Part 7

Amans Alexis Monteil wrote at his great work no more. Fortune so far smiled on him that he succeeded to a sum of £300. With this he bought a cottage at Cely, a pretty village near Fontainebleau, and lived on hermit’s fare. He wandered and mused in the Bois de Boulogne; he sat on the stone seats of the gardens of the Luxembourg; but he saw no one at home, visited no one abroad. He had ventured all the happiness of his life on two frail barks, and both had foundered. Annette and Alexis, both had gone, and why should he labour more? The villagers saluted him as he passed, out of respect to age and sorrow, and he repaid them after his kind. He traced up their genealogies—discovered for them where their ancestors had come from, and finished by composing a veritable History of the hamlet where he lived. The historian of the commons of France became also historian of Cely, and more—he became its benefactor and friend. Just before his death, he founded recompenses for good conduct. He consented to the sale of a certain portion of his domain, and with the interest of the money so raised he ordered medals of honour—silver, with an inscription—to be given annually to the man who should drain a marshy piece of ground—to him who should plant the finest vine round his cottage—to the best labourer—to the village crone or washerwoman who should amuse her circle of listeners with the most entertaining (and innocent) stories—and to the shepherd who should show the kindest treatment of his flock, _remembering that all have the same Creator_. And thus mindful of his poorer neighbours, and just and benevolent to the end, Amans Alexis Monteil closed his honourable life. His work has been twice crowned by the Institute of France; it is in its fourth edition; it has been eulogised by Guizot—it will be the delight of many generations. But what cares Amans Alexis for favour that comes so late? Sufficient for him is the neglected turf grave in the churchyard of Cely, with the short inscription of his name and the record of his seventy-five years of pain. “Requiescat in pace.”

The _History of the French of Various Conditions_ extends over the five last centuries, and the plan of each century differs. The Fourteenth is painted in a series of letters, as we have said, from a certain Friar John, a Cordelier of Tours, to a brother of his rule residing at Toulouse. The character of the worthy letter-writer is charmingly sustained. Keen, cautious, observant, and yet with the simplicity natural to the inmate of a cloister, he gives a clear description to his friend of everything he sees, every conversation he hears, every place he visits. He enters the huts where poor men lie, and we learn the state of the labourer; he enters the dungeon, and reveals the secrets of the prison-house; he goes to the Fair of Montrichard, and we walk about among the booths. He gives the minutest details of the royal court—and, in short, manages to lift the reader completely back into the days of rich monasteries and private wars, and tournaments and duels. He has no antiquarian disquisitions or tiresome catalogues of furniture or dress; we rely on the faithfulness of the loquacious and gentlemanly Friar, and feel certain they are real letters written at the dates assigned. The fifteenth century is presented with the same marvellous freshness of detail, but without the individuality of the inimitable Friar John. It is a pity that excellent special correspondent did not turn out to be the Wandering Jew, and traverse all the centuries from first to last. We must suppose he died full of years and honours—let us hope, as head of some noble abbey—before the fifteenth century began. His place, however, is admirably supplied. We perceive a change taking place in the relations of the different classes of society, and the change is traceable in still stronger colours when, in the sixteenth century, we come to the impression produced by his visit to France on a clear-headed unprejudiced Spaniard. His glance is as penetrating, and his inquiries as minute, as those of Friar John and the other; but the same may be said of all the supposed observers. They are all mere secretaries of Monteil, and write the same pure idiomatic and characteristic style. The laughing eyes and scornful lips of the Cordelier of Tours, the Hermit of Cely, come out through all disguise; and the Spaniard of the sixteenth century, and “Memoirist” of the seventeenth, are only admirable continuers of the correspondence commenced between the priests. It will, therefore, be like mounting to the fountain-head if we go back to the fourteenth century, and read the account of Friar John’s visit to the great Castle of Montbason—a perfect representative of a feudal residence just before feudalism began to fall into decay. A dreadful event has happened in the chateau. While the Sire de Montbason is absent at the head of his vassals assisting the king, he left everything in charge of the grand huntsman. The grand huntsman, in pursuing a peasant who had offended him, knocks out his brains on the arch of a gateway, and is found dead on the road. The peasant, as if he had been guilty of murder, is immediately tied up to a gallows and hanged. During the preparations the wife and children of the wretched man stood at the foot of the wall crying “Mercy, mercy!” but the representatives of the grand huntsman are inexorable. The peasant swings off, and the cries of the widow and orphan ascend to Heaven for vengeance. The Curé of the parish hears of the transaction, and excommunicates the revengeful sons of the grand huntsman. The Sire de Montbason returns and compensates the peasant’s family, and founds a perpetual mass for the poor man’s soul. But nothing will do; noises are heard in the castle, furniture moves about, chains rattle; the house is haunted, and the spirits resist the exorcisms of the Curé, and kick up wilder confusion than ever. The Sire sends to the monastery of the Cordeliers at Tours, and Friar John is fixed upon by the prior. There could not have been a better choice. He goes and prays, and burns incense, and lights candles, and the supernatural noises are heard no more. He remains at the chateau an honoured guest, and the almoner even resigns to him the privilege of saying grace before and after meat. John is overwhelmed with the honour, but accepts the duty; and, we doubt not, was the pleasantest ghost-layer the Sire de Montbason had ever seen. His nineteenth letter to Friar Andrew is all about the house he is in:—

“Montbason is one of the finest chateaus in France. Fancy to yourself a superb position—a steep hill rugged with rocks, and indented with deep ravines and precipices. On the ascent is the castle. The little houses at its feet increase its apparent size. The Indre seems to retire respectfully from the walls, and forms a semicircle round its front. You should see it at sunrise, when its outside galleries glitter with the arms and accoutrements of the guard, and its towers are shining in the light. The gate, flanked with little towers, and surmounted by a lofty guard-house, is covered all over with heads of wolves and wild boars. Enter, and you have three enclosures, three ditches, three drawbridges to cross. You find yourself in the great quadrangle where the cisterns are placed, and on right and left the stables, the hen-roosts, the dovecots, the coach-houses. Underground are the cellars, the vaults, the prisons. Above are the living-rooms, and above them the magazines, the larders, the armoury. The roofs are surrounded with parapets and watch-towers. In the middle of the yard is the donjon, which contains the archives and the treasure. It has a deep ditch all round it, and cannot be approached except by a bridge, which is almost always raised. Though the walls, like those of the castle, are six feet thick, it has an external covering of solid hewn stone up to the half of its height.

“The castle has been lately repaired. There is something light and elegant about it which was wanting in the chateaus of old. You may well believe it is finished in the most modern style: great vaulted rooms with arched windows filled with painted glass; large halls paved in squares of different colours; handsome furniture of all kinds; solid stands with bas-reliefs, representing hell or purgatory; presses carved like church-windows; great caskets; immense leather trunks, mounted in iron; great red boxes; mirrors of glass, at least a foot in width, and some of metal of the same size; great sofas with arms, covered with tapestry and ornamented with fringes; benches with trellis-work backs; others, twenty feet long, with hanging covers, or stuffed cushions, embroidered with coats-of-arms. I must tell you, however, that the beds do not seem at all proportioned to the rank of the owner. They are not above ten or eleven feet wide; I have seen much larger in houses of less pretence. But as to the decoration of the apartments, nothing can be more sumptuous. There are show-rooms and chambers of state, which are named from the colour or subjects of the hangings with which they are covered. There are some where the great pillars that support the beams of the ceiling are ornamented with ribbons and flowers in tin. There are some where figures of life-size, painted on the walls, carry in their hands, or projecting from their mouths, scrolls on which texts are written, pleasant to read, and most excellent for the morals of the beholders.

“As to the mode of life, it is pleasant enough, except that we do not dine till nearly twelve o’clock, and never sup till after sunset—which appears to me a little too late. The day, in other respects, is agreeably varied. In the morning the courtyard is filled with squires, huntsmen, and pages, who make their horses go through their evolutions. Then they divide into parties, and defend and attack some staked-off piece of ground with amazing strength and activity, amid the applause of all the spectators. After dinner there is leaping at the bar, quoit-throwing, ninepins, and other games. In addition to all this we have the parrots and monkeys. We have also the old female jester of the late Sire de Montbason and the young fool of the present lord. He is so gay, and so full of tricks and nonsense, that in rainy days he is the life of the whole house.

“The almoner has charge of the evening’s entertainments. He has seen the world, and recounts agreeably; but, as he has never gone on pilgrimage, and has not lived either in convents or monasteries, he cannot give us above three stories in a night, for fear of repeating himself. But, fortunately, we have an ancient Commander of Rhodes, who has visited the Holy Land, and has travelled in the three parts of the world. He is an uncle of the Sire de Montbason. He relates his adventures delightfully. It is only a pity his bad health makes him go to bed so soon. Frequently, also, we have jugglers and vaulters; wandering musicians sometimes come, and we have concerts on the trumpet and flute and tambourine; harps and lutes, cymbals and rebecs. This very day we had a visit from a man who played on the viol, and never could get the strings in harmony. And no wonder; for it was found out that some of the chords were of the gut of a sheep, and others of the gut of a wolf. How could they agree? But he was paid as liberally as the rest.

“Life in these castles would be almost too happy if it were not mixed, like every other, with anxieties and alarms. Sometimes when we least expect it—in the middle of dinner or when we are sound asleep—the alarm-bell is rung. In a moment everything is astir—the bridges are raised—the portcullis falls, the gates are closed—everybody starts up from table or bed, and runs to the turrets, to the machicoulis, to the loopholes, to the barbicans. A few days ago I was witness to one of these “alertes,” and during the space of forty-eight hours nobody was allowed to close an eye but the almoner and me. Every one was kept to his post—but nothing came of it. It was a Vidame of the neighbourhood, who had thought that the Sire de Montbason was levying his retainers, and preparing to attack his chateau; and so, without sending letters of defiance, he had taken the field against us with three hundred men. There were parleyings and explanations on both sides, and everything was arranged. On this subject the Dowager-Lady of Montbason tells us that these private wars are not so frequent as they used to be. She remembers that, in the week of her marriage, there was such a fierce and long-continued attack upon the castle, that not a soul went to bed for eight days.”

This letter is dated the fifteenth day of February; and other experiences are recorded during almost every week of his five months’ residence in the chateau of Montbason. He describes the kitchens, the grates, the cooking apparatus, and all the feeding appliances required for the army which garrisons the castle. In a day or two he is summoned to visit a prisoner in the _souterrain_ or cave, to which he descends, like a pitcher into a well, suspended by a rope; and, by the light of the lantern he carries, he recognises the wretched captive on his handful of straw, with the pan of water near him in which the untasted crust is soaked. He has been condemned to this wretched dungeon for neglect of certain duties; and what they are we learn from the eloquent pleading of Friar John, who intercedes for the unhappy man with the Sire de Montbason. “My lord,” he says, “I come to implore your pardon and compassion for one of your men. It is not true that he has refused to have his wheat ground at your mill, or his meat baked at your ovens; that he cut his hay or his crops, or gathered his grapes, before the publication of your ‘ban;’ that he had his ploughshare sharpened without obtaining your permission and paying you the fee. He can prove all this by a hundred witnesses. He can prove, also, that he has regularly laboured and reaped your lands, and always paid the rates and rent of his holding; that he has carried the wood and water and provisions up to the chateau; that he has never chased upon your grounds, and has always fed your dogs.” These, and many other denials urged by the good-hearted Friar, are nearly losing their effect by the opposition offered to his entreaties by the Commander of Rhodes. That sturdy old knight pertinaciously stands up for the rights of his order, and on all occasions is for the exercise of power. “To the gallows! to the gallows!” he cries; and points to that instrument of paternal government, which consists of two tall uprights before the window. But eloquence has its reward. “The Sire de Montbason,” says Friar John, “has pardoned his unfortunate retainer, and he is now in the midst of his children. That old Commander,” he adds, “his long exercise of authority sometimes makes him harsh, and turns his heart as hard as the steel that covers it.”

But a field-day is at hand, in the description of which there is condensed a whole history of a feudal baron’s relations with his tenants. It is the day when the Sire de Montbason holds his court baron, and a tremendous time it must have been for the holders of his fiefs.

“To-day the Sire de Montbason left the chateau, attended by all his suite. He was mounted on a white horse, with a hawk on his wrist, in robe of state, with armorial bearings on his coat, which was one-half red and the other blue. On arriving at the place called the ‘Stone Table,’ he took his seat. All his household, dressed in cloth liveries, ranged themselves behind his chair. A gentleman whose lands are held under Montbason presented himself bare-headed, without spur or sword, and knelt at the Sire de Montbason’s feet, who, having taken his hands in his, said to him, ‘You avow yourself my liegeman in right of your castle, and swear to me, on the faith of your body, that you will serve me as such against all who may live or die, except our lord the king.’ The gentleman having replied, ‘I swear,’ the Sire de Montbason kissed him on the mouth, and ordered the act of homage to be registered.

“There next came forward a gentleman of the neighbourhood and his son, who demanded the right of lower justice over the western half of their great hall, because on the eastern side their manorial rights extended a full league. The Sire de Montbason consented with a good grace to this abridgment of his fief. Scarcely had this gentleman and his son concluded their thanks for this favour, when another gentleman advanced, and said a few words in the Sire de Montbason’s ear, touching the ground with his knee several times while he spoke. ‘I consent,’ said the Sire de Montbason. ‘Since you find your residence too small, I permit you to build a stronghold, with curtains, turrets, and ditch; but no weathercock, no towers, and, above all, no donjon.’

“Meanwhile the Sire de Montbason beckoned a crowd of villagers to approach, who had stood respectfully at a distance, all loaded with provisions and goods of different kinds. Immediately the ground at his feet was covered with wheat, with birds, hams, butter, eggs, wax, honey, vegetables, fruits, cakes, bouquets of flowers, and chaplets of roses. They were instantly carried away by the people of the chateau, and several tenants came forward into the empty space, some making grimaces, and some going through strange contortions of body. Others came, some to kiss the bolt of the principal gate of the dominant fief, some to sing a ludicrous song, and some to have their ears and noses slightly pulled by the _maître d’hôtel_, who also bestowed a few smacks on the right and left cheeks. The Sire de Montbason ordered legal quittance to be given to all. The assembly then formed a circle round him, and the Sire de Montbason spoke. ‘My friends,’ he said, ‘I have received too much money of you this year, to my great regret; the forfeitures for thefts, quarrels, wounds, blows, and bad language, have never come to so much before. I have hitherto remitted the fines for improper conduct and indecency, but I will remit them no more. Ask Friar John if I can conscientiously do so.’ Everybody’s eyes were turned upon me at once; I made a sign of strong negation with a shake of my head. The Sire de Montbason went on. ‘I am very well satisfied with the way in which the statute-labour has been done, but there are still some suits of page’s livery not delivered; a good many boots are required for my people, and a still greater quantity, I hear, need to be mended.’ ‘My lord,’ replied a poor man named Simon, ‘the artisans of your lands, the tailors, shoemakers, and cobblers, have all worked the full week they owe you, and you cannot call upon us for more.’ ‘Ah! very well,’ said the Sire, and cried to a labourer he recognised far off in the crowd, ‘Come on, Jacques, I see you there; advance! I found the south door of my castle of Veigné in a very bad state. You know very well that, according to your tenure, your family is bound to keep it in repair; and besides it is as much your affair as mine, for if the enemy takes the field, as may very likely happen, what will be the use of your right to refuge in a stronghold, if its gates are bad?’ He next addressed a woman who stood near him. ‘Widow Martin, you keep poor guard in my castle of Sorigni. I am told you often sleep instead of watching. You don’t sleep when you have to come for the corn you receive, according to old agreements, for this very duty.’ He then spoke to the whole assembly again. ‘I have further to complain of you, that you are not active in taking arms when my trumpets make proclamation of war; and, moreover, that your weapons are not good. When I make an attack with fire and sword, you enter into arrangements with your friends and relations who occupy the lands of the lords I am at feud with. They are not so complaisant on my grounds, and that is the reason I have so often to build you new houses, or pay you compensation. I have to complain, also, that those who have heritages in other manors go and live on them. Methinks you are well enough treated here, to be content to keep the fire alive. You also let your lands lie fallow for more than three years. I have the right to cultivate them for my own use, and I will exercise it. I blame you further for refusing my purveyors credit for fifty days, as you are bound to do. My good friends, I am bound, indeed, to give you my favour and protection, but you are bound no less to show your affection for me.’

“The tenants now made way for the serfs, and I remarked more familiarity and kindness between them and the Sire de Montbason than I had seen with the others. To all their requests, he answered, ‘With pleasure—with great pleasure: what you lack in the house, you shall find in the castle.’ The Sire de Montbason retired. Scarcely had he gone, when there rushed in a man—fat, breathless, red-faced, with perspiration oozing at every pore. This was the courier of the manor, an office he inherited from his great-grandfather, who had been an active, strong-limbed man, and one of the swiftest runners of his time.” The plethoric Mercury came to render homage for his fief, and would not have had breath to utter his oath even if he had not been too late. The day concludes with the extraordinary performances of the villagers in clearing the moat of Montbason of frogs—a service they are bound to render when the voice of the animals hindered the inhabitants of the castle from repose.