garden at Sidon. In process of time 
 the tree was cut down and with its hidden 
 treasure cast into the sea. 
 
 A holy hermit in Gaul saw this in a vision, 
 and was bidden to resort to the seashore and 
 to watch for the fig-tree which would be 
 miraculously carried to Normandy. Here 
 indeed it was washed ashore, and the place
 
 RUINS OF ABBEY OF VALMONT INTERIOR.
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 345 
 
 where it was found was named Fici campus, 
 the field of the fig-tree, and afterwards Fe"- 
 camp. The faithful still devoutly kneel be- 
 fore the discoloured glove which is carefully 
 guarded in a tabernacle of the old Abbey- 
 church. I have other testimony to its credit, 
 for at a curiosity-shop in the neighbourhood 
 an antique garnet rosary was offered me, its 
 silver crucifix opening by means of a tiny 
 screw, a reliquary for a drop of the "sang 
 prtcieux." It was impossible to resist the 
 legend as told me by the wily vender, and 
 the rosary lies before me as I write. 
 
 "A pretty story and a pretty bauble," 
 commented my friend the chemist when I 
 showed it to him, ' ' and yet I would not hang 
 those garnets as an amulet about a baby's 
 neck. The child might ptit the little reliquary 
 in its mouth. ' ' ' ' And what of that ? " " Only 
 that in the sixteenth century they had a 
 passion for concealing poisons in odd places 
 in ' an earring, a fan mount, a filigree basket ' 
 and this pellet which I have just taken 
 from the little cavity in the crucifix is pure 
 arsenic." 
 
 In a lovely valley just outside the town of 
 Fecamp are the ruins of the Abbey of Val- 
 mont, founded by that d'Estouteville of whom
 
 346 French Abbeys 
 
 Victor Hugo writes in Notre Dame de Paris. 
 Of all the Abbeys which we sought in our pil- 
 grimage, this was the only one which we 
 found guarded by an inexorable dragon. 
 True he belched no flame, but neither would 
 he swallow a golden bribe. With deplorable 
 fidelity to his master's orders, he replied with 
 monotonous reiteration, "I am desolated not 
 to oblige madame, but what can I do? On 
 ne visile pas." 
 
 Instantly the reputed glories, treasures of 
 Valmont, its carvings by Germain Pilon, and 
 the tombs of its Abbots, took on an over- 
 weening importance, and all the privileges 
 which we had hitherto enjoyed through the 
 uniform courtesy and hospitality of other 
 strangers were as nothing to this single 
 refusal. 
 
 Between Rouen and Paris, if one cares 
 sufficiently for Richard Cceur de Lion to visit 
 his castle of Gaillard, one may pause first at 
 Pont de 1'Arche for the drive to his Abbey of 
 Bonport, which he founded in 1190. The 
 refectory still exists, but the carved choir- 
 stalls and beautiful glass have been removed 
 to the parish church of Pont de 1'Arche. 
 
 There are remains of many other interesting 
 Abbeys in Normandy, but none which will so
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 347 
 
 "well repay a visit as the group already 
 mentioned. 
 
 The monastery of La Trappe recalls a 
 romance unparalleled in fiction, but at the 
 time of its founding this Abbey sought for the 
 .most inaccessible spot in southern Normandy. 
 Such it remains to-day, for the railroads 
 -avoid its solitude and few admirers of the 
 Abbe" de Ranee" will brave the inconveniences 
 '.of the journey to discover the austere retreat 
 rendered famous by his long penance. An- 
 <other building as intimately connected with 
 his tragic history attracts the attention of 
 every traveller who approaches Loches from 
 the city of Tours, and stands as a significant 
 illustration to the pitiable story. 
 
 II 
 
 THE STRANGE STORY OF THE ABBE DE RANGE 
 
 Tout Chartreux est un volcan eteint 
 
 GUADBT. 
 
 And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe 
 Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, 
 Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. 
 
 LOWELL. 
 
 Sinister and formidable even in its ruin 
 tthe donjon keep of Montbazon is pointed out
 
 French Abbeys 
 
 as one of the earliest feudal castles of Touraine, 
 built by Foulques Nerra to protect his terri- 
 tory from the Counts of Blois. 
 
 On the summit of the ancient tower there 
 has been erected a colossal image of the Vir- 
 gin, for it is now a shrine of pilgrimage, and 
 humble penitents kneel amid the ruins be- 
 seeching Our Lady of Pity to save their sons 
 from such a temptress, and their daughters 
 from the guilt and the fate of the wicked 
 Duchess of Montbazon. It was close at 
 hand in her favourite bower, the dainty 
 manor-house of Couzieres, that she met and 
 loved the Abbe de Ranee" and paid the penalty 
 of her guilt. 
 
 The Abbe" possessed the neighbouring seig- 
 nory of Veretz, and had built himself a her- 
 mitage in the great game-abounding forest. 
 Let no one, deceived by the word, picture a 
 rocky cell beside a rill of clear-flowing water, 
 for the "hermitage" was a chdteau de 
 chasse, with stables and kennels, and later 
 Ranc6 sold the estate for the equivalent of a 
 hundred thousand dollars. He had inherited 
 it from his mother, his clerical duties at the 
 Chateau of Blois were merely nominal, and 
 he spent much of his time in hunting at 
 Veretz.
 
 z 2 
 

 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 349 
 
 Armand Jean Le Bouthillier de Ranee* was 
 such a man at this time as Browning describes 
 in Caponsacchi: 
 
 "A courtly, spiritual cupid, 
 And fit companion for the like of you 
 You gay Abati with the well-turned legs 
 And rose i' the hat-rim, canon's cross at neck. 
 And silk-mask in the pocket of the gown." 
 
 And yet his was not a gross nature. A 
 precocious scholar, he published at twelve a 
 translation of the odes of Anacreon, and in 
 taking his degrees excelled his classmate 
 Bossuet. Named for Richelieu, it was ex- 
 pected that his godfather's influence would 
 be enlisted in his behalf, but the cardinal died 
 and he had not been appointed to the bishop- 
 ric, which he expected. 
 
 So Ranee", with no great career to tempt 
 his powers, lived a life of idle elegance and 
 refinement until he met the Duchesse de 
 Montbazon. 
 
 Fifty-two years younger than her husband, 
 mad for admiration and an adept in the arts 
 of acquiring it, she seemed to the young man 
 the embodiment of all feminine perfection. 
 She found his adoration amusing in that un- 
 eventful chateau life, for she was a woman
 
 350 French Abbeys 
 
 who could not forbear from ruining any man. 
 of attractive personality who came within her 
 power. But the death of her husband, Duke 
 Hercules de Montbazon, was to give her a 
 wider field, and the duchess at once estab- 
 lished herself at Paris, creating continual 
 scandals at the very formal Court, where she 
 took an insane delight in violating etiquette. 
 The Cardinal de Retz wrote of her : ' ' Madame 
 de Montbazon was very beautiful, but modesty 
 was wanting to her attractions. I never saw 
 any one, even in vice, who had preserved so 
 little respect for virtue." Such audacity was- 
 at least piquant, and very soon she had more 
 lovers and was involved in more mischief 
 than any other woman in Paris. 
 
 Into this dissolute, reckless life the Abbe" de 
 Ranee" followed the duchess. His father had 
 died and his revenues, greatly increased, en- 
 abled him to cut a figure as a man of fashion. 
 He maintained a train of servants and eight 
 coach horses. While in ecclesiastical society 
 he dressed in black velvet, at the soirees of 
 the duchess he appeared in heliotrope or 
 violet brocade, set off with costly laces and 
 great emeralds. 
 
 The Abbe" had a rival in the Duke of Beau- 
 fort, one of the leaders of the Fronde, and it
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 351 
 
 was to advance his interests that the Duch- 
 ess of Montbazon threw herself into that 
 conspiracy. 
 
 Vain, shallow, and selfish, he had still the 
 make-up of a stage hero, with the art of in- 
 gratiating himself with the populace and 
 the perception to recognise their power. He 
 was called le Roi des Holies (King of the 
 Markets), and the terrible fishwives whose 
 descendants were to drag Louis XVI. and 
 Marie Antoinette from Versailles, worshipped 
 him as the champion of their interests because 
 he resided in their quarter and harangued 
 them in their argot. But Mazarin's spies 
 kept him informed of Beaufort's incendiary 
 speeches and of the plots at the salons of 
 Madame de Montbazon, and using as a pre- 
 text a notorious duel which that agitating 
 lady had incited, he banished her to her 
 estates in Touraine. 
 
 The Duke of Beaufort was too great a 
 favourite with the people to be dealt with 
 openly, and too dangerous and treacherous 
 a man to be permitted to remain in France. 
 The cardinal cleverly gave him an appoint- 
 ment which was virtual banishment and 
 possible condemnation to death, making him 
 admiral of the French fleet which sailed in
 
 35 2 French Abbeys 
 
 1669 with seven thousand troops for the re- 
 lief of the Venetians beseiged in Candia by 
 the Turks. The night of the landing, when 
 the French forces attempted to cut their 
 way through the infidels, Beaufort disap- 
 peared in the mele"e, probably one of the un- 
 numbered dead left upon the field by that 
 frightful slaughter. But the women of the 
 halles could never be persuaded that their 
 leader was dead. For years they had masses 
 said not for the repose of his soul, but for 
 his return, believing that he had been spirited 
 away from the field by the agents of Mazarin. 1 
 
 The affection of the Duchess of Montbazon 
 was not so constant as that of the ignorant 
 fishwives. Even before the Duke of Beau- 
 fort sailed he was dead to her and from the 
 list of her lovers she elected that the Abbe* 
 de Ranee* should supply his place. He had 
 loved her without hope in her prosperity and 
 would not desert her now. 
 
 The management of his estate of Veretz 
 gave the excuse for long rides and for secret 
 interviews, until swift and terrible retribu- 
 tion fell upon them from the hand of God. 
 
 1 Some authorities take this view and maintain that he 
 was confined in the fortress of Pignerol, being none other than 
 the prisoner known as the Man in the Iron Mask.
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 353 
 
 The Abbe" had come one day to his tryst at 
 the manor, and had tripped jauntily tip the 
 secret staircase to his lady's boudoir. She 
 was not there, but a great silver chafing-dish, 
 from which she had often regaled him with 
 some dainty prepared by her own fair hands, 
 stood as though waiting for him upon the 
 table. He raised the cover, and to his horror 
 was confronted by the dissevered head of his 
 mistress, the fair locks sodden with blood, 
 forming a gory frame for features distorted 
 by the death-agony. Ranch's reason forsook 
 him at the fearful sight. Grasping the dish 
 he fled demented with it into the forest, and 
 wandered, how long and where he never knew. 
 
 It seemed to him that he had ventured into 
 hell in search of his murdered love and was 
 fleeing through floods of flame with her corpse 
 tightly clasped against his heart, and that 
 ghastly face close to his own. 
 
 When at last he came to himself he was in 
 the ruined donjon of Montbazon. Was it all 
 a hideous dream and would he hear her ring- 
 ing laugh in a moment ? He raised his hands 
 to his head and saw that his lace ruffles were 
 dabbled with dark spots, and at the same time 
 an odd metallic sound, like the tinkling of a 
 tiny bell sounded behind him. The great
 
 354 French Abbeys 
 
 tower was roofless, an ivy-lined wall in which 
 rooks built their nests. They were circling 
 and cawing as though in response to the call 
 of that weird bell, and turning he saw upon a 
 heap of debris the silver vessel, against whose 
 cover an enormous raven was striking his 
 hard beak. Driving away the bird, but un- 
 able to look again upon that terrible face, he 
 buried the dish and its contents beneath a pile 
 of stones, and kneeling in the solitude repeated 
 over it the service for the dead. 
 
 From that day the Abbe" Ranee" was a 
 changed man. It was not enough to devote 
 himself henceforth to the duties of his sacred 
 calling. Conscience made terrible reclama- 
 tions, and as his sin had been great so he set 
 himself no ordinary, easy penance. 
 
 Among his many benefices he possessed the 
 charge of the monastery of La Trappe in Nor- 
 mandy. In a bleak situation, without en- 
 dowment, the monks had deserted its cloisters ; 
 only seven remained in the ruinous building, 
 and these were unworthy of their order, 
 poaching the fallow deer, feasting on fast 
 days, drinking and gaming in the refectory, 
 and sharing their evil pleasures with aban- 
 doned women, as though the devil himself 
 were their prior. Ranee" formed the design
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 355 
 
 of reforming the entire order of the Citeaux, 
 and made a journey to Rome to obtain the 
 Pope's sanction; but the pontiff was not in 
 sympathy with this new Savonarola and gave 
 him no authority beyond his own community of 
 La Trappe. Unshaken in his determination, he 
 returned to France and sold his possessions, en- 
 dowing two hospitals in Paris. He then retired 
 to the poverty and solitude of his monastery, 
 reviving the strict rule of Saint Bernard with 
 long vigils, rigorous fasts, exhausting labour, 
 flagellation, eternal silence, and the daily 
 digging of his grave with his own hands. For 
 thirty-seven years he endured this living- 
 death, and other repentant sinners flocked to 
 share his self -crucifixion, so that whereas he- 
 had found but seven reprobates in the convent, 
 he left in it at his death one hundred and 
 ninety-seven true penitents. It was remorse 
 and the fear of judgment to come which had! 
 driven them from the world and was ever 
 present with their founder as he knelt in his 
 cell before a ghastly skull, said to be that of 
 the woman whom he had loved, for the peace 
 of whose soul he prayed continually, and 
 whose evil name, in spite of his life of ex- 
 piation, will ever be linked with his own. 
 (See Note A.)
 
 35 6 French Abbeys 
 
 The Abbess romance was well known and 
 had much to do with giving La Trappe its 
 vogue, but in the following century, as the 
 sentimental interest in the Abbey increased, 
 the desire of actually following Ranch's ex- 
 ample diminished. 
 
 When Dorat wrote his poem of La Trappe, 
 based on the romantic history of the Comte 
 de Comminges, as related by Madame de 
 Tencin, it was as a protest against the rigours 
 of the old faith, and though an anti-climax 
 to the tragedy of de Ranee", the trifle is 
 significant of the current of opinion. The 
 plot of the poem is briefly as follows : 
 
 The Comte de Comminges loves Adelaide, 
 daughter of the Marquis de Lussan, who 
 returns his affection, but through misun- 
 derstanding is married to the Marquis de 
 Benavides. 
 
 Comminges in despair becomes a monk of 
 La Trappe. 
 
 Adelaide learning this, not with any in- 
 tention of intrigue but simply to be near her 
 beloved, disguises herself as a man, and also 
 taking the vows, becomes an inmate of the 
 same monastery. Her identity is unknown 
 even to her lover, who remarks only (so he is 
 supposed to write his mother) the sympathy
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 357 
 
 written in the face of a young novice by whom, 
 he is continually followed. 
 
 One day, while digging his own grave, the 
 count pauses and traces in the sand with his; 
 spade the name of Adelaide. 
 
 He hears sobs and at last recognises his, 
 lady. 
 
 After this there is nothing in honour for the; 
 lovelorn count to do but to die, a perform- 
 ance which he accomplishes with despatch 
 and due deference to dramatic effect. 
 
 The poem is thoroughly artificial in its; 
 sentimentality. It is difficult to believe that- 
 tears were shed on the following lines: 
 
 "Au bord d'un lac tranquille 
 Je travaillois un soir a mon dernier asyle, 
 Je creusois mon cercueil, en moi mme absorbed 
 Je restais quelque terns sur ma bche courbe', 
 Ma main, dans ce moment, incertaine timide, 
 Sur le sable imprima le nom d' Adelaide." 
 
 The lackadaisical pose of the count in 
 Eisen's dainty engraving, his petticoats draped 
 like a ballet-dancer's, provokes in our day 
 amusement rather than sympathy. 
 
 We have drifted still further down the 
 stream, and the conclusion of the poem seems 
 to us trite and banal, but we forget that at 
 the time it may have taken some courage to
 
 358 French Abbeys 
 
 have enunciated it in the face of the example 
 and doctrine of La Trappe : 
 
 " Ce Dieu que Ton peint de ses foudres arme" 
 Est un Dieu bienfaisant, qui veut etre aime* 
 Deja s'ouvre a tes yeux I'eternite* brillante, 
 Adore et sers un Dieu qui le rend ton Amant." 
 
 Ill 
 IN EASTERN FRANCE 
 
 This fortification 
 Grew from the ruins of an ancient Abbey. 
 
 I do love these ancient ruins. 
 We never tread upon them but we set 
 'Our foot upon some reverend history ; 
 And, questionless, here in this open court 
 Which now lies naked to the injuries 
 Of stormy weather, some men lie interred, 
 Loved the Church so well, and gave so largely to it, 
 They thought it should have canopied their bones 
 Till doom's day; but all things have their end; 
 Churches and Abbeys, which have diseases like to 
 
 men, 
 Must have like death that we have. 
 
 JOHN WEBSTER in The Duchess of Malfi. 
 
 The little tour in Normandy which we 
 have outlined needs no previous preparation 
 of deep scholastic research to make it of
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 359 
 
 interest to the tourist. The charm of the 
 mere picturesque aspect of the ruins of 
 Jumieges and Saint Wandrille will win any 
 heart, however indifferent. The beauty of 
 Saint Ouen and the grandeur of Mont Saint 
 Michel are equally impressive, but a pilgrim- 
 age in the east of France is more particularly 
 recommended to those who know beforehand 
 what they seek and where to find their 
 peculiar predilection, for in the feast which 
 is spread from Lorraine to the Mediterranean 
 there are delicacies to suit every taste. 
 
 The wild beauty of the Desert of La Grande 
 Chartreuse and the loveliness of the Abbey 
 of Hautcombe on the blue lake of Le Bourget 
 in Savoy, the savage grandeur of La Chaise 
 Dieu, and the spectacular picturesqueness of 
 Le Puy in Auvergne, will best please the 
 artist, while the architect will find more 
 satisfying the exquisite Gothic church of 
 Brou and the Romanesque buildings of the 
 Rhone Valley, especially in the neighbour- 
 hood of Avignon and Aries. The historical 
 student will delight in less pictorial scenes, 
 each crumbling wall of Languedoc and Bur- 
 gundy affording illustration to many a fa- 
 miliar page and stimulating both memory 
 and imagination.
 
 360 French Abbeys 
 
 The limitations of the present volume will 
 not permit of even a cursory survey of the 
 field: its aim is but to suggest more serious 
 study and thorough exploration. 
 
 Among the hundreds of statues of the 
 Abbey of Hautecombe, where sleep the princes 
 and princesses of Savoy, the sculptured faces 
 of Yolande, of Aloise, of Sibylle, and of 
 Bonne will set the poet's fancy dreaming "in 
 praise of ladies dead." 
 
 The monks who drop upon their knees be- 
 side these marble tombs, protected by in- 
 ternational treaty even at this writing (1905) 
 in their vows of perpetual prayer for the souls 
 of the departed, are among the very few 
 whom he will find in their old accustomed 
 haunts. 
 
 The ancient fortified Abbey of "The Seat 
 of God" will justify its name from its mount- 
 ain throne, at whose foot the humbler edifices 
 of the little town seem to kneel in homage. 
 Its donjon-keep proclaims the struggles of 
 its Abbots with the rapacious neighbouring 
 seigneurs, and, like many an old commandery 
 of the religious military orders, still seems to 
 chant its "Benedictus Deus meus qui docet 
 manus meas ad prcelium et digitos meos ad 
 bellum"
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 361 
 
 This Abbey of La Chaise Dieu was prison 
 as well as fortress ; its aspect of bleak austerity 
 and loneliness well explains the feeling of its 
 Commendatory Abbot, Cardinal de Rohan, 
 prince and peer of the realm, who is reported 
 to have said scornfully: "I have, as you say, 
 an old Abbey somewhere in the mountains of 
 Auvergne, just where, I do not quite know; I 
 do know, however, that it possesses an entire 
 county which yields me a very fair income, 
 and while there are pretty women at Court 
 be assured that this is all I ask of it." 
 
 This assertion is supposed to have been 
 made a few months before the scandal of the 
 diamond necklace flamed forth, when the 
 dissolute prelate, who dared to insult Marie 
 Antoinette, was banished to La Chaise Dieu 
 as to perpetual imprisonment. 
 
 The city of Avignon, with its papal palace, 
 which Froissart called la plus forte et la plus 
 belle maison en France, will furnish another 
 mine of treasure in its souvenirs of the French 
 pontiffs. Vaucluse, with Petrarch and Laura, 
 is close at hand, while across the river,, 
 partly spanned by the broken bridge, is the 
 ancient Chartreuse, an Abbey invaded by a 
 colony of gypsies, whose donkeys are stabled 
 in the chapel.
 
 3 62 French Abbeys 
 
 The Bridge of Saint Nicolas suggests an 
 entire chapter on the Freres Pontifes (Pont 
 if ex, bridge-builder), who banded themselves 
 together "to build churches and hospices 
 along the routes, to render roads practicable, 
 and particularly to construct bridges over 
 rivers." This confre"rie was bound by the 
 vow of obedience, in that they must assemble 
 when called, and by poverty, in receiving no 
 recompense for their labours, but they were 
 allowed to marry and to return to their 
 homes when their services were not required. 
 They spread all over Europe, their special aim 
 being to make easy the pilgrimage to the 
 Holy Land. Their most celebrated bridge 
 over the Rhone, the Pont Saint Esprit, was 
 finished in 1307, and still exists. It is eight 
 hundred metres in length, with twenty great 
 arches, each twenty metres in span. There 
 are bastides at each end, and anciently there 
 were two towers in the middle, in one of 
 which was placed an altar to Saint Nicolas, 
 the patron of all ferries and bridges. These 
 towers were removed in 1850, as the naviga- 
 tion of the river demanded that the two 
 central arches should be replaced by a great 
 iron one. The hospice built here for pilgrims 
 became the headquarters of the Order, a
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 363 
 
 Citi hospitaliere, with a special quarter quaran- 
 tined for the pest, and an atelier for instruction 
 in the mechanic arts. 
 
 The devout Catholic will find in the south 
 of France shrines of pilgrimage hallowed by 
 association with the greatest saints of the 
 -calendar. Not alone French saints, such as 
 Bruno, who founded La Grande Chartreuse 
 in 1084, and Bernard of Clairvaux, but others 
 whom we are accustomed to associate with 
 Italy, Saint Francis of Assisi, whose foot- 
 steps we have traced in the neighbourhood of 
 Aries ; Saint Dominic, ' ' Defender of the Faith, ' ' 
 whose mistaken zeal led the crusade against 
 the Albigenses, but is lovingly remembered in 
 Toulouse as having there received the vision 
 of the Virgin that inspired the institution of 
 the rosary, which has guided the devotions of 
 millions of fervent souls. 
 
 Saint Anthony is claimed at picturesque 
 Le Puy, at the Abbey of Fontefroide (be- 
 loved by Viollet le Due) near Narbonne, and 
 in the neighbourhood of Limoges. Here, as 
 in Portugal, he provides good husbands for 
 maidens who on his f 6te place lighted candles 
 at his shrine, and those destined to an early 
 grave he betroths to himself, appearing to 
 them in person.
 
 364 French Abbeys 
 
 Indeed France is as jealous of Italy as i& 
 the good saint's native country, Portugal, 
 where among many souvenirs of his youth, 
 and early manhood the following curious 
 certificate of his military service is treasured: 
 
 "I attest and certify" (wrote Don Hercules An- 
 tonio Charles Luiz Joseph Maria de Albuquerque 
 Aranjo de Magalhaens Homen, nobleman, knight, 
 etc., etc.) "that the Lord Saint Antonio, otherwise 
 the great Saint Antonio of Lisbon (commonly and 
 falsely called of Padua) has been enlisted in this regi- 
 ment since the 24* of January, 1268. The said. 
 Saint Antonio gave for his caution and surety the 
 Queen of Angels, who became answerable that he 
 would not desert his colours, but behave always like 
 a good soldier. 
 
 "I do further certify that there is no record of bad 
 behaviour committed by him nor of his having ever 
 been flogged or in any way punished while a private 
 in his regiment, and that in every respect he has 
 always behaved like a gentleman, and on all the 
 above mentioned accounts I hold him most deserving 
 of the rank of major to our regiment. In testimony 
 whereof I have hereto signed my name this 25th day 
 of March of the year of our Lord 1277. 
 
 "MAGALHAENS HOMEN." 
 
 If our pilgrim is a historian and would 
 touch the very foundation of the Abbey in- 
 stitution, he must go to Italy, for it was
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 365 
 
 Saint Benedict who in the year 528 organised 
 the hermit monks into a convent (corpora- 
 tion) on Mont Cassin, thus creating the Order 
 of the Benedictines, who were to evangelise 
 and educate Europe. 
 
 So early as 543, however, Saint Benedict's 
 disciple, Saint Maure, with four companions, 
 introduced the rule into France, founding the 
 Abbey of Saint Maure sur Loire, near the 
 city of Tours. 
 
 The Comte de Montalembert, in his Monks 
 of the West, shows us the wonderful work of 
 monasticism up to the birth of Bernard (1091). 
 The eleventh century was one of miracle, 
 and it is here that the author has chosen to 
 iDegin her study of the Abbeys. For the year 
 1000 A.D. had been anticipated as the mil- 
 lenium, the end of the world, and the Dies 
 Ir&> written by a pious monk, represented its 
 expectation. 
 
 Robert the Pious was King of France and 
 his conscience was not at peace, for he had 
 wedded in defiance of the Church. In terror 
 of its excommunication he gave up his wife 
 and as Michelet wrote, his obedience seemed 
 to the nation to have disarmed the divine 
 anger and to have brought in the peace of 
 God. When the eleventh century dawned
 
 366 French Abbeys 
 
 and the heavens and earth shrivelled not 
 in flame, the nation as well as the monarch 
 seemed, in thankfulness, to have entered upon 
 a new life. From this point it is to the 
 dominant Abbey of Cluny that we must look 
 for the history of the first century of this 
 great revival. Other Abbeys may be dis- 
 missed with a word, or altogether ignored, 
 but it is impossible to understand the insti- 
 tution of monasticism in France without a 
 knowledge of the history of the great house 
 which was its very heart. 
 
 IV 
 
 THE ABBEY OF CLUNY 
 
 O happy harbour of God's saints, 
 
 O sweet and pleasant soil, 
 In thee no sorrow may be found, 
 
 No grief, no care, no toil. 
 
 Thy gardens and thy gallant walks 
 
 Continually are green; 
 There grow such sweet and pleasant plants 
 
 As nowhere else are seen. 
 
 BERNARD OF CLUNY. 
 
 Phenomenal indeed was the growth of this 
 wonderful Abbey from the year 909, when 
 the Duke of Aquitaine founded it by donating
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 367 
 
 the fief of Cluny to twelve Benedictine monks. 
 His will, with its naive statements of his 
 motives in making the gift, is a curious docu- 
 ment, illustrative of the temper of mind of the 
 time. 
 
 "I, William, Count and Duke, and Ingelberge my 
 wife, have thought it well to dispose for the profit of 
 my soul of some of my riches. I can not do better 
 in this regard than to follow the precept of our Lord 
 and make to myself friends among the poor, by pro- 
 longing perpetually my benefits to monks whom I 
 shall nourish, hoping that if I do not myself suffi- 
 ciently despise the things of this world, I may still 
 receive the recompense of the just, since the monks 
 contemners of the world shall receive of my liberality. 
 
 "This is why I give and bequeath to the holy 
 apostles Peter and Paul all that I possess at Cluny 
 to wit, the chapel, the farms, slaves of both sexes, 
 vineyards, fields, forests, waters, and mills without 
 reserve. 
 
 " I give these things to the said apostles, I, William, 
 and my wife Ingelberge, for the safety of our souls and 
 those of all our relatives. And finally as we are united 
 to all Christians by the same faith, this donation is 
 made for all the orthodox of the past, present, and 
 future. 
 
 "We order that our donation shall serve to furnish 
 a refuge to the poor, and that the monks and all 
 things mentioned herein be under the domination of 
 the Abbot Bernon. But after his death that the 
 monks have the right to elect the master of their order.
 
 368 French Abbeys 
 
 "That they pay annually for five years to Rome 
 ten golden sous for the lighting of the Church of the 
 Apostles and placing themselves thus under the pro- 
 tection of the said apostles, and having for their de- 
 fender the Pontiff of Rome, they build themselves a 
 monastery at Cluny in the measure of their power 
 and knowledge. 
 
 "We will also that Cluny shall be open each day 
 by works of mercy to the poor, to strangers, and to 
 pilgrims. 
 
 "It pleases us to ordain that from this day the 
 monks of Cluny are fully affranchised from our power 
 and that of our family, and shall never be subject 
 either to the royal power, or to the yoke of any ter- 
 Testrial sovereignty. By God and all the saints and 
 under menace of the last judgment I forbid all secular 
 princes and the Pontiff of the Roman Church him- 
 self to invade the possessions of the servitors of God ; 
 and I conjure you, O holy apostles Peter and Paul, 
 and thou pontiff of the apostolic see, to withold from 
 the communion of the Church and from the life ever- 
 lasting all violators of my evident intention. Be de- 
 fenders of Cluny, and if any one, my relative or a 
 stranger, by any ruse attempt to render void this 
 testament, may God remove him from the living on 
 earth, and his name from the book of life. Let him 
 iDecome the companion of Judas in the torments of 
 damnation. That he be compelled, moreover, by 
 earthly law to pay an hundred pounds of gold to the 
 monks whom he strives to attack. And that this testa- 
 ament remain forever inviolable in all its stipulations. 
 
 "Done publicly in the city of Bourges, etc."
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 369 
 
 In scarce a century from its establishment, 
 the domination of Cluny extended over three 
 hundred and forty religious houses, and the 
 Abbot was a temporal prince. 
 
 Great factories grouped themselves around 
 the monastery : bakers, horticulturists, weav- 
 ers, shoe-makers, carpenters, masons, black- 
 smiths and cabinet-makers perfected their 
 crafts. 
 
 From 1089 to 1131 the artisan monks built 
 their famous church, the largest in Christen- 
 dom with the exception of Saint Peter's at 
 Rome. 1 and at this period sent out her build- 
 ing monks to erect other Abbeys in the style 
 of the maison-mkre, not in France alone, but 
 to England, to Italy, and to Germany as 
 well. 
 
 The style in which they builded the 
 Burgundian Romanesque remained pre-emi- 
 nent in monastic architecture long after the 
 Gothic had superseded it in the great cathe- 
 drals. It was derived from the buildings 
 erected in the Rhone Valley by the Romans 
 and can be studied side by side with the 
 original models. The barrel vault and low, 
 round arches, supported by columns which 
 
 i The church was 171 metres in length. Saint Peter's is 
 183 metres, Saint Paul's in London only 166.
 
 370 French Abbeys 
 
 appeared to have been stunted and some- 
 times contorted by the weight of the super- 
 structure, expressed everlasting durability, a 
 relentless severity, and inexorable gloom, 
 which comported well with monastic ideas. 
 The domination of the hierarchy was as much 
 a legacy from Roman masterfulness as the 
 architecture of the basilica. Something of 
 the Christian character must, however, be 
 grafted on the classical structure, and over 
 the main doorway there was always a rudely 
 carven representation of the last Judgment. 
 The most terrible of all we found at the Abbey 
 church of Moissac, where the imagination of 
 the sculptor was allowed the utmost licence 
 in depicting the tortures of the damned. 
 
 The gargoyles which from under the eaves 
 spouted water upon unwary passers it was 
 claimed represented evil spirits driven from 
 the sacred edifice, but the devils reappeared 
 again in the beautiful cloister and took pos- 
 session of the capitals of the columns. Saint 
 Bernard alone thought of satirising these 
 grotesques : 
 
 "What," he asks, "do these ridiculous monstrosi- 
 ties accomplish for the brothers reading in the cloister ? 
 Why are the filthy apes there ? and the savage lions ? 
 Why the monstrous centaurs, and the half -human
 
 CLOISTER OF THE ABBEY OF FONTEFROlDE. 
 By permission of Paul Robert. 
 
 CLOISTER OF THE ABBEY OF MOISSAC.
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 371 
 
 figures? You niay see there one body under many- 
 heads, or again many bodies with one head. On one 
 side is shown the tail of a serpent on a quadruped; 
 on the other a quadruped's head on a fish. There is 
 a beast like a horse in the fore part and a goat behind;; 
 here is a horned animal with the hinder part of a 
 horse. 
 
 " For God's sake, even if one is not ashamed of such 
 absurdities, why is he not distressed at the cost of. 
 them?" 
 
 The cost in no way troubled the Cluniae 
 architects, but they had another cause for 
 alarm. At the very moment of their highest 
 success another style, the ogival or Gothic, 
 was perfected in central France and was. 
 adopted for the great cathedrals. 
 
 It was impossible that the superior advan- 
 tages of the rival system should not in time 
 be recognised even at Cluny itself, and so at- 
 last the pointed arch crept into her chapels, 
 and will be found side by side with her own 
 distinctive architecture. 
 
 It is for these reasons that this Abbey is the 
 most interesting in all France to the architect. 
 
 And yet it is not so much what the visitor 
 can actually see at Cluny as what one can 
 read into its fast - disappearing fragments 
 which is so significant. A sordid provincial
 
 37 2 French Abbeys 
 
 town has been allowed to invade the dead 
 monastery, to cut streets through its church 
 and to burrow with shops many of its noble 
 buildings, as a foul river might have eaten 
 them away or choked them with slime. From 
 the very heart of the Abbey, however, the ig- 
 noble inundation has been sluiced and dyked 
 as from an island rescued from the torrent, 
 and kept sacred to the traditions of the past. 
 
 We arrived from Macon on a market-day; 
 every courtyard was filled with the carts of 
 peasants, and down the narrow streets came 
 charging herds of the great tawny and white 
 cattle for which the Charollais is famous. 
 Dashing into doorways we escaped the hoofs 
 and horns of the stampede, but not from 
 the clamour of their blue-bloused masters, who 
 filled the only inn to suffocation and wrangled 
 over their strong Burgundy. To what God- 
 forsaken spot have we come? was our first 
 query, but it needed only a glance at the 
 Chapel of Jean de Bourbon and the Tour 
 de 1'Eau Benite to change the scoffers to 
 devotees. 
 
 Forsaken of God indeed must their Abbey 
 have seemed to the dazed monks who saw 
 the wonderful church demolished when its 
 mere debris fills the architect's heart with
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 373 
 
 amazement. Two small palaces also remain 
 which are gems in their way, the logis ab- 
 batiales of Jean de Bourbon and Jacques cP 
 Amboise, who built the Cluny Palace in Paris 
 as the city residence of the Abbots of Cluny. 
 One other palace, called that of the Pope 
 Gelase, a part only of the suite of buildings 
 kept as guest-chambers, exists in a mutilated 
 and badly restored condition. There was 
 need for this extensive provision for hos- 
 pitality, for: 
 
 "In 1245," savs t ne ancient chronicle, "the Pope 
 [Innocent IV.], with all his Court, the Bishop of Senlis 
 and his household; the Bishop of Evreux with his 
 retinue; our sovereign lord the King of France. 
 [Saint Louis], with his mother, his brother, his sister, 
 and all their following; the Emperor of Constantin- 
 ople and his Court; the son of the King of Aragon. 
 with his suite ; the son of the King of Castile with his ,*; 
 and many other knights and clergy were entertained 
 at the same time within the monastery. 
 
 "And in spite of this great number of guests not 
 one of its three hundred monks was displaced from 
 his dormitory, refectory, infirmary, or chapter house, 
 or his cuisine in any way changed." 
 
 When Napoleon passed through Burgundy 
 on his way to receive at Milan the iron crown, 
 he was met at Macon by a deputation of the
 
 374 French Abbeys 
 
 municipality of Cluny, who begged him to 
 honour their town by a visit. He is said to 
 have replied brusquely: "You have allowed 
 your magnificent church to be sold and de- 
 stroyed. You are a horde of Vandals, and 
 I shall never visit Cluny." 
 
 A careful examination of the facts of his- 
 tory shows that the Emperor grievously 
 wronged the town. It was against the pro- 
 test of the municipality that the Abbey was 
 sold by the National Government to some 
 merchants of Macon. Liberty was given to 
 the purchasers to do what they chose with 
 their property, and the beautiful vaults and 
 arches reared with such munificence and de- 
 votion were blown up with gunpowder and the 
 materials sold for the basest uses. Seventy- 
 five blasts were necessary to overthrow the 
 Tour des Bisans, the mate of the Holy Water 
 Tower still standing, and nine days of mining 
 before the facade fell. 
 
 The town still persisted in its attempt to 
 save what it could. It possessed meadows 
 in the suburbs which, with its markets, it 
 exchanged in 1801 for a part of the Abbey. 
 
 It was not until 1865 that the Minister of 
 Public Instruction decided to create a new 
 department, that of Industrial Art, when the
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 375 
 
 Municipal Council of Cluny immediately of- 
 fered the Government the Abbey buildings 
 and grounds for its new school. No use more 
 in harmony with its original purpose could 
 have been made of the Abbey which so greatly 
 developed the building arts. To-day the 
 collections and ateliers of the Ecole Nationale 
 des Arts et des Metiers takes the place of the 
 rude workshops of the craftsmen-monks. 
 
 Frere Placide died in the bitterness of his 
 soul when his masterpiece was broken up, but 
 may we not believe that the Abbey is haunted 
 by a happy ghost who at last "sees of the 
 travail of his soul, and is satisfied." 
 
 It must not be imagined that, because 
 Cluny was so largely a prime mover in the 
 arts and crafts, she held no scholastic or 
 literary rank. While the Benedictines of 
 Saint Maur were pre-eminent as historians, 
 and the Abbey of Saint Martin of Tours has 
 a wider reputation for the artistry of its il- 
 luminations, at the end of the eleventh cent- 
 ury Cluny had become the "capital of the 
 intellectual life of all Europe." Three of her 
 monks became popes, Urban II., Pascal II., 
 and in 1049 sne sen ^ to Rome hi 111 whom his 
 enemies nicknamed Hildebrand (the brand 
 of hell), who, at first superior only of the
 
 376 French Abbeys 
 
 Monastery of St. Paul without the Gates, was to 
 become Pope Gregory VII., the most fearless, 
 zealous, and most masterful ruler who ever sat 
 in Saint Peter's chair. It was his ambition, 
 in great part realised, to make the Catholic 
 Church the mistress of the nations, even as 
 Cluny was queen of her dependent priories. 
 
 Besides its immense Abbey, Cluny pos- 
 sessed a college for her scholars near the 
 Sorbonne at Paris, where they could arm 
 themselves with the new methods of phil- 
 osophy taught by Abelard, a college also at 
 Dole, and one at Avignon which connected 
 the Abbey intimately with the papal court. 
 
 We may come very closely into touch with 
 the schoolmen of Cluny through a most for- 
 tunate theft, which preserved from destruc- 
 tion a large portion of her library. At the 
 time of the Revolution an historical com- 
 mission was created, charged with the task 
 of selecting from the archives of all monas- 
 teries whatever matter might be of interest 
 to French history, and some eight hundred 
 MSS. were transferred to the Bibliotheque 
 National at Paris. (See Note B.) 
 
 In the Abbacy of Peter the Venerable (1122- 
 1158), Cluny reached its high-water mark. 
 She had achieved power and distinction. The
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 377 
 
 Abbot Pons, immediately preceding Peter, 
 carried the sacred spear at the head of the 
 Christian army and put to rout the Saracens 
 at Ybelin, so saving Palestine. Saint Denis 
 was the only Abbey in France that could com- 
 pare with her in honour, for the King of France 
 himself did feudal service at Saint Denis, 
 from which he acknowledged to hold Vexin 
 as a fief, but Saint Denis was ranked after 
 Cluny, whose Abbot disputed with that of 
 Monte Cassino in Italy the title of Abbot of 
 Abbots. 
 
 Affairs of great political moment were re- 
 ferred to the arbitration of Peter the Vener- 
 able, notably the treaty between Aragon and 
 Castile which restored peace to Spain and left 
 it free later to combat the Mohammedans. 
 
 It was, however, the personal character of 
 Peter which conferred honour upon Cluny 
 and not his position which dignified the 
 man. 
 
 Closely allied with him we encounter at this 
 period two other equally remarkable Abbots 
 and schoolmen, Saint Bernard and Abelard, 
 who were to be epoch making in the history 
 of the Church and the nation. 
 
 Peter could comprehend the widely differ- 
 ent points of view of his friends better than
 
 378 French Abbeys 
 
 they could understand him, and while they 
 loved him they could neither love nor under- 
 stand each other. Bernard was a mystic as 
 bigoted as he was sincere, and Abelard a 
 radical and an agnostic. Peter possessed the 
 rarest, because the broadest, mind; fervently 
 devout and orthodox, he exhaled a sweet 
 Christian benignity. "The rule of Bene- 
 dict," he wrote Bernard, "is always subor- 
 dinate to the law of charity." 
 
 But Bernard could not agree with him, and 
 it was due to his relentless animosity that the 
 Council of Sens declared Abelard a heretic. 
 
 Peter the Venerable must have believed 
 that Abelard' s views were strangely warped, 
 but he respected him as honest, and when 
 trouble fell upon him dared to open the doors 
 of Cluny to him as an asylum. 
 
 The student who would follow Abelard's 
 footsteps from the beginning to the end of 
 his checkered career will seek for his first 
 traces in Brittany in the remains of the cele- 
 brated Abbey of Saint Gildas de Rhuys. 
 
 "In the diocese of Vannes 
 On the grey rocks of Morbihan 
 The very sea-shore where 
 In his great despair 
 Abbot Abelard walked to and fro.
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 379 
 
 Whilst overhead 
 
 The convent windows gleamed as red 
 
 As the fiery eyes of the monks within, 
 
 Who with jovial din 
 
 Gave themselves up to all kinds of sin." 
 
 The region in midsummer will well repay a 
 visit, for on the 26th of July at the neighbour- 
 ing Sainte Anne d'Auray is held the most in- 
 teresting of the "Pardons," a festival half 
 religious pilgrimage and half popular f^te, 
 which attracts the Brittany peasantry in all 
 the glory of their holiday costumes. 
 
 The old Castle of Sucinio, with whose lord 
 Abelard was embroiled, still gives a vivid 
 picture of feudal times; but with the excep- 
 tion of its chapel, which is now the parish 
 -church, there is scarcely a trace of the monas- 
 tery of which Longfellow wrote. 
 
 There is still less to remind one of Abelard 
 at Paraclete, the Abbey built for him by his 
 students, and which he later gave to Heloise 
 as a retreat for the community of nuns of 
 whom she was the adored Abbess. 
 
 But it is here at Cluny, walking in the 
 :still beautiful garden of the friendly Abbot, 
 that we have the clearest vision of that 
 storm-tossed man. It was here that he must 
 have written for her the touching hymn, At
 
 380 French Abbeys 
 
 Vespers. Its internal evidence, not alone the 
 reference to Bernard of Cluny's Jerusalem, 
 but the weariness, the disappointment, suffer- 
 ing, and repentance, all calmed at last in per- 
 fect peace, could have found its experience in 
 no other place. 1 
 
 When, a little later (April 21, 1142), Abelard 
 died, Peter the Venerable, loyal to the last, 
 wrote to Heloise : ' ' Thus the man who by his 
 singular authority in science was known to 
 nearly all the world and was illustrious 
 wherever he was known, learned in the school 
 of Christ to remain meek and lowly and, as it 
 is but right to believe, he has returned to 
 Him." The good Abbot of Cluny did even 
 more than this, for he personally conveyed 
 the body of his friend to Paraclete to the 
 
 1 AT VESPERS 
 
 (One of ninety-three hymns written by Abelard for the 
 use of Heloise and her nuns.) 
 
 Oh, what shall be, oh, when shall be, that holy Sabbath day, 
 Which heavenly care shall ever keep and celebrate alway, 
 When rest is found for weary limbs, when labour hath reward, 
 When everything for evermore is joyful in the Lord ? 
 
 Then, there secure from every ill, in freedom we shall sing 
 The songs of Zion hindered here by days of suffering, 
 And unto Thee, our gracious Lord, our praises shall confess 
 That all our sorrow hath been good, and Thou by pain canst 
 bless.
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 381 
 
 guardianship of Heloise, comforting her in 
 touching letters with his confidence in their 
 future reunion. 
 
 Saint Bernard in his contest with Abelard 
 and in his harsh judgment of Peter the Vener- 
 able, shows the unlovely side of his nature, 
 and yet his intolerance was perfectly in accord 
 with the simplicity and singleness of his faith. 
 He was a man of many contrasts, personally 
 all gentleness and humility, but when he be- 
 lieved himself the mouth-piece of God he 
 lashed hypocrites even when his superiors. 
 So he once reminded the Pope that the dig- 
 nity with which he was clothed did not hinder 
 him from being in himself naked, poor, and 
 miserable, made for labour and not for 
 honours, and that a pope without wisdom 
 gains no more respect from the elevation of 
 his position than a gibbering ape upon a roof. 
 When Suger, Abbot of Saint Denis, neglected 
 his Abbey to become Prime Minister, and en- 
 tertained the King and his Court at Saint 
 Denis, he reproached him with making his 
 Abbey ' ' a caserne of Satan and a barracks of 
 thieves," and he condemned the Clunists for 
 attempting to consecrate art to the service of 
 God. "The walls of your churches," he 
 wrote, "are resplendent while your poor lack
 
 382 French Abbeys 
 
 sustenance. The Church gilds her stones and 
 leaves her children naked. With the silver 
 of the miserable she charms the admiration of 
 the rich." 
 
 The Abbey of Citeaux itself, founded as 
 a reform and a protest against the luxury 
 of Cluny, seemed to Bernard worldly in 
 its ambitions, and he retired to the priory 
 of Clairvaux, where he instituted a sterner 
 rule. 
 
 His cherished plans perished. The crusade 
 which we will find him preaching at Vezelay 
 was a mistake; even his convent of Clair- 
 vaux after his death became wealthy and cor- 
 rupt, the Church for whose supremacy he 
 had laboured submitted to the monarchy, 
 heresy, whose seeds in Abelard's philosophy 
 he thought he had blotted out, sprang up a 
 fruitful crop all over France. 
 
 "What, then," asks an eminent writer, 1 "was the 
 work of Bernard? The futile opposition of a man of 
 genius to the currents of his century, perhaps a re- 
 tarding force in the normal development of the age 
 ... he has nevertheless left to the world the ex- 
 ample of an energy and a virtue which surpassed 
 humanity." 
 
 'Achilla Lachaise in the Revue Historique, 1899.
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 385 
 
 THE ABBEY OF VEZELAY 
 
 Well worthy a visit, apart from any his- 
 torical interest, is the Citadel - Abbey of 
 Vezelay. 
 
 True, it lies some twelve miles from the 
 nearest railroad station (and from the only 
 endurable hostelry, Avallon), but this will 
 give excuse for a driving tour through the 
 Morvan, a northern spur of the Cevennes, and 
 one of the most picturesque regions in eastern 
 France. 
 
 There is, moreover, a peculiar fitness in 
 visiting and studying this monastery in con- 
 nection with Cluny, for the development of 
 the domination of the great Abbey which we 
 have considered is best traced in the history 
 of her dependencies, and in none more 
 typically than in that of the Abbey of Veze- 
 lay. It gives us also one of the most dramatic 
 episodes in the history of Saint Bernard, 
 showing him to us at the very culminating 
 point of his popularity, when he must have 
 felt that he had achieved a triumph worthy 
 of his life of sacrifice. 
 
 It was not until the year 1096 that this 
 Abbey submitted to the spiritual rule of
 
 384 French Abbeys 
 
 Cluny and accepted Artaud, a Clunisian, as 
 its Abbot. In doing so it converted a power- 
 ful rival into an ally; and Vezelay had need 
 of assistance in holding its own against two 
 adversaries of a more mercenary character 
 than the great Order which sought only the 
 prestige of becoming its maison-mkre. The 
 Bishop of Autun and the Comte de Nevers 
 both claimed seigneurial rights over the Abbey 
 under the feudal system, claims which were 
 enforced by the Count of Nevers by forays 
 upon the estates of the Abbey; for Vezelay 
 had prospered and was rich in this world's 
 goods. An earlier Abbot had discovered (in- 
 vented, says the chronicle) the relics of Saint 
 Mary Magdalen, and pilgrims nocked from 
 every quarter to venerate them. The towns- 
 people outside the Abbey walls drove a thriv- 
 ing trade as innkeepers in providing for their 
 entertainment. Travelling merchants had 
 followed the pilgrims and had found such a 
 good mart for their wares that they estab- 
 lished themselves as citizens in the town, 
 which took upon itself the aspect of a fair. A 
 market was thus formed for the products 
 of the region and as the townspeople and 
 the monks became opulent the greed of the 
 Bishop of Autun and the Count of Nevers to
 
 5 "E 
 
 x 2 
 
 t- o 
 
 u. e 
 
 .2 
 
 LJ 
 
 II 
 
 1 >
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 385 
 
 collect their taxes and tithes became more 
 rapacious. But Abbot Artaud was a man 
 of fearless courage, challenging them to at- 
 tack an Abbey of the powerful order of Cluny. 
 He not only held his own against foes without, 
 but he beautified the Abbey within, building 
 the magnificent Church of the Madeleine in 
 the style of the Burgundian Romanesque 
 which his brother Clunisians had adopted. 1 
 
 The domineering Abbot was to pay dearly 
 for his love of building. To defray the cost 
 he imposed taxes on the townspeople, which 
 so infuriated them that they assassinated 
 him before the altar of the new church. 
 
 But a more ambitious and abler Abbot than 
 Artaud presently took his seat, in the person 
 of Ponce de Montboissier, who, though own 
 brother of Peter the Venerable, defended the 
 independence of Vezelay against all con- 
 testants, including Cluny itself. He lived to 
 see the Count of Nevers annihilated, the 
 Bishop of Autun humiliated, the turbulent 
 
 It was a successor of Abbot Artaud who built the ogival 
 choir and transept and who introduced the five elaborate 
 Gothic windows with trefoil arches over the portal, so richly 
 ornamented with statues in canopied niches. The illustra- 
 tion from a drawing before the restoration by Viollet le Due, 
 plainly shows the introduction of this group of later windows 
 into the facade of the original Romanesque edifice. 
 
 95
 
 386 French Abbeys 
 
 commune pacified, and his own Alma Mater, 
 Cluny, bereft of her spiritual child. 
 
 For after the rule of Peter the Venerable the 
 great mother Abbey entered upon the days of 
 her decadence. Wealth had brought ener- 
 vation, and the truly religious both within and 
 without her domination were eager for reform. 
 
 The Abbot Ponce de Montboissier was not 
 only daring but astute; he could discern the 
 tendency of the time, and though he was not 
 himself a religious enthusiast he knew how to 
 make such enthusiasm serve his ends. A 
 great popular movement was stirring France. 
 The cry rang through Christendom, "Protect 
 the holy city from the infidel." The King 
 of France, Louis VII., had sins upon his con- 
 science for which he was sincerely repentant, 
 but his chief councillor, Suger, opposed a cru- 
 sade. For once the astute Abbot of Saint 
 Denis overreached himself: his cold worldly 
 wisdom arguing the inadvisability of the 
 crusade fell upon ears stirred by the more 
 potent reasoning of Bernard : ' ' What shall it 
 profit a man if he gain the whole world and 
 lose his own soul? " 
 
 The Abbot Ponce saw his opportunity and 
 offered Vezelay as the rendezvous for more 
 complete discussion of the subject. The
 
 CHURCH OF LA MADELEINE, ABBEY OF VEZELAY. 
 From Villes du Departement de /' I'onne, by Victor Petit. 
 
 CHURCH OF THE ABBEY OF LA CHAISE DIEU. 
 By permission ot Neurdein Freres.
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 387 
 
 townspeople were delighted at this stroke of 
 diplomacy. It meant for them much that 
 an international exposition does for a city in 
 our own time a fictitious impulse to all its 
 industries and much gainful pillage of the 
 great convocation of pilgrims. It meant also 
 entertainment, excitement, the pageant of 
 chivalry and royalty, miracle plays and 
 thrilling of pulses under sensational preaching 
 for the devout, and clandestine amusements 
 of a questionable character for the un- 
 godly. For months beforehand the country 
 round poured its stores of food and drink and 
 forage into Vezelay. There never was a 
 more popular Abbot than Ponce de Mont- 
 boissier, and his praise was in the mouths of 
 the very communards who had howled for 
 the death of Artaud, for to Vezelay on the 
 following summer came the King and Queen 
 with their Court, with prelates and knights; 
 and an innumerable multitude of lesser folk. 
 Hither, too, the Abbot had induced Bernard 
 to come to address the vast assembly from a. 
 pavilion pitched on the plain outside the walls.. 
 The saint gave free rein to his impassioned, 
 eloquence. The beautiful Queen Eleanor of 
 Aquitaine sat beside him, "but," says the 
 chronicle, "no one noticed her."
 
 388 French Abbeys 
 
 Wild enthusiasm greeted the words with 
 which he closed his long harangue : 
 
 "Christian warriors, He who gave His life for you 
 to-day demandeth yours; illustrious knights, noble de- 
 fenders of the Cross, call to mind the example of your 
 fathers who conquered Jerusalem, and whose names 
 are written in heaven ! The living God hath charged 
 me to tell you that He will punish those who will not 
 defend Him against His enemies. Fly to arms, and let 
 Christendom re-echo with the words of the prophet 
 Woe to him who dyeth not his sword with blood! " 
 
 Shouts of ' ' God wills it ! " rent the air. The 
 King, kneeling, received the cross, and the re- 
 luctant Abbot Suger, whose practical mind 
 foresaw that the crusade must be a failure, 
 was left to carry on the government of France 
 in the absence of its sovereign. 
 
 Abbot Ponce, as shrewd as Suger, knew 
 that crusading could bring him only hardship 
 and danger and prudently remained in his 
 comfortable Abbey. His deep-laid schemes 
 had prospered. Vezelay, rich and illustrious, 
 now stood clear from all domination but his 
 own, and even the truculent Count of Nevers 
 had been so smitten to the heart by the 
 preaching of Bernard that, confessing himself 
 unworthy to fight for the Holy Sepulchre, he 
 had renounced his great estates and taken 
 upon himself the vows of a simple monk.
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 389 
 
 What other designs were floating in his 
 ambitious brain we know not, for suddenly, 
 in the midst of his triumphs, the great bell 
 of the Madeleine tolled for the most arrogant 
 of the Lord-Abbots of Vezelay the high and 
 mighty seigneur, Ponce de Montboissier. 
 
 The prestige of the hospitality extended to 
 all France with so munificent a hand made 
 Vezelay the rendezvous a half-century later 
 for Richard Coeur de Lion and Philippe 
 Auguste, as with their armies they set out 
 upon another and equally disastrous crusade.. 
 
 This was Vezelay's last great day. From 
 this time she steadily declined in importance, 
 and in 1310 the Abbot appealed to Philippe^ 
 le Bel to protect the Abbey from the en- 
 croachments of her neighbours. The desired, 
 protection was granted, but at the expense: 
 of the autonomy of the Abbey so earnestly 
 fought for by the Abbot Ponce. From 
 that time Vezelay, as a dependency of the 
 royal demesne, gained security but entered 
 upon the period of the abbe's commendataires 
 so destructive to monastic institutions. 
 
 There are, however, interesting episodes in 
 its history after this, as the career of the 
 fighting Abbot Hughes de Maisonconte dur- 
 ing the English invasion.
 
 39 French Abbeys 
 
 The impregnable, encircling walls and mas- 
 sive sentinel towers guarded town and Abbey 
 inviolate through all this stormy century and 
 later in the religious wars, when (as related 
 in the story of The Golden Mystery), under 
 the Abbot Odet de Coligny the Abbey of 
 Vezelay was a Huguenot citadel. 
 
 A citadel it is to-day even in its ruin, and 
 the conviction comes home in the very Church 
 of the Madeleine that it is because Vezelay 
 was a fortress that this noble church has sur- 
 yived its more magnificent mother, Cluny. 
 
 The supremacy of Cluny dwindled in the 
 twelfth century, as the sterner Cistercians 
 :rose to preponderance, but of the powerful Ab- 
 bey of Citeaux and Bernard's famous Clair- 
 vaux little remains to attract the traveller. 
 
 "The history of mediaeval monasticism," says Pro- 
 fessor Emerton, "is the history of a series of great 
 revivals. The singular thing is that when the mon- 
 asteries had got into a bad way it never occurred to 
 those most interested that the fault might be in the 
 monastic principle itself, but they invariably con- 
 cluded that this principle had not been carried out 
 thoroughly enough." 
 
 The order of the Carthusians was also a 
 protest against the luxury of the Benedictines, 
 while the Franciscans and Dominicans arose
 
 Abbey Pilgrimages 391 
 
 as reformers of the relaxed rule of the Cis- 
 tercians, and later the Fetdllants, the nuns of 
 Port Royal, and the monks of La Trappe, 
 with the earlier Jesuits, practised most con- 
 scientiously the severest rigours which hu- 
 manity could endure. 
 
 It is our business "not to criticise but, 
 what is far more difficult, to understand." 
 
 The best thought, the most fervent aspira- 
 tion, the most loving charity, was for cent- 
 uries enshrined in the Abbeys, and though 
 France has repudiated them the world, in 
 spite of their mistakes, must look back upon 
 their work with admiration and gratitude. 
 
 The poet Gresset, in leaving the monastic 
 life, thus voices the sentiments of modernity: 
 
 " ADIEUX AUX J&SUITES A M. I/ABB& MARGUET. 
 
 ". . . NC" pour 1'independance 
 Devois je plus long temps souffrir la violence, 
 D'une lente captivite"? 
 
 Mais ami, t'avouerai-je un tendre sentiment 
 Que ton coeur ge"nereux reconnoitra sans peine? 
 Oui, mme en la brisant, j'ai regrette" ma chaine! 
 
 Oui, j'ai vu des mortels, j'en dois ici 1'aveu, 
 Trop combattus, connus trop peu; 
 J'ai vu des esprits vrais, des coeurs incorruptibles 
 Voue"s a la patrie, a leurs rois, a leur Dieu,
 
 392 
 
 French Abbeys 
 
 A leurs propres maux insensibles, 
 
 Prodigues de leurs jours, tendres, parfaits amis, 
 
 Et souvent bienfaiteurs paisibles 
 
 De leurs plus f ougueux ennemis ; 
 
 Trop estime*s en fin pour tre moins hais. 
 
 Que d'autres s'exhalant dans leur haine insense'e, 
 
 En reproches injurieux, 
 
 Cherchent en les quittant a les rendre odieux, 
 
 Pour moi, fidele au vrai, fidele a ma pensee, 
 
 C'est ainsi qu'en partant je leurs fais mes adieux!
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 NOTE A (CHAPTER HI) 
 
 Another sermon to the birds is given in "The Life 
 of Saint Francis of Assisi" from the Legende Santo 
 Francisci of Saint Bonaventure, by Miss Lockhart: 
 
 "And as he was going his way he beheld some trees- 
 whereon sat birds well-nigh without number, whereat 
 Saint Francis marvelled and said to his companions , 
 Ye shall wait for me here upon the way and I will 
 preach unto my little sisters the birds . . . and 
 he said: Much bounden are ye, my little sisters, unto 
 God your Creator. Ye sow not, neither do ye reap, 
 and God feedeth you and giveth you the streams 
 and fountains for your drink and the high trees- 
 whereon to make your nests. And because ye know 
 not how to spin or sew, God clotheth you. Where- 
 fore your Creator loveth you much, and therefore, 
 my little sisters, beware of the sin of ingratitude, and 
 study always to give praises unto God." 
 
 NOTE B (CHAPTER HI) 
 
 "What 's his disease? 
 A very pestilent disease, my lord, 
 They call lycanthropia. 
 Those that are possessed therewith imagine 
 Themselves to be transformed into wolves, 
 
 393
 
 394 French Abbeys 
 
 Steal forth to churchyards in the dead of night 
 And dig dead bodies up, as two nights since 
 One met the duke 'bout midnight in a lane 
 Behind Saint Mark's Church, with the leg of a man 
 Upon his shoulder; and he howled fearfully, 
 Said he was a wolf, only the difference 
 Was, a wolf's skin was hairy on the outside, 
 His on the inside." 
 
 NOTE C (CHAPTER HI) 
 
 John Addington Symonds says of the lords of 
 Baux: 
 
 "The stern and barren rock from which they 
 sprang and the comet of their scutcheon are the true 
 symbols of their nature. History records no end of 
 their ravages and slaughters. It is a tedious cata- 
 logue of blood: how one prince put to fire and 
 sword the whole town of Courthezon; how another 
 was stabbed in prison by his wife; how a third be- 
 sieged the castle of his niece, and sought to under- 
 mine her chamber, knowing her the while to be in 
 childbed; how a fourth was flayed alive outside the 
 walls of Avignon. 
 
 "There is nothing terrible, splendid, and savage be- 
 longing to feudal history of which an example may 
 not be found in the Annals of Les Baux, as narrated 
 t>y their chronicler, Jules Canouge." 
 
 The heraldic symbol of the comet and their battle- 
 cry, "Au hasard Balthazar," are explained when we 
 remember that the name Bauz is derived from Bal- 
 thazar, which, again, is the Greek equivalent for
 
 Appendix 395 
 
 Belshazzar; and the lords of Baux were as proud to 
 believe themselves descended from the son of Ne- 
 buchadnezzar of Babylon as from the Balthazar who 
 was one of the three kings who saw the star in the 
 east, and followed it, bringing gifts to the new-born 
 Christ. 
 
 Vidal has not been traduced in this story. He 
 says of himself in what has been rightly called the 
 "chef d'ceuvre de la gasconade": 
 
 "In boldness I am as good as Roland and Olivier. 
 Messengers come to me with rings of gold and such 
 love letters that my heart rejoices. In all things I 
 show myself a knight. I know the whole business 
 of love and all that pertains to gallantry, for you 
 never saw one so charming in a lady's chamber nor 
 one so proud and so mighty in arms, for which 
 reason even such as do not see me are afraid of me." 
 
 (See The Troubadours at Home, by Professor Jus- 
 tin H. Smith, chapter xviii. and notes.) 
 
 NOTE A (CHAPTER V) 
 
 There is no hunt so interesting, because none so 
 elusive, as the hunt for a particular story which has 
 half revealed itself in some old document and then 
 incontinently taken to the woods. For years I had 
 been intrigued by this beautiful series of tapestries. 
 At each return to the Cluny Museum the Lady of the 
 Unicorn attracted and mystified me. Experts could 
 only hazard the opinion that it was from the Aubusson 
 manufactory with a guess at the date, and it was re- 
 served for a writer of fiction to put me on the track 
 of the facts.
 
 39 6 French Abbeys 
 
 Wandering one summer through George Sand's 
 enchanting country of Berry and Marche, and using 
 her books as our guide, we came upon Bourganeuf, 
 with its commandery of Knights Hospitallers and 
 its legend of Aubusson and Zizim. Close at hand was. 
 the manufactory of Aubusson and, forming a triangle: 
 with these points, the old castle of Boussac. Some- 
 where in this region we felt the mysterious lady must 
 have lived and have known both the Commander 
 of the Hospitallers and his romantic prisoner, and 
 suddenly George Sand, in her Promenades autour 
 d'un Village, opened the door of the castle and 
 showed us the tapestries as she saw them in 1857: 
 
 "It is to be wished," she wrote, "that the admin- 
 istration of Fine Arts would cause copies to be made. 
 I says copies, because the same entourage is required, 
 for the feudal chateau and the effigy of its beautiful 
 chatelaine which is there in its natural frame." 
 
 Madame Sand's description was a complete iden- 
 tification of the Cluny tapestries, the quarry whose: 
 trail I had so long sought: 
 
 "It is the entire life of a Merveitteuse of that time. 
 The chic in the cut of the garments, the brilliancy of 
 the agrafes of precious stones, and the transparency 
 of the gauze is rendered with a facility which time 
 has not destroyed. In many of the panels a young 
 girl dressed more simply is represented at the lady's 
 side offering her flowers or jewels, and elsewhere 
 her favourite bird. ... A white unicorn and a 
 lion hold lances with pennons. And here is what, 
 demands a commentary the crescent is sown in pro- 
 fusion on the standards and the lance shafts."
 
 Appendix 397 
 
 Madame Sand then quotes the conclusions of her 
 friend, Monsieur de la Touche, who in turn gives his 
 authorities, and after this rousing of the game, with . 
 such chroniclers as Philippe de Commines and the 
 Jesuit Rocoles in full cry, it was not difficult to run 
 it to earth in the legend of the "Blonde Agnes." 
 
 NOTE A (CHAPTER VI) 
 
 A Catholic historian, Puy Laurens, gives this ac- 
 count of the deed: 
 
 "The Count Simon, having thus taken the castle, 
 caused the above-named Aimeri, a notable noble- 
 man, to be hanged upon a gibbet ; also a small num- 
 ber of knights. The other nobles, to the number of 
 about eighty, were put to the sword, and lastly, 
 some three hundred heretics, burned in this world, 
 were thus given over by him to eternal fire; and 
 Guirande, the lady of the chateau, cast into a well, 
 vras there crushed with stones." 
 
 NOTE B (CHAPTER VI) 
 
 For the unvarnished historical facts from which 
 this story is drawn, see Bernard Delicieux el I' In- 
 quisition Albigeoise, by B. Haureau, Membre de 
 1'Institut. 
 
 NOTE A (CHAPTER VII) 
 
 Gresset describes the linguistic accomplishments 
 acquired by Ver Vert during his voyage down the 
 Loire in the following terms : 
 
 "II entonna tous les horribles mots 
 Qu'il avait su rapporter des bateaux.
 
 39 8 French Abbeys 
 
 Jurant, sacrant d'une voix dissolue 
 Faisant passer tout 1'enfer en revue. 
 'Jour de Dieu! Mor! Mille pipes de diables!' 
 Toute la grille a ces mots effroyables, 
 Tremble d'horreur; les nonnettes sans voix 
 Font en fuyant mille signes de croix." 
 
 The poem entitled Le Triomphe de I'Amant Vert 
 was written for Marguerite and has long been the 
 puzzle of critics. Grave discussion as to who this 
 "Green Lover" may have been, (who is said to have 
 died of grief and to have sought his lady through the 
 realms of Hades,) has from time to time occupied the 
 pens of savants. One believed that the author of 
 the poem, Jean Lemaire, meant thus to designate 
 himself, and our critic marvels that the poet could 
 have had the audacity to imagine that such public 
 declaration of his love would be pleasing to the 
 Duchess of Savoy. 
 
 And yet the meaning is sufficiently apparent. 
 The "Green Lover" boasts his facility in language, 
 in spite of his birth in Ethiopia, and laments that he 
 could not change his clothing to black when his 
 mistress was in mourning. 
 
 "Plut a Dieu que mon corps assez beau 
 Fut transform^ pour cette heure en corbeau, 
 Et mon collier vermeil et pourpurin, 
 Fut aussi brun qu'un Maure ou Barbarin 
 Lors te plairais je, et ma triste laideur 
 Me vaudrait mieux que ma belle verdeur." 
 
 It is even possible that the princes of the house of 
 Savoy regarded the parrot as a mascot, for, oddly
 
 Appendix 399 
 
 enough, in the preceding century the only gift which 
 Count Amadeus VI., returning from an unsuccessful 
 crusade, brought his wife was a parrot. (See The 
 Romance of the House of Savoy, by Althea Wiel, vol. 
 i., p. 220.) 
 
 NOTE A (CHAPTER XV) 
 
 A mystery surrounds the death of the Duchess of 
 Montbazon. The explanation ordinarily given is 
 that the Duchess died suddenly from a malignant 
 fever; that for some reason, either because the coffin 
 was too short or from a supposed necessity of their 
 ghoulish craft, the embalmers severed her head from 
 her body and laid it in the dish in the boudoir while 
 continuing their task in the adjoining chamber. 
 
 This story is most improbable. Had her husband 
 survived her the dealings of the De Rohans in the 
 past with their unfaithful wives would rouse a sus- 
 picion as to the manner of her taking-off. But the 
 Duke of Beaufort was also violent and brutal enough 
 to have killed her in a moment of jealousy. 
 
 He was the proprietor, as we know, of the neigh- 
 bouring chateau of Chenonceaux, where he had 
 hidden from Mazarin. If the belief of the fishwives 
 of the Halles that he was living at this time was true 
 another solution to the problem is imaginable. 
 
 Of the Abbe* de Ranc after his conversion we have 
 the most authentic and precise information, both 
 from his own writings and those of his contemporaries. 
 
 Saint Simon wrote in his memoirs: "Monsieur de 
 la Trappe had for me a charm which attached me to 
 him, and the holiness of the place enchanted me. I 
 returned to it every year for weeks at a time."
 
 400 French Abbeys 
 
 On one occasion the Duke took the painter Rigaud 
 -with him, who executed a portrait of Ranc6 from 
 memory. 
 
 A tradition lingers in the neighbourhood of La 
 "Trappe to the effect that the Abbot who succeeded 
 Ranee" showed to visitors a reliquary containing a 
 skull which he assured them was that of the Duchess 
 of Montbazon, and Chateaubriand in his Life of the 
 Abbe", concludes: "It is not improbable that Ranee" 
 obtained the relic which he adored." 
 
 (See also, Les Veritables Motifs de la Conver- 
 sion de I'Abbt de La Trappe, M. Laroque, Cologne, 
 MDCLXXXV. 
 
 NOTE B (CHAPTER XV) 
 
 Besides the charters and deeds of Burgundy, the 
 Abbey possessed hundreds of manuscripts, nearly all 
 the work of its own monks. While they are princi- 
 pally theological, the collection also comprises two 
 curious treatises on medicine by Averroes and an 
 anonymous monk of Monte Cassino; an essay by 
 Boccaccio, "Concerning Mountains, Fountains, and 
 Rivers," and a treatise on physics as taught at 
 Cluny by Dom Gand. There are also works on law 
 and some transcriptions of the classics. The initial 
 letters and illuminated borders of the missals and 
 other books executed by monks of the middle ages, 
 now preserved in the Bibliotheque Nationale of Paris, 
 show how artistic and beautiful was the work of the 
 masters of this art. The books are many of them 
 bound in repousse"e gold and silver set with gems and
 
 Appendix 401 
 
 relics, or in panels of ivory exquisitely traced, or in 
 velvet embroidered with gold thread and pearls. 
 
 These gems of art were executed in unheated and 
 in poorly lighted scriptoria. The transcriber of 
 Saint Jerome's Commentary says: "While I wrote 
 I froze, and what I was not able to finish during the 
 day was ended by moonlight. (Dum scripsit friguit, 
 et quod cum lumine soils scribere non posuit perfecit 
 famine noctis.)" 
 
 Only a few names of artists have come down to 
 us. Jean Bourdichon is high upon the list as the 
 illuminator of the Livre d'Heures of Anne de Bre- 
 tagne, so remarkable for its botanical and entomo- 
 logical accuracy. (See reproduction in colour.) 
 
 Good King Ren is famed as an illuminator, and 
 the Abbeys of Montmajour, Saint Martial, and Saint 
 Denis are eminent in this exquisite art. 
 
 Beautiful examples of Jean Foucquet's admired 
 work may be seen in the collection of the late Due 
 d'Aumale at Chantilly; but no French illuminators 
 were so revered as the Frati Jacopo and Silvestro, 
 whose right hands are preserved as sacred relics at the 
 Abbey of Camaldoli. 
 
 The three favourite illuminators of that great 
 patron of art, the Due de Berry, were Adrien Beau- 
 neveu, Jacquemart de Hendin, and Pierre de Lem- 
 burg. Two reproductions from MSS. executed for 
 the Due de Berry (in the fourteenth century) are 
 used as tail-pieces in this volume. The figures with 
 clasped hands (page 392) are the duke and his bride, 
 Jeanne de Boulogne. The ivy vine is a character- 
 istic motive of this period.
 
 402 French Abbeys 
 
 Attention may be drawn in this connection to the 
 symbolism in the head-pieces so carefully studied 
 from mediaeval sources by Miss Eleanor Eayres 
 Gardner. 
 
 Chapter I. Trefoil and seven stars, symbols of 
 mystery. 
 
 Chapter II. Copy of original sign of Frere Placide's 
 shop, supported by similar scroll-work containing the 
 words Requiescat in Pace. 
 
 Chapter III. Tracery from illumination by monks 
 of Montmajour. Butterflies escaping from jaws of 
 wolves. Central vignette, cloister and donjon-keep 
 of Abbey of Montmajour. 
 
 Chapter IV. Madonna, symbol of Saint Bernard's 
 vision. Three mitres = three bishoprics refused by 
 him. Beehive = Abbey of Clairvaux. 
 
 Chapter V. Chivalric weapons. 
 
 Chapter VI. Coat-of-arms of Albi, with dripping 
 daggers, symbolic of Inquisition. Blackberry vine, 
 thorns = tribulation ; fruit = success. 
 
 Chapter VII. Parrot and mistletoe. 
 
 Chapter VIII. Church and fleur-de-lys. 
 
 Chapter IX. Flageolet wreathed in lentil foliage, 
 the symbol of Saint Bruno. 
 
 Chapter X. Crown of thorns ; eglantine. 
 
 Chapter XI. Dragon. 
 
 Chapter XII. Bell of Mont Saint Michel. 
 
 Chapter XIII. Galleon and emblems of Mercury 
 = flight; crozier = emblems of an abbot. 
 
 Chapter XIV. Symbol of sacrifice. Emblems of 
 Joan of Arc. 
 
 Chapter XV. Pilgrim staves and shells.
 
 Appendix 403 
 
 Our cloister gleanings are ended, but by no means 
 finished, for no reference has been made to the 
 Abbeys of middle and south-western France, and this 
 from no lack of material. It is almost unpardon- 
 able to pass over Fontevrault, so intimately con- 
 nected with the Plantagenets, and Sainte Trinite' of 
 Vendome with the Bourbons, while the entire Parisian 
 group, and especially the vanished Temple, and Saint 
 Germain des Pro's, so pre-eminent that the French 
 refer to it simply as "L'Abbaye," cry shame upon 
 our neglect, while the good nuns of Port Royal and* 
 the naughty ones of Chelles and many another 
 nunnery demand "Place aux dames.'' But fie upon 
 our greediness! Shall we leave nothing untouched 
 for those who come later? And gentle George Her- 
 bert reminds us that 
 
 "The courteous guest 
 Will no more talk all than eat all the feast.'* 
 
 So gentle reader Vale et bene te I
 
 AUTHORITIES 
 
 OTHER THAN THOSE REFERRED TO IN NOTES 
 
 Basquin, Dom Andre", Moine Benedictin L'Abbaye 
 de Saint Wandrille. 
 
 La Biographie Universelle. 
 
 Bonhours, P., Vie de Pierre d'Aubusson. 
 
 Chartreux, Un, La Grande Chartreuse. 
 
 Cherest, M. A., Vezelay, Etude Historique. 
 
 Corroyer, Ed., L 'Architecture Gothique. 
 
 Cucherat, L'Abbe', Cluny au X7 me Siecle. 
 
 Dupasquier, Louis (Restorer of the Church) L* 
 Eglise de Brou. 
 
 Fay, R. E., French Painting in the Middle Ages* 
 
 Gaillardin, Les Trappistes, L'Ordre de Citeaux. 
 
 Gaily, M. (Chanoine de Sens, Ancien President de 
 la Soce'ite' d' Etudes d'Avallon), Vezelai Monastiqtte. 
 
 Germain Dom Michel, and Mabillon, MonasMcon 
 Gallicanum, pub. 1645. 
 
 Gonse, Louis, UArt Gothique. 
 
 La Grande Encyclopedie. 
 
 Gresset, Poems. 
 
 Guadet, J., Professeur a 1'Ecole des Beaux Artsv 
 Elements et Theorie de L' Architecture, tome iii. ; Les 
 Edifices Religieux. 
 
 Hare, Augustus, Walks in Southern France. 
 405
 
 406 French Abbeys 
 
 Helyot, Histoire des Ordres Religieux. 
 
 Honnecourt, Villard de, Album of Drawings at 
 Bibliotheque Nationale. 
 
 Hippeau, M., L'Abbaye de Saint Etienne de Caen. 
 
 Herard, M., Etudes ArchSologiques sur les Abbayes 
 de I'Ancien Diocese de Paris. 
 
 Jameson, Mrs., History of the Monastic Orders. 
 
 Lasteyrie, Robert de, et Quicherat, Melanges d' 
 Histoire et d'Archtologie. 
 
 Lasteyrie, Ferdinand de, Histoire de la Peinture 
 sur Verre. 
 
 Labetti, Alphonse, Les Manuscrits et VArt de les 
 Orntr. 
 
 Lama, Charles de, Bibliotheque des Ecrivains de la 
 Congregation de Saint Maur. 
 
 Lenormant, Charles, L'Abbaye de Solesmes. 
 
 Lentheric, C., Le Rhone (Les Freres Pontifes). 
 
 La Rousse Encycloptdie. 
 
 Male, Emile, L'Art Religieux du XIII. Siecle en 
 France. 
 
 Marquessac, Baron H. de, Hospitaliers de Saint 
 Jean de Jerusalem. 
 
 Michel, Auvergne et Velay. 
 
 Montalembert, Le Comte de, The Monks of the West. 
 
 Normand, Charles, Guide Archeologique de Paris. 
 
 Penjon, A., Professeur a 1'Ecole de Cluny, Cluny, 
 La Ville et L'Abbaye. 
 
 Petit, Victor, Villes et Campagnes du Departement 
 de I'Yonne. 
 
 Pore"e, le Chanoine (Ancien Directeur de la Socie'te' 
 des Antiquaires de Normandie), Historie de I'Abbaye 
 du Bee.
 
 Authorities 407 
 
 Pommeraye, Frangois de, L'Abbaye de Saint Ouen. 
 
 Putnam, George Haven, Books and their Makers 
 during the Middle Ages. 
 
 Quicherat, Jules, Documents Indits. 
 
 Ricard, E., Cluny et ses Environs. 
 
 Sabatier, Paul de, Saint Francis of Assisi. 
 
 Sainte-Beuve, Histoire de Port Royal. 
 
 Sommerard, du, Les Arts du Moyen Age. 
 
 Storrs, Richard S., D.D., Bernard of Clairvaux. 
 
 Smith, Professor Justin H., The Troubadours at 
 Home. 
 
 Taylor et Nodier, La Normandie Monumental et 
 Pittoresque. 
 
 Vertot, 1'Abbe* de, Histoire des Chevaliers Hos- 
 pitaliers de S. Jean de Jerusalem. 
 
 Viollet le Due, "Architecture Monastique," in his 
 Dictionnaire d' Architecture. 
 
 Wallon, H. (Secretaire de 1'Acad^mie des In- 
 scriptions, etc.) i Jeanne d'Arc.
 
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