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Title: East of Paris
Sketches in the Gâtinais, Bourbonnais, and Champagne
Author: Matilda Betham-Edwards
Release Date: August, 2005 [EBook #8734]
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“Our low life was the level’s and the night’s.
He’s for the morning”?
To my surprise I found the church of St. Aspais locked. A courteous
hair-dresser thereupon told me that all churches in Melun were closed from
noon till half past one, but that, as noon had only just struck, if I were
brisk I might possibly catch the sacristan. After a pretty hot chase I
succeeded in finding a deaf, decrepit, dingy old man who showed me round
the church, although evidently very impatient for his mid-day meal. He
informed me that this closing of churches at Melun had been necessitated
of late years by a series of robberies. From twelve till half past one
o’clock no worshippers are present as a rule, hence the thieves’
opportunity. Unfortunately marauders do not strip beautiful interiors of
the tinselly gew-gaws that so often deface them; in this respect, however,
St. Aspais being comparatively an exception. Alike within and without the
proportions are magnificent, and the old stained glass is not marred by
modern crudities. I do not here by any means exhaust the sights of this
ancient town, from which, by the way, Barbizon is now reached in twenty
minutes, an electric tramway plying regularly between Melun and that
famous art pilgrimage.
“And Freedom shrieked when Kosciusko fell.”Some time or other the Russian Imperial pair may visit Fontainebleau, whilst an English tourist with The Daily Mail in his pocket would naturally and sheepishly look the other way. Another half hour’s stroll and we find ourselves in an atmosphere of art, fashion and sociability. Only a mile either of woodland, field path or high road separates Bourron from its more populous and highly popular neighbour, Marlotte. Here every house has an artist’s north window, the road is alive with motor cars, you can even buy a newspaper! Marlotte possesses a big, I should say comfortable, hotel, is very cosmopolitan and very pretty. Anglo-French households here, as at Bourron, favour Anglo-French relations. In Marlotte drawing-rooms we are in France, but always with a pleasant reminder of England and of true English hospitality.
“This guest of summer,
The temple-haunting martlet, does approve
By his loved mansionry that the heaven’s breath
Smells wooingly here: no jutty frieze, buttress,
Nor coigne of vantage, but this bird hath made
His pendent bed, and procreant cradle: Where they
Most breed and haunt, I have observed the air
Is delicate.”
About this time at Bourron the village street was alive with swallows
preparing, I presume, for departure southwards. A beautiful sight it was
to see these winged congregations evidently concerting their future
movements.
Another feature to be mentioned is the number of large handsome moths
frequenting these regions. One beautiful creature as large as a swallow
used to fly into our dining room every evening for warmth; fastening
itself to the wall it would there remain undisturbed until the morning.
I finish these reminiscences of Bourron by the following citation from
Balzac’s “Ursule Mirouët”:—
“On entering Nemours at five o’clock in the morning, Ursule woke up
feeling quite ashamed of her untidiness, and of encountering Savinien’s
look of admiration. During the time that the diligence took to come from
Bouron (sic), where it stopped a few minutes, the young man had
observed Ursule. He had noted the candour of her mind, the beauty of her
person, the whiteness of her complexion, the delicacy of her features, the
charm of the voice which had uttered the short and expressive sentence, in
which the poor child said everything, while wishing to say nothing. In
short I do not know what presentiment made him see in Ursule the woman
whom the doctor had depicted, framed in gold, with these magic words:—‘Seven
to eight hundred thousand francs!’”
Holiday tourists in these parts cannot do better than put this love-story
in their pockets.
“Should life be dull and spirits low, ‘Twill soothe us in our sorrow, That earth has something yet to show, The bonny holms of Yarrow.”La Charité, picturesque of the picturesque—according to French accounts, English, we have none—for many years had been a Yarrow to me, a reserve of delight, held back from sheer Epicureanism. As, on the 12th of September, the cumbersome old omnibus rattled over the unpaved streets, both to myself and fellow traveller came a feeling of disenchantment. We had apparently reached one more of those sleepy little chefs-lieux familiar to both, places of interest certainly, the sleepiest having some architectural gem or artistic treasure. But here was surely no Yarrow! A few minutes later we discovered our error. Hardly had we reached our rooms in the more than old-fashioned Hôtel du Grand Monarque, than from a side window, we caught sight of the Loire; so near, indeed, lay the bright, blue river, that we could almost have thrown pebbles into its clear depths; quitting the hotel, half a dozen steps, no more were needed, an enchanting scene burst upon the view. Most beautiful is the site of La Charité, built terrace-wise, not on the skirts but on the very hem of the Loire, here no revolutionary torrent, sweeping away whole villages, leaving only church steeples visible above the engulfing waters, as I had once seen it at Nantes, but a broad, smooth, crystal expanse of sky-blue. Over against the handsome stone bridge to-day having its double in the limpid water, we see a little islanded hamlet crowned with picturesque church tower; and, placing ourselves midway between the town and its suburban twin, obtain vast and lovely perspectives. Westward, gradually purpling as evening wears on, rises the magnificent height of Sancerre, below, amid low banks bordered with poplar, flowing the Loire. Eastward, looking towards Nevers, our eyes rest on the same broad sheet of blue; before us, straight as an arrow, stretches the French road of a pattern we know so well, an apparently interminable avenue of plane or poplar trees. The river is low at this season, and the velvety brown sands recall the sea-shore when the tide is out. Exquisite, at such an hour are the reflections, every object having its mirrored self in the transparent waves, the lights and shadows of twilight making lovely effects. As is the case with Venice, La Charité should be reached by river, and a pity it seems that little steamers do not ply between all the principal towns on the Loire. How enchanting, like the immortal Vert-Vert, of Gresset’s poem, to travel from Nevers to the river’s mouth! If I had headed this paper merely with the words “La Charité,” I should surely be supposed to treat of some charitable institution in France, or of charity as worked out in the abstract, for this first of Christian virtues has given the place its name, presumably perpetuating the charitableness of its abbatial founders. Just upon two thousand years ago, some pious monks of the order of Cluny settled here, calling their foundation La Charité. Gradually a town grew around the abbey walls, and what better name for any than this? So La Charité it was in early feudal times, and La Charité it remains in our own. The place itself is as antiquated and behindhand as any I have seen in France, which is saying a good deal. A French gentleman, native of these parts, told me that in his grandfather’s time our Hôtel du Grand Monarque enjoyed a fine reputation. In many respects it deserves the same still, excellent beds, good cooking, quietude and low prices not being so common as they might be in French provincial inns. The house, too, is curious, what with its spiral stone staircases, little passages leading to one room here, to another there—as if in former days travellers objected to walls that adjoined those of other people—and unaccountable levels, it is impossible to understand whether you were on the first floor or the second floor, house-top, or basement. Our bedrooms, for instance, reached by one of the spiral stone staircases just named never used by myself without apprehension, landed us on the edge of a poultry yard; I suppose a wide bit of roof had been converted into this use, but it was quite impossible to make out any architectural plan. These rooms adjoining this basse-cour, hens and chicks would enter unceremoniously and pick up the crumbs we threw to them. Fastidious tourists might resent so primitive a state of things, the hotel, I should say, remaining exactly what it was under the Ancien Régime. The beauty and interest of various kinds around, more than make up for small drawbacks. Here the archaeologist will not grudge several days. Ruined as it is, the ancient abbey may be reconstructed in the mind’s eye by the help of what we see before us. The fragments of crumbling wall, the noble tower and portal, the delicately sculptured pillars, cornices, and arches, enable us to build up the whole, just as Cuvier made out an entire skeleton from the examination of a single bone. These grand architectural fragments have not been neglected by the learned. Unfortunately, and exceptionally, La Charité possesses neither public library nor museum, but at Nevers the traveller would surely find a copy of Prosper Merimée’s “Notes Archéologiques” in which is a minute account of these. Alike without and within the ruins show a medley of styles and richest ornamentation. {Illustration} The superb north-west tower, that forms so striking an object from the river, is said to be in the Burgundian style; rather should we put it after a Burgundian style, so varied and heterogeneous are the churches coming under this category. Again, the guide books inform us that the open space between this tower and the church was occupied by the narthex, a vast outer portico of ancient Burgundian churches used for the reception of penitents, catechumens, and strangers. All interested in ecclesiastical architecture should visit the abbey church of Vézelay, which possesses a magnificent narthex of two storeys, restored by the late Viollet le Duc. Vézelay, by the way, may be easily reached from La Charité. Next to the elaborate sculptures of this grand tower, will be noted the superb colour of the building stone, carved out of deep-hued gold it looks under the burning blue sky. And of a piece are arch, portico and column, one and all helping us to reconstruct the once mighty abbey, home of a brotherhood so powerful as to necessitate disciplinary measures on the part of the Pope. The interior of the church shows the same elaborateness of detail, and the same mixture of styles, the Romanesque-Burgundian predominating, so, at least, affirm authorities. The idler and lover of the picturesque will not find time hang heavy on his hands here. Very sweet are the riverside views, no matter on which side we obtain them, and the quaintest little staircases of streets run from base to summit of the pyramidally-built town. A climb of a quarter of an hour takes us to an admirable coign of vantage just above the abbey church, and commanding a view of Sancerre and the river. That little town, so splendidly placed, is celebrated for its eight months’ defence as a Huguenot stronghold. La Charité, with most mediaeval towns, was fortified, one old city gate still remaining. To-day, as when that charming writer, Émile Montégut visited the place more than a generation ago, the townspeople ply their crafts and domestic callings abroad. In fine weather, no work that can possibly be done in the open air is done within four walls. Another curious feature of these engaging old streets, is the number of blacksmiths’ shops. It would seem as if all the horses, mules, and donkeys of the Nièvre were brought hither to be shod, the smithy fires keeping up a perpetual illumination. A third and still more noteworthy point is the infrequency—absence, I am inclined to say—of cabarets. Soberest of the sober, orderliest of the orderly, appear these good folks of La Charité, les Caritates as they are called, nor, apparently, has tradition demoralised them. One might expect that a town dedicated to the virtue of almsgiving would abound in beggars. Not one did we see.
“Was naught around but images of rest,
And flowery beds, that slumberous influence kest{1},
Sleep-soothing groves and quiet lawns between,
From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green.”
{Footnote 1: Cast}
A drive of a few minutes had landed us in the heart of this little
Paradise, baths and Casino standing in the midst of park-like grounds.
Apparently Pougues, that is to say, the Pougues-les-Eaux of later days,
has been cut out of natural woodland, the Casino gardens and its
surroundings being rich in forest trees of superb growth and great
variety. The wealth of foliage gives this new fashionable little
watering-place an enticingly rural appearance, nor is the attraction of
water wholly wanting. To quote once more a most quotable, if little read,
poet:—
“Meantime, unnumbered glittering streamlets played, And hurled everywhere their water’s sheen, That, as they bickered through the sunny glade, Though restless still, themselves a lulling murmur made.”A pretty little lake, animated with swans, varies the woodland scenery, and tropical birds in an aviary lend brilliant bits of colour. The usual accessories of a health resort are, of course, here—reading room, concert hall, theatre, and other attractions, rapidly turning the place into a lesser Vichy. The number and magnificence of the hotels, the villas and cottages, that have sprung up on every side, bespeak the popularity of Pougues-les-Eaux, as it is now styled, the surname adding more dignity than harmoniousness. One advantage Pougues possesses over its rivals, is position. At Aix-les-Bains, Plombières, Salins, and how many other inland spas, you are literally wedged in between shelving hills. If you want to enjoy wide horizons, and anything like a breeze, you must get well outside the town. Never in hot, dusty, crowded cities have I felt so half-suffocated as at the two first named places. Pougues, on the contrary, lies in a broad expanse of beautifully varied woodland and champaign, no more appropriate site conceivable for the now popular air-cure. “Pougues-les-Eaux, Cure d’Eau and Cure d’Air,” is now its proud title, folks flocking hither, not only to imbibe its delicious, ice-cold, sparkling waters, but to drink in its highly nourishing air. The iron-gaseous waters resemble in properties those of Spa and Vichy. From one to five tumblers are ordered a day, according to the condition of the drinker, a little stroll between each dose being advisable. With regard to the air-cure, visitors are reminded that at Pougues they find the four kinds of walking exercise recommended by a German specialist, namely, that on quite level ground; secondly, a very gradual climb; thirdly, a somewhat steeper bit of up-hill; and, fourthly, the really arduous ascent of Mont Givre. In order to entice health-seekers, all kinds of gratifications await them on the summit, restaurant, dairy, reading room, tennis court, and croquet ground, to say nothing of a panorama almost unrivalled in eastern France. We have, indeed, climbed the Eiffel Tower, in other words, are on a level with that final stage from which floats the Tricolour. Looking east we behold the sombre Morvan and Nevers rising above the Loire, whilst westward, beyond the plain and the Loire, may be descried the cathedral of Bourges. How many regions visited and revisited by myself now lie before my eyes as on a map—the Berri, Georges Sand’s country, the little Celtic kingdom of the Morvan, on the borders of which, for so many years, that charming writer, Philip Gilbert Hamerton, made his home; the Nivernais, with its souvenirs of Vert-Vert and Mazarin, or, rather, Mazarin and Vert-Vert, the Department of the Allier made from the ancient province of the Bourbonnais. A wanderer in France should never be without his Arthur Young. That “wise and honest traveller,” of course, had been before us, but travelling in a contrary direction. “From the hill that descends to Pougues,” he wrote on his way from Nevers to Fontainebleau, in 1790, “is an extensive view to the north, and after Pouilly a (sic) fine scenery, with the Loire doubling through it.” But the great farmer made this journey in mid-winter, thus missing its charm. And Arthur Young was ever too intent upon crops and roots to notice wild flowers. Had he traversed this region earlier in the year, he might have missed an exquisite feature, namely, the sweeps of autumn crocus. Just now the rich pastures around Pougues, as well as suburban lawns and wayside spaces, were tinted with delicate mauve, the ground being literally carpeted with these flowers. It was as if the lightest possible veil of pale purple covered the turf, the same profusion being visible on every side. One final word about this sweet and most unmusically named place. On no occasion and nowhere have I been received with more cordiality than at dear little Pougues, a place I was told there utterly ignored by my country people. I do honestly believe, indeed, that myself and fellow traveller were the first English folk to wander about those delicious gardens, and taste the incomparable waters, cool, sparkling, invigorating as those of Spa. One enterprising proprietor of an excellent hotel was so anxious to secure an English clientèle, the best clientèle in the world, so hotel keepers aver, that she offered me a handsome percentage on any visitors I would send her. In the most delicate manner I could command, I gave her to understand that my inquiries about Pougues were not made from a business point of view, but that I should certainly proclaim its many attractions on the house-tops.
“As moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine,”is the second self, the never to be obliterated shadow of the first and far more beautiful church. Two towers of equal height, twice two spires like as cherries and in close juxtaposition rise above the town, an ensemble spoiling the symmetry of outline and general effect. How much better off was Moulins when, instead of four spires, she gloried in two? Then, of a verity, the city would have presented as noble a view as those of La Charité and Nevers from the Loire. The ancient château now used as a prison and the Jacquemart or clock tower are rare old bits of architecture, of themselves worth the journey to Moulins. Jacquemart, it may be here explained, is a corruption of Jacques Marques, the name of a famous Flemish clockmaker who lived in the fourteenth century. Amongst other achievements of this artist is the clock of Nôtre Dame, Dijon, as curious in its way as the still more celebrated cock-crowing time-piece of Strasburg, and declared by Froissart to be the wonder of Christendom. World-wide became the reputation of Jacques Marques, and thus it came about that clock towers generally were called after his masterpieces. On my former hurried visit to Moulins, as was the case with my predecessor, Arthur Young over a hundred years before, “other occupations” had “driven even Maria and the poplar from my head, and left me no room for the Tombeau de Montmorenci.” In other words, I had visited Rome without seeing the Pope. On this second, and more leisurely visit, I had ample opportunity of making up for the omission. Truly, the tomb of the last Montmorency deserves a deliberate examination. It is one of the most sumptuous monuments in the world and as a testimony of wifely devotion worthy to be ranked with that of the Carian Queen to her lord, the Mausolus, whose name is perpetuated in the word mausoleum. French history cannot be at everyone’s fingers’ ends, so a word here about the last of the Montmorencys, victim not so much of Richelieu’s policy as of a kinsman’s meanness. When the dashing, devil-me-care, hitherto fortunate Henri de Montmorency, Marshal of France and Governor of Languedoc, plotted against Richelieu or rather against the Royal supremacy, it was mainly at the instigation of Gaston of Orleans. No more abject figure in French annals than this unworthy son of the great Gascon, Henri IV., thus portrayed by one whose tongue was as sharp as his sword: “Gaston of Orleans,” wrote Richelieu, “engaged in every enterprise because he had not the will to resist persuasion, dishonourably drawing back from want of courage to support his associates.” In the conspiracy of Montmorency, Gaston had played the part of instigator, leaving the other to his fate as soon as the situation became perilous. Every effort was made to save the duke, but in vain, and at the age of thirty-seven he ended a brilliant, adventuresome life on the scaffold at Toulouse. One thought was uppermost in my mind when, a few years ago, I visited that city, the only French city that welcomed the Inquisition. As I stood in the elegant Capitol, musing on Montmorency’s story, it occurred to me how few of us realise what a respecter of persons was French law under the ancien régime. Hard as seems the fate of this dashing young duke, we must remember what would have been his punishment, but for his titles of nobility. Death swift and sudden, in other words, by decapitation, was the choicest prerogative of the nobility; tortures before and after condemnation, breaking on the wheel, burning alive, and other hideous ends, being the lot of the people. This monument, so noteworthy alike from a historic and artistic point of view, was saved from destruction by ready wit. When, in the ferment of revolution, the iconoclastic spirit had got the upper hand, a citizen of Moulins met a mob, bent on destroying what they supposed to be the tomb of some hated grand seigneur, oppressor of the poor. Following the rabble to the convent, no sooner did he see the mallet and hammer raised than this worthy bourgeois, who himself deserves a monument, shouted, “Hands off, citizens! Yonder reposes no aristocrat, but as good a citizen as any man-jack of you, aye, who had the honour of losing his head for having conspired against a King.” The crowd melted away without a word, the monument remains intact, and generations have had bequeathed to them an example of what presence of mind may effect, not with nerve, sinew, or bodily prowess, but with the tongue. The Convent of the Visitation, to which Montmorency’s widow retired, and in the chapel of which she raised this memorial, is now converted into a Lycée. It is a handsome building and was built by Madame de Chantal, foundress of the Order of Visitadines, or nuns whose office it was to visit the sick. This pious lady, the friend of St. François de Sales, and herself canonised by Pope Benoît XIV., was the bosom friend of Felicia Orsini, Montmorency’s wife, who succeeded her as Superior of the convent on her death. But even an abbess, who had taken the veil, could not refuse visits, some of which must have been as a second entering of iron into this proud woman’s soul. The coward Gaston, when passing through Moulins, sought an interview. Richelieu, also, whose emissary received the following message: “Tell your master, that my tears reply for me and that I am his humble servant.” Years after, Louis XIV. visited the once beautiful and high-spirited Italian, now an aged abbess occupying a bare cell and from his lips, despot and voluptuary though he was, might always be expected the right word in the right place. “Madame,” he said, on taking leave, “we may learn something here. I need not ask you to pray for the King.” {Illustration: TOMB OF MONTMORENCY, MOULINS.} But interest in personalities is leading me from what I have set myself to describe, namely, portraiture in marble. For this magnificent work thus perpetuates the last of the Montmorencys and his wife as they were when separated for ever in their prime. Imposing although the monument is as a whole, these two figures in white marble, standing out against a dark background, engross attention. The entire work covers the wall behind the high altar, the sculptures being in pure white marble, the framework in black. Dismissing the niched Mars and Hercules on the one side, the allegorised Religion and Charity on the other, we study the central figures both offering interest of quite different kind. Why a dashing soldier and courtier of the Renaissance should be represented in the guise of a Roman warrior, is an anomaly, irreconcilable as that of pagan gods and the personification of Christian attributes here placed vis-à-vis. Perhaps the grief-stricken wife, who was, as it appears, of a highly romantic and adventuresome turn, wished thus to commemorate the heroic qualities of her husband; she might also have wished to dissociate him altogether from his own time, a period of which, in her eyes, he would be the victim. Be this as it may, the Roman undress and accoutrements do not harmonise with a physiognomy essentially French and French of a given epoch. Whilst the interest aroused by the Duchess’s effigy is purely artistic, that of her husband excites curiosity rather than admiration. The head is strangely poised, much as if the artist intended to suggest the fact of decapitation; obliquity of vision, a defect hereditary in the Montmorencys, is also indicated, adding singularity. The half-recumbent figure by the Duke’s side, is of rare pathos and beauty. Almost angelic in its resignation and religious fervour is the upturned face. The drapery, too, shows classic grace and simplicity, as strongly contrasted with the martial travesty opposite as are the two countenances in expression. Long will art-lovers linger before this monument raised by wifely devotion, a monument, with so many another, perpetuating rather the devotion of the survivor than claims on posterity of the dead. And let not hasty travellers follow Arthur Young’s example, jotting down, after a visit to Moulins, “No room for the Tombeau de Montmorenci.”
Hors d’oeuvre Salade de saison
Radis, beurre frais, Langue fumée Fruits
Bouchées à la Reine Brioche. Nougat
Daim, sauce chassuer Desserts varies
Galantine truffée Vins
Salmis de canards Pineau, Bordeaux, Champagne
Choux-fleurs Café, Liqueurs.
Dinde truffée.
Looking down the lines of well-dressed people, all with the exception of
ourselves belonging to the same rank as the bride, I could but be struck
with the good looks, gentle bearing, and general appearance of everyone.
As to the head forester, he was one of Nature’s gentlemen, and might
easily have passed for a general or senator. At the table sat several
young girls of the village, each having a cavalier, all these dressed very
neatly and comporting themselves like well-bred young ladies without
presumption or awkwardness. During the inevitable pauses between dish and
dish, one after another of these pretty girls stood up and gratified the
company with a song, the performance costing perhaps an effort, but being
got through simply and naturally. In the midst of the banquet, which
lasted over three hours, two professionals came to sing and recite. From
the breakfast table, after toasts,—the afternoon being now well
advanced—we again formed a procession to the Mairie, in front of
which al fresco dancing commenced. Add that this out-of-door ball
lasted till a second dinner, the dinner being followed by a second ball
lasting far into the small hours. Nor did the celebration end here. The
following day was equally devoted to visits, feasts, toasts, and dancing.
What a national heritage is this capacity for fellowship, gaiety, and
harmless mirth!
Bar-sur-Aube lies twelve miles off and a beautiful drive it is thither
from Soulaines. We gradually leave forest, pasture and arable land,
finding ourselves amid vineyards. At the little village of
Ville-sur-Terre, we one day halted at a farm-house for a chat, the
housewife most kindly presenting me with two highly decorative plates.
As we approach Bar-sur-Aube we come upon a wide and beautiful prospect,
wooded hills dominating the plain.
This little town is very prettily situated, and like every other in France
possesses some old churches. Perhaps its most famous child is Bombonnel,
the great panther-slayer, born close by, who died at Dijon and whose
souvenirs bequeathed to me as a legacy I have given elsewhere. The son of
a working glazier, he made a little fortune as hawker of stockings in the
streets of New Orleans, returned to France, cleared the Algerian Tell of
panthers, for a time enjoyed ease with dignity in Burgundy; on the
outbreak of the Franco-German War in 1870, as leader of a thousand francs-tireurs,
gave the Germans more trouble than any commander of an army corps, twice
had a price of £1,000 set upon his head, was glorified by Victor Hugo,
received the decoration of the Legion of Honour, and as a reward for his
patriotic services several hundred acres of land in Algeria. A gigantic
statue of Sant Hubert, the patron of hunters, now commemorates the great
little man, for he was short of statue, in the cemetery of Dijon.
Bar-sur-Aube is connected with another notoriety, the infamous Madame de
la Motte, the arch-adventuress, who, a descendant herself of Valois kings,
proved the undoing of Marie Antoinette. As was truly said by a great
contemporary:—“The affair of the Diamond Necklace,” wrote Mirabeau,
“has been the forerunner of the Revolution.”
This Jeanne de Valois, rescued from the gutter by a benovolent lady of
title and a charitable priest, presents a psychological study rare even in
the annals of crime. Never, perhaps, were daring, unscrupulousness, and
the faculty of combination linked with so complete a disregard to
consequences. The moving spring of her actions, often so complicated and
foolhardy, was love of money and display. It seemed as if in her person,
was accumulated the lavishness of French Royal mistresses from Diane de
Poitiers down to Madame Dubarry. There was a good deal of the Becky Sharp
about her too, although there is nothing in her history to show that, like
Thackeray’s heroine, “she had no objection to pay people if she had the
money.” If, indeed, anything in the shape of ethics guided the most
astoundingly ingenious swindler we know of, it was some such principle as
this: she ought to have been at Versailles, there being received as a
recognised Princess of the Royal House; since, through no fault whatever
of her own, she was not, she had a perfect right to avenge herself upon
royalty and society in general.
How she wormed herself into the confidence of the Cardinal de Rohan, a man
of the world and of education, would seem wholly unaccountable but for one
fact. The Prince Primate had faith in Cagliostro and his nostrums, and
when an individual has recourse to astrologers and fortune-tellers, we are
quite in a position to gauge his mental condition. Like Mdlle. Couesdon of
contemporary fame, Cagliostro held intercourse with the angel Gabriel, but
his occult powers and privileges far exceeded those of the Parisian
lady-seer. He was actually in the habit of dining with Henri IV., and two
days before the Cardinal’s arrest made his client believe that he had just
accepted such an invitation!
It had been Rohan’s ambition to obtain the favour of the Queen and a
foremost position at court, hence the readiness with which he fell into
the trap. For “the Valois orphan,” now Comtesse de la Motte, not only
possessed great personal attractions, but an extraordinary gift of
persuasiveness. Without much apparent trouble she made the Cardinal
believe that she was in the Queen’s favour, and indeed in her confidence.
Having got so far the rest was easy.
How the acquisition of the already celebrated Diamond Necklace was first
thought of, how, by the aid of willing tools, she matured and carried out
her deep-laid and diabolical scheme, reads like an adventure from the
“Arabian Nights.” The personification of the Queen by a little dressmaker
who happened to resemble her, the forgery of the Royal signature, the
final attainment of the diamonds, all seemed so easy to this consummate
trickster that it is small wonder she became intoxicated with success and
blind to consequences. No sooner was the necklace in her possession than,
of course, as fast as possible it was turned, not into money, but into
money’s worth. Houses and lands, equipages and furniture, costly apparel,
and delicacies for the table were purchased, not with louis d’or, but with
diamonds.
We read of her triumphant entry into the little town of Bar-sur-Aube,
cradle of the Saint Rémy-Valois family, in a berline with white trappings
and the Valois armorials, before and behind the carriage, which was drawn
by “four English horses with short tails,” rode lacqueys, whilst on the
footboard ready to open the door stood a negro, “covered, from head to
foot with silver.” Still more dazzling was the dress of Madame la
Comtesse, richest brocade trimmed with rubies and emeralds. As to the
Count, not content with having rings on every finger he wore four gold
watch chains! Besides holding open house when at home, the pair had a
table always spread with dainties for those who chose to partake in their
hosts’ absence. Among the toys paid for in diamonds was an automatic bird
that warbled and flapped its wings. This was intended for the amusement of
visitors.
The carnival proved of short duration. It was on the 1st of February,
1783, that the diamond necklace was handed over to Madame de la Motte,
Rohan receiving in return the forged signature of “Marie-Antoinette de
France.” On August of the same year, in the midst of a banquet given at
Bar-sur-Aube, a visitor arrived with startling news. “The Prince Cardinal
de Rohan, Grand Almoner of France, was on the Festival of Assumption,
arrested in pontifical robes, charged with having purchased a diamond
necklace in the name of the Queen.”
The charm of these little French towns and rustic spots lies in their
remoteness, the feeling they give us of being so entirely aloof from
familiar surroundings. In many a small Breton or Norman town we hear
little else but English speech, and in the one general shop of tiny
villages see The New York Herald on sale. But from the time of
leaving Nemours to that of reaching the farthest point mentioned in these
sketches we encounter no English or American tourists. This essentially
foreign atmosphere is not less agreeable than conducive to instruction. We
are thus thrown into direct contact with the country people and are
enabled to realise French modes of life and thought.
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