CHAPTER XII. PROVINCIAL PLEASURES
That same day Roland put into execution part of his plans for hisguest's amusement. He took Sir John to see the church of Brou.
Those who have seen the charming little chapel of Brou know that it isknown as one of the hundred marvels of the Renaissance; those who havenot seen it must have often heard it said. Roland, who had counted ondoing the honors of this historic gem to Sir John, and who had not seenit for the last seven or eight years, was much disappointed when, onarriving in front of the building, he found the niches of the saintsempty and the carved figures of the portal decapitated.
He asked for the sexton; people laughed in his face. There was no longera sexton. He inquired to whom he should go for the keys. They repliedthat the captain of the gendarmerie had them. The captain was not faroff, for the cloister adjoining the church had been converted into abarrack.
Roland went up to the captain's room and made himself known asBonaparte's aide-de-camp. The captain, with the placid obedience of asubaltern to his superior officer, gave him the keys and followed behindhim. Sir John was waiting before the porch, admiring, in spite of themutilation to which they had been subjected, the admirable details ofthe frontal.
Roland opened the door and started back in astonishment. The church wasliterally stuffed with hay like a cannon charged to the muzzle.
"What does this mean?" he asked the captain of the gendarmerie.
"A precaution taken by the municipality."
"A precaution taken by the municipality?"
"Yes."
"For what?"
"To save the church. They were going to demolish it; but the mayorissued a decree declaring that, in expiation of the false worship forwhich it had served, it should be used to store fodder."
Roland burst out laughing, and, turning to Sir John, he said: "Mydear Sir John, the church was well worth seeing, but I think what thisgentleman has just told us is no less curious. You can always find--atStrasburg, Cologne, or Milan--churches or cathedrals to equal the chapelof Brou; but where will you find an administration idiotic enough todestroy such a masterpiece, and a mayor clever enough to turn it into abarn? A thousand thanks, captain. Here are your keys."
"As I was saying at Avignon, the first time I had the pleasure of seeingyou, my dear Roland," replied Sir John, "the French are a most amusingpeople."
"This time, my lord, you are too polite," replied Roland. "Idiotic isthe word. Listen. I can understand the political cataclysms which haveconvulsed society for the last thousand years; I can understand thecommunes, the pastorals, the Jacquerie, the maillotins, the SaintBartholomew, the League, the Fronde, the dragonnades, the Revolution; Ican understand the 14th of July, the 5th and 6th of October, the 20thof June, the 10th of August, the 2d and 3d of September, the 21st ofJanuary, the 31st of May, the 30th of October, and the 9th Thermidor; Ican understand the egregious torch of civil wars, which inflames insteadof soothing the blood; I can understand the tidal wave of revolution,sweeping on with its flux, that nothing can arrest, and its reflux,which carries with it the ruins of the institution which it has itselfshattered. I can understand all that, but lance against lance, swordagainst sword, men against men, a people against a people! I canunderstand the deadly rage of the victors, the sanguinary reaction ofthe vanquished, the political volcanoes which rumble in the bowels ofthe globe, shake the earth, topple over thrones, upset monarchies, androll heads and crowns on the scaffold. But what I cannot understand isthis mutilation of the granite, this placing of monuments beyond thepale of the law, the destruction of inanimate things, which belongneither to those who destroy them nor to the epoch in which they aredestroyed; this pillage of the gigantic library where the antiquariancan read the archeological history of a country. Oh! the vandals, thebarbarians! Worse than that, the idiots! who revenge the Borgia crimesand the debauches of Louis XV. on stone. How well those Pharaohs, Menaes,and Cheops knew man as the most perversive, destructive and evil ofanimals! They who built their pyramids, not with carved traceries, norlacy spires, but with solid blocks of granite fifty feet square! Howthey must have laughed in the depths of those sepulchres as they watchedTime dull its scythe and pashas wear out their nails in vain againstthem. Let us build pyramids, my dear Sir John. They are not difficult asarchitecture, nor beautiful as art, but they are solid; and that enablesa general to say four thousand years later: 'Soldiers, from the apex ofthese monuments forty centuries are watching you!' On my honor, my lord,I long to meet a windmill this moment that I might tilt against it."
And Roland, bursting into his accustomed laugh, dragged Sir John in thedirection of the chateau. But Sir John stopped him and asked: "Is therenothing else to see in the city except the church?"
"Formerly, my lord," replied Roland, "before they made a hay-loft ofit, I should have asked you to come down with me into the vaults ofthe Dukes of Savoy. We could have hunted for that subterranean passage,nearly three miles long, which is said to exist there, and which,according to these rumors, communicates with the grotto of Ceyzeriat.Please observe, I should never offer such a pleasure trip except to anEnglishman; it would have been like a scene from your celebrated AnneRadcliffe in the 'Mysteries of Udolpho.' But, as you see, that isimpossible, so we will have to be satisfied with our regrets. Come."
"Where are we going?"
"Faith, I don't know. Ten years ago I should have taken you to the farmswhere they fatten pullets. The pullets of Bresse, you must know, have aEuropean reputation. Bourg was an annex to the great coop of Strasburg.But during the Terror, as you can readily imagine, these fatteners ofpoultry shut up shop. You earned the reputation of being an aristocratif you ate a pullet, and you know the fraternal refrain: 'Ah, ca ira, caira--the aristocrats to the lantern!' After Robespierre's downfallthey opened up again; but since the 18th of Fructidor, France has beencommanded to fast, from fowls and all. Never mind; come on, anyway.In default of pullets, I can show you one thing, the square wherethey executed those who ate them. But since I was last in the town thestreets have changed their names. I know the way, but I don't know thenames."
"Look here!" demanded Sir John; "aren't you a Republican?"
"I not a Republican? Come, come! Quite to the contrary. I considermyself an excellent Republican. I am quite capable of burning off myhand, like Mucius Scaevola, or jumping into the gulf like Curtius to savethe Republic; but I have, unluckily, a keen sense of the ridiculous.In spite of myself, the absurdity of things catches me in the side andtickles me till I nearly die of laughing. I am willing to accept theConstitution of 1791; but when poor Herault de Sechelles wrote to thesuperintendent of the National Library to send him a copy of the lawsof Minos, so that he could model his constitution on that of the Isleof Crete, I thought it was going rather far, and that we might very wellhave been content with those of Lycurgus. I find January, February, andMarch, mythological as they were, quite as good as Nivose, Pluviose,and Ventose. I can't understand why, when one was called Antoine orChrystomome in 1789, he should be called Brutus or Cassius in 1793.Here, for example, my lord, is an honest street, which was calledthe Rue des Halles (Market Street). There was nothing indecent oraristocratic about that, was there? Well, now it is called--Just wait(Roland read the inscription). Well, now it is called the Rue de laRevolution. Here's another, which used to be called Notre Dame; it isnow the Rue du Temple. Why Rue du Temple? Probably to perpetuate thememory of that place where the infamous Simon tried to teach cobbling tothe heir of sixty-three kings. Don't quarrel with me if I am mistaken byone or two! Now here's a third; it was named Crevecoeur, a name famousthroughout Bresse, Burgundy and Flanders. It is now the Rue de laFederation. Federation is a fine thing, but Crevecoeur was a fine name.And then you see to-day it leads straight to the Place de la Guillotine,which is, in my opinion, all wrong. I don't want any streets that leadto such places. This one has its advantages; it is only about a hundredfeet from the prison, which economized and still economizes the tumbreland the horse of M. de Bourg. By the way, have you notic
ed that theexecutioner remains noble and keeps his title? For the rest, the squareis excellently arranged for spectators, and my ancestor, Montrevel,whose name it bears, doubtless, foreseeing its ultimate destiny, solvedthe great problem, still unsolved by the theatres, of being able to seewell from every nook and corner. If ever they cut off my head, which,considering the times in which we are living, would in no wise besurprising, I shall have but one regret: that of being less well-placedand seeing less than the others. Now let us go up these steps. Here weare in the Place des Lices. Our Revolutionists left it its name, becausein all probability they don't know what it means. I don't knowmuch better than they, but I think I remember that a certain Sieurd'Estavayer challenged some Flemish count--I don't know who--and thatthe combat took place in this square. Now, my dear fellow, here is theprison, which ought to give you some idea of human vicissitudes. GilBlas didn't change his condition more often than this monument itspurposes. Before Caesar it was a Gaelic temple; Caesar converted it into aRoman fortress; an unknown architect transformed it into a military workduring the Middle Ages; the Knights of Baye, following Caesar'sexample, re-made it into a fortress; the princes of Savoy used it for aresidence; the aunt of Charles V. lived here when she came to visit herchurch at Brou, which she never had the satisfaction of seeing finished.Finally, after the treaty of Lyons, when Bresse was returned to France,it was utilized both as a prison and a court-house. Wait for me amoment, my lord, if you dislike the squeaking of hinges and the gratingof bolts. I have a visit to pay to a certain cell."
"The grating of bolts and the squeaking of hinges is not a veryenlivening sound, but no matter. Since you were kind enough to undertakemy education, show me your dungeon."
"Very well, then. Come in quickly. I see a crowd of persons who look asif they want to speak to me."
In fact, little by little, a sort of rumor seemed to spread throughoutthe town. People emerged from the houses, forming groups in the streets,and they all watched Roland with curiosity. He rang the bell of thegate, situated then where it is now, but opening into the prison yard. Ajailer opened it for them.
"Ah, ah! so you are still here, Father Courtois?" asked the young man.Then, turning to Sir John, he added: "A fine name for a jailer, isn'tit, my lord?"
The jailer looked at the young man in amazement.
"How is it," he asked through the grating, "that you know my name, whenI don't know yours?"
"Good! I not only know your name, but also your opinions. You are an oldroyalist, Pere Courtois."
"Monsieur," said the jailer, terrified, "don't make bad jokes if youplease, and say what you want."
"Well, my good Father Courtois, I would like to visit the cell wherethey put my mother and sister, Madame and Mademoiselle Montrevel."
"Ah!" exclaimed the gatekeeper, "so it's you, M. Louis? You may well saythat I know you. What a fine, handsome young man you've grown to be!"
"Do you think so, Father Courtois? Well, I can return the compliment.Your daughter Charlotte is, on my word, a beautiful girl. Charlotte ismy sister's maid, Sir John."
"And she is very happy over it. She is better off there than here, M.Roland. Is it true that you are General Bonaparte's aide-de-camp?"
"Alas! I have that honor, Courtois. You would prefer me to be Comted'Artois's aide-de-camp, or that of M. le Duc of Angouleme?"
"Oh, do be quiet, M. Louis!" Then putting his lips to the young man'sear, "Tell me, is it true?"
"What, Father Courtois?"
"That General Bonaparte passed through Lyons yesterday?"
"There must be some truth in the rumor, for this is the second timethat I have heard it. Ah! I understand now. These good people who werewatching me so curiously apparently wanted to question me. They werelike you, Father Courtois: they want to know what to make of GeneralBonaparte's arrival."
"Do you know what they say, M. Louis?"
"Still another rumor, Father Courtois?"
"I should think so, but they only whisper it."
"What is it?"
"They say that he has come to demand the throne of his Majesty LouisXVIII. from the Directory and the king's return to it; and that ifCitizen Gohier as president doesn't give it up of his own accord he willtake it by force."
"Pooh!" exclaimed the young officer with an incredulous air bordering onirony. But Father Courtois insisted on his news with an affirmative nod.
"Possibly," said the young man; "but as for that, it's news for me. Andnow that you know me, will you open the gate?"
"Of course I will. I should think so. What the devil am I about?"and the jailer opened the gate with an eagerness equalling his formerreluctance. The young man entered, and Sir John followed him. The jailerlocked the gate carefully, then he turned, followed by Roland and theEnglishman in turn. The latter was beginning to get accustomed tohis young friend's erratic character. The spleen he saw in Roland wasmisanthropy, without the sulkiness of Timon or the wit of Alceste.
The jailer crossed the yard, which was separated from the law courtsby a wall fifteen feet high, with an opening let into the middle ofthe receding wall, closed by a massive oaken door, to admit prisonerswithout taking them round by the street. The jailer, we say, crossed theyard to a winding stairway in the left angle of the courtyard which ledto the interior of the prison.
If we insist upon these details, it is because we shall be obliged toreturn to this spot later, and we do not wish it to be wholly unfamiliarto our readers when that time comes.
These steps led first to the ante-chamber of the prison, that is to sayto the porter's hall of the lower court-room. From that hall ten stepsled down into an inner court, separated from a third, which was that ofthe prisoners, by a wall similar to the one we have described, only thisone had three doors. At the further end of the courtyard a passage ledto the jailer's own room, which gave into a second passage, on whichwere the cells which were picturesquely styled cages. The jailer pausedbefore the first of these cages and said, striking the door:
"This is where I put madame, your mother, and your sister, so that ifthe dear ladies wanted either Charlotte or myself, they need but knock."
"Is there any one in the cell?"
"No one"
"Then please open the door. My friend, Lord Tanlay, is a philanthropicEnglishman who is travelling about to see if the French prisons are morecomfortable than the English ones. Enter, Sir John."
Pere Courtois having opened the door, Roland pushed Sir John into aperfectly square cell measuring ten or twelve feet each way.
"Oh, oh!" exclaimed Sir John, "this is lugubrious."
"Do you think so? Well, my dear friend, this is where my mother, thenoblest woman in the world, and my sister, whom you know, spent sixweeks with a prospect of leaving it only to make the trip to the Placede Bastion. Just think, that was five years ago, so my sister wasscarcely twelve."
"But what crime had they committed?"
"Oh! a monstrous crime. At the anniversary festival with which the townof Bourg considered proper to commemorate the death of the 'Friend ofthe People,' my mother refused to permit my sister to represent one ofthe virgins who bore the tears of France in vases. What will you! Poorwoman, she thought she had done enough for her country in giving itthe blood of her son and her husband, which was flowing in Italy andGermany. She was mistaken. Her country, as it seems, claimed further thetears of her daughter. She thought that too much, especially as thosetears were to flow for the citizen Marat. The result was that on thevery evening of the celebration, during the enthusiastic exaltation,my mother was declared accused. Fortunately Bourg had not attained thecelerity of Paris. A friend of ours, an official in the record-office,kept the affair dragging, until one fine day the fall and death ofRobespierre were made known. That interrupted a good many things, amongothers the guillotinades. Our friend convinced the authorities that thewind blowing from Paris had veered toward clemency; they waited fifteendays, and on the sixteenth they told my mother and sister that they werefree. So you understand, my friend--and
this involves the most profoundphilosophical reflection--so that if Mademoiselle Teresa Cabarrus hadnot come from Spain, if she had not married M. Fontenay, parliamentarycounsellor; had she not been arrested and brought before the pro-consulTallien, son of the Marquis de Bercy's butler, ex-notary's clerk,ex-foreman of a printing-shop, ex-porter, ex-secretary to the Communeof Paris temporarily at Bordeaux; and had the ex-pro-consul not becomeenamored of her, and had she not been imprisoned, and if on the ninthof Thermidor she had not found means to send a dagger with these words:'Unless the tyrant dies to-day, I die to-morrow'; had not Saint-Justbeen arrested in the midst of his discourse; had not Robespierre, onthat day, had a frog in his throat; had not Garnier de l'Aube exclaimed:'It is the blood of Danton choking you!' had not Louchet shouted for hisarrest; had he not been arrested, released by the Commune, recapturedin spite of this, had his jaw broken by a pistol shot, and been executednext day--my mother would, in all probability, have had her head cut offfor refusing to allow her daughter to weep for citizen Marat in one ofthe twelve lachrymal urns which Bourg was desirous of filling with itstears. Good-by, Courtois. You are a worthy man. You gave my mother andsister a little water to put with their wine, a little meat to eat withtheir bread, a little hope to fill their hearts; you lent them yourdaughter that they might not have to sweep their cell themselves. Thatdeserves a fortune. Unfortunately I am not rich; but here are fiftylouis I happen to have with me. Come, my lord."
And the young man carried off Sir John before the jailer, recovered fromhis surprise and found time either to thank Roland or refuse the fiftylouis; which, it must be said, would have been a remarkable proof ofdisinterestedness in a jailer, especially when that jailer's opinionswere opposed to those of the government he served.
Leaving the prison, Roland and Sir John found the Place des Licescrowded with people who had heard of General Bonaparte's returnto France, and were shouting "Vive Bonaparte!" at the top of theirlungs--some because they really admired the victor of Arcola, Rivoli,and the Pyramids, others because they had been told, like Pere Courtois,that this same victor had vanquished only that Louis XVIII. might profitby his victories.
Roland and Sir John, having now visited all that the town of Bourgoffered of interest, returned to the Chateau des Noires-Fontaines, whichthey reached before long. Madame de Montrevel and Amelie had gone out.Roland installed Sir John in an easy chair, asking him to wait a fewminutes for him. At the end of five minutes he returned with a sort ofpamphlet of gray paper, very badly printed, in his hand.
"My dear fellow," said he, "you seemed to have some doubts about theauthenticity of that festival which I just mentioned, and which nearlycost my mother and sister their lives, so I bring you the programme.Read it, and while you are doing so I will go and see what they havebeen doing with my dogs; for I presume that you would rather hold mequit of our fishing expedition in favor of a hunt."
He went out, leaving in Sir John's hands a copy of the decree of themunicipality of the town of Bourg, instituting the funeral rites inhonor of Marat, on the anniversary of his death.