"Well, go on, will you?"

"Yes--a quarrelsome woman!"

Like lightning the fan closed, fell upon the unlucky index of my left hand, which was thoughtlessly reposing upon the arm of the _causeuse_, and nearly knocked off the first joint, by way of reward for my reluctant compliance with her feminine wishes.

"Excuse me, Senora," I said, after I had recovered my breath, "but you are very unjust. I had nothing to do with writing this ungallant phrase; it was a brutal Roman, no doubt."

"You are making game of me,--I know you are."

"No, indeed; you insisted upon my translating it word for word, and I have done your bidding."

"Then the man was a wretch who wrote them."

"I think so too, Senora."

"A brute--an animal!"

"Certainly, Senora."

"A fool--an old horror!"

"Most probably."

"An ignorant slanderer!"

"Oh! surely."

"A monster!"

"I wager anything you like of it." But it was of no use; unconditional a.s.sent failed to pacify her. So she went on for hours; and it cost me untold pains to earn the brunette's permission to offer her an ice, or to win one single smile.

CHAPTER IV.

Le Morvan during the Middle Ages--Legendary horrors--Forest of La Goulotte--La Croix Chavannes--La Croix Mordienne--Hotel de Chanty--Chateau de Lomervo--A French Bluebeard--Citadel of Lingou.

But I must return from my Andalusian belle to the rugged Le Morvan,--a patriotic, but, in spite of the broken finger, by no means so captivating a subject.

In feudal times--indeed, even so late as the last century--the district was a perfect nest of cut-throats, where no one could venture in safety for any honest purpose; without roads, and without police; full of dark caverns and half-demolished castles, affording all kinds of facilities for retreat and concealment; and thus it became the favourite rendezvous of the worst and most ferocious characters of those lawless times. It is widely different now. The hunter or the traveller--a woman or a child--may ramble through the length and breadth of its forests, equally in vain hoping for the excitement or fearing the danger of any adventure, beyond the common one of seeing a wolf or wild boar threading his way amongst the trees--a matter of no consequence at all. If, however, you love to collect wild and mournful tales--tales, even, of horror, with which to rivet the attention of the family group over the fire in the winter evenings,--stop at every ruined wall over which the lizard is harmlessly creeping; stop at every ma.s.sive tower in which the owl is screeching--at every large isolated stone under which the serpent is hissing; linger along each tortuous path, and your peasant guide will tell you a tradition for each--for all.

Thus, for instance: you are perhaps a few paces in front of him, in the forest of La Goulotte; and as the mid-day sun glances through the boughs above you, you see its rays rest upon a cross at a little distance; it was, you think, placed there for the rude worshippers of the province, and you contemplate it with complacent reverence, till Pierre comes up with you. "'Tis La Croix Chavannes, Monsieur, _la croix sinistre_. See!

in the narrow pa.s.s between the two mountains, its black and moss-covered arms extended; at the end of each is a large k.n.o.b, resembling a threatening hand." You walk on, and find the cross riddled with ball, chipped and notched, and carved with odd names. By the time you have reached it, Pierre has told you it was set on the spot where, many a long year ago, the Marquis de Chavannes was found, deluged in blood and quite dead; he had been pierced through the heart by a treacherous rival, who had joined his hunting party, and who basely took advantage of a moment when, in ardent pursuit of the grisly boar, De Chavannes was utterly unsuspicious of his evil intentions.

A little further on is another cross, at the entrance of a deep, dark gorge: What does that cross mean? "That one is called La Croix Mordienne, Monsieur; at its foot our forefathers knelt to recommend their souls to G.o.d, before they ventured their lives in the dangers of Les Grand Ravins, where too many had been greeted by the bullet or the dagger." The granite steps of this cross--this cross which was erected for worship--are worn deep by the knees of suppliants for protection against the cruelty of their fellow-men; and it is even a more melancholy monument of the ferocity of those times, than the one which records the a.s.sa.s.sination of the unsuspecting Marquis de Chavannes.

Pursue your way, and, crossing a wild and marshy heath, you notice a lonely house surrounded by th.o.r.n.y broom, the aspect of which is forbidding, though it is gaily painted. Surely, you think, it can only be the gloomy tales with which my guide has beguiled this morning's walk, that make one suspect there is a history connected with that house; and you ask him its name. "That is Chanty, Monsieur; that was once an inn. The landlord was a frightful character, even for his own times. When the doomed traveller halted at his door to seek shelter from the storm, or to refresh himself and steed the better to encounter the scorching heat, the villain drugged his wine, and, at nightfall, following him into the forest, despatched and robbed his then helpless victim. Or perhaps he would detain him with stirring tales of forest life, till he found himself too late prudently to go further that night; and, on his guard against every person but the right, ordering a bed of his treacherous host, would fall into that slumber from which the miscreant took safe means to prevent his ever awaking. When, after many years of impunity in the commission of these fearful crimes, the officers of justice were at last set upon him, and his house was searched, in the cellar were found fifteen headless skeletons!"

Such a ma.s.s of silent, awful testimony perhaps never was produced to substantiate the allegation of similar villany against any man; and atrocities like these, of the early and middle ages, have given their character to the legends of Le Morvan, which, still carefully related from one generation to another, are so impressed on the minds of the people, that the honest peasant of the present day would rather make a circuit of a dozen or twenty miles, than pa.s.s in the deepening twilight near the scenes to which they relate. Not all the gold of Peru--no, nor even of California--would tempt _Les Pastoures_ to graze their flocks or herds near the scene of these horrid events, or pa.s.s them when the stars are spangling the dark arch of heaven.

Here also may be seen the solid walls, the array of towers, the high belfry, the iron gates, and the ponderous drawbridges of the Chateau de Lomervo; and many are the dependent buildings, courts, and gardens, surrounded by the thick copse wood that covers its domain, which extends over three neighbouring hills. Under the princ.i.p.al facade is a large lake, whose blue waves bathe the walls; an immense mirror, ever reflecting the numberless turrets, and the grotesque birds and beasts which decorate the extremity of every waterspout; wherein, too, the tranquil marble giants, who support the broad balcony on their heads, seem to contemplate and admire their own imperturbable countenances--countenances that betrayed no shade of feeling at all that must have pa.s.sed before their eyes. The gathering of armed knights for war or revelry; the rejoicings for the birth of an heir, or the lamentations for the death of the stern gray-headed lord; the bridal of one lovely daughter of the house of Lomervo, or the solitary departure of the mail-clad lover of another for the Crusades. But, it is said, they saw much more than all this: according to popular rumour, these calm deep waters are the cold and mute depositories of frightfully tragic secrets. One bright spring morning in the very olden time, says the tradition, a Lord of this domain left his castle. It was when the sweet violet first cast its odours on the breeze, when the bright and abundant bloom of the lilac and laburnum gracefully decorated the gardens, and the country was reclad in all the charming freshness of the season. After a short absence, he returned, accompanied by a lovely bride;--but ere long she died. He went again, returning with another, and was again received by his va.s.sals with acclamations of joy; but gloomy suspicions at last arose, for in this way, in succeeding years, were brought to the Castle eleven young and beautiful damsels. One by one, they all disappeared. What became of them? No one knew, or, if they did, dared to tell. When, however, the long-dreaded lord was dead, some old women declared, that as he became tired of each wife, he stabbed her at midnight in one of his dungeons, took a sack from a heap which he kept in the corner, and, sewing her up with his own hands, carried her noiselessly to the water-gate, and laid her in the bottom of his boat.

Silently and rapidly he rowed to the centre of the lake, and coolly dropped in his hapless victim amongst the sheltering reeds.

"Ah! Monsieur," the village gossips will still tell you, as they make the sign of the cross, and tremble till you see their very stuff gowns shake again; "'tis all true, Monsieur; twenty times have we seen them in the moonlight--twenty times have we seen the poor souls, in their long white robes, with their pale faces, and the spot of blood on the left side, wandering over the lake." Poor Bluebeard, for whom in childhood we used to feel such awe, was a fool to this baron bold.

There, a little in front of you, is the fortified village of Chamou, which in former years defended the eastern opening of Les Grand Ravins; also Lingou, an old citadel, three stories high, whose walls, now cracked and ivy bound, guarded them on the south. This piece of feudal architecture, full of trap-doors and dungeons, subterranean pa.s.sages, and secret stairs, is another of the places dreaded and abhorred by the peasantry of Le Morvan; for near the walls, they say, at certain periods, sounds can be distinctly heard under ground, funeral chaunts, and the tolling of bells; and if you have the daring to apply your ear to the sod, you will be able to distinguish sighs and sobs, and the dull rattle of the earth thrown upon the victim's coffin.

CHAPTER V.

Castle of Bazoche--Marechal de Vauban--Relics of the old Marshal--Memorials of Philipsburg--Hotel de Bazarne--Madame de Pompadour's maitre d'hotel--Proof of the _cures'_ grief--Farm of St. Hibaut--Youthful recollections--Monsieur de Cheribalde--Navarre the Four-Pounder--His culverin.

Each of the Radcliffian horrors narrated in the last chapter, though vastly marvellous, most probably originated in some dreadful deed of blood, on which the vulgar and superst.i.tious admiration of excitement of those days delighted to enlarge. We shall now turn to the castle of Bazoche, where, in former days, dukes, counts and barons a.s.sembled every September with their hunting-train, to enjoy the pleasures of _la grande cha.s.se_ and all its attendant revelry. The chateau in later years belonged to the renowned engineer, Sebastian-le-Pretre, Marechal de Vauban, who was a native of Le Morvan, and born in 1633 in the village of St. Leger de Foucheret. The humble roof under which this celebrated man first saw the light is now inhabited by a _sabot_-maker.

Brought up, like Henry IV., amongst the peasants of his native province, like him he loved the remembrance of all connected with it and them; and when he died in Paris (1707), he desired that he might be buried at his beloved Chateau de Bazoche, where he had so often, sauntering under the n.o.ble _platanes_, sought and found relaxation from the turmoil and fatigue of a soldier's life, and forgotten the jealousies and injustice of the court. In the southern part of the building is the gallant old veteran's sleeping apartment--there still stands his bed: and his armour, with several swords and other articles which belonged to him, are still preserved. On the rampart, now probably silent for ever, are four pieces of cannon of large calibre, which thundered at the siege of Philipsburg, and were subsequently presented to the Marshal by Monseigneur, the brother of Louis XIV.

Great were the works accomplished by the genius and perseverance of this famous general--famous, not only in his own profession, but as one of the honest characters of an age when honesty was rare indeed. He improved and perfected the defences of three hundred towns, and entirely constructed the fortifications of thirty-three others; was present at one hundred and forty battles, and conducted fifty-three sieges. The body of this eminent man was, in literal compliance with his orders, interred in a black marble tomb, under the damp flagstones of the castle chapel; but his heart, in melancholy violation of the spirit which dictated them, is enclosed in a monument, surmounted by his bust, in the church of the Hotel des Invalides. Opposite to it is the tomb of Turenne, and under the same roof at last repose the mortal remains of Napoleon. Could their spirits perambulate this church at the hour when the dead only are said to be awake, and we could muster the courage to listen to their whispered communings, what should we hear? How severely would this tremendous triumvirate judge some of the so-called great men of our own time!

But there are more modern edifices in Le Morvan, with far more agreeable episodes attached to them: take, for example, the Hotel de Bazarne, a celebrated hostel, built among the green lanes on the borders of a wood of acacias--a beautiful flowery wood, which, when the merry month of May has heralded the perfumed pleasures of spring, dispenses them on every breeze over the adjacent country.

Bazarne, in its healthy situation and splendid environs, boasts the best of cookery. The last owner of Bazarne was--Reader, the utmost exercise of your lively imagination will never supply you with the right name--was an _ancien maitre d'hotel_ of Madame la Marquise de Pompadour--Madame de Pompadour's steward! What could he have to do in the wilds of Le Morvan? Grand Jean was a curious little man, lively and brisk as a bird or a squirrel, powdered, curled, and smelling of rose and benjamin as if he were still at Versailles or Choisi. Grand Jean decorated the back of his head with a little pigtail, which much resembled a head of asparagus, and was always jumping and frisking from one shoulder to the other. His snuff-box was of rare enamel, his ruffles of point-lace, and his artistic performances in the culinary art were all carried on in vessels of solid silver. He was, from the point of his toe to the tips of his hair, the aristocrat of the saucepan and the stove.

Grand Jean acquired, in our provincial district, a reputation perfectly monumental for the richness of his venison pasties, the refined flavour, the smoothness and the exquisite finish of his _omelettes aux truffes_ and _au sang de chevreuil_. All the world of Le Morvan used to visit him. And the good _cures_? The good _cures_?--ah! they all went to visit him by caravans, as the faithful wend their way across the deserts to Mecca to pray at the tomb of the Prophet. And, when he died, they mourned indeed; the worthy divines, incredible as it may be, drank water for three days, in proof of the sincerity of their woe. Who would have doubted it?

To the north of Bazarne, and on the road to the best district for sport, is seen at the foot of the gray mountains peeping cheerily, and like a white flower amidst the sombre foliage of the chestnut-trees, St.

Hibaut, an immense farm, situated in an isolated spot, and built of the lava from an extinct volcano. Saint Hibaut, ah! the moment the pen traces that dear name my aching heart beats and throbs within my breast--before my eyes pa.s.s to and fro the memories of a vanished world--I seem to feel the fresh and odorous breezes from thy flowers, thy mossy banks and scented shrubs, and hear thy murmuring rills and the dash of thy wild torrents. St. Hibaut! lovely spot where flew so swiftly and so sweetly the brightest and gayest hours of my early years--St.

Hibaut, the memory of thee burns within my heart: but those within thy walls, do they still think of me?

Alas! in this world of tears and deception, of moral tortures and often of physical suffering--what is there more delightful, more consolatory than to sip, nay plunge the lips, and drink, yes, drink deep from that fresh and blessed spring, the memory of by-gone days. How great the burden of the man who has been the sport of fortune, whose life has been one continued sorrow, who, never satisfied with the present moment, is always hoping for better and happier days, and always regretting those which have been and are now no more. O! Reader--if many griefs have been your portion, if it has been your sad fate to tread with naked feet the th.o.r.n.y paths of life, if the foul pa.s.sions of envy, rage, and hatred have found a place in your heart, close your eyes, forget your miseries--open, open for a moment that golden casket called the memory, in which are preserved, embalmed and imperishable, all those happy incidents which were the delight of your youth. Yes! open wide that casket, ponder well, and with renewed fondness o'er these treasures of the mind, and believe me after such holy reflections you will feel yourself more able to meet the contumely of the world, and find yourself a happier and a better man.

Saint Hibaut, situated in a wild country, surrounded by lonely heaths and deep ravines, and water-courses whose sides are covered by almost impenetrable thickets, was at the time I speak of, that is to say, when I was eighteen years of age, the property of Monsieur de Cheribalde, the most intrepid, determined and ardent sportsman, who ever winded a horn, wore a huntsman's knife, or whistled a dog.

Distant very nearly twenty miles from any human habitation, it was at times, the favourite rendezvous, the head-quarters of a great number of chevreuil, boar and other denizens of the forest. In winter, when the snow covered the earth for several weeks, the famished and furious wolves a.s.sembled in the neighbourhood in packs, carrying off in the broad daylight everything they could lay their teeth on; sheep and shepherd, dogs and huntsman, horse and horseman, bones, hair, and skins half-tanned, old hats and shoes--even the corrupt bodies of the dead were torn from their resting-places, and eaten by these horrid animals.

On moonlight nights, these brutes would come fearlessly up to the very walls of the farm, dancing their sarabandes in the snow, howling like so many devils, shrieking and showing their long white teeth, and demanding in unmistakable terms something or somebody to devour; their yells, their cries of rage, of victory, and of love, intermingled with the funereal song of the screech-owl, and the lugubrious melodies which the current from the blast without caused in the large open chimneys,--was the concert, which from December to April lulled the inmates of St.

Hibaut to sleep; music that would I doubt not have reduced even the formidable proportions of the inimitable Lablache, and made Mario sing out of tune.

But these were the good old times, the good old times! Well do I remember, when the shadows of those winter evenings lengthened, when nightfall came, and when at last the moon arose, bringing out in light and shade every object within the court-yard, and at some distance from the house, then it was that Monsieur de Cheribalde went his rounds. I see him in my mind's eye now, with his gun on his shoulder, followed by his five enormous bloodhounds strong and fierce as lions, and Navarre, surnamed the Four-Pounder, who walked a few paces to the right and left, opening his large saucer eyes, poking and squinting into every bush and corner.

Navarre, for forty years the head gamekeeper of the domain, was his master's right hand, his _alter ego_. He had never in his whole life been beyond his woods,--had never seen the church-steeple of a great town. To him, the dark belt of firs that skirted the horizon, was the limit of the world; and when told that the sun never set, and that when it sank behind the mountains, it was only continuing its course, to beam bright in other skies and on other lands, and to ripen other harvests,--Navarre smiled, and did not believe a word. Happy Navarre!

what did it signify to him what was done, or what happened behind those hills? He was thin and dry as a match, and tall as a Norwegian spruce, with a face covered with hair; he smoked, and tossed off gla.s.s after gla.s.s of brandy, like a Dutchman. In addition to these peculiarities, Navarre was lame of the right leg, a boar having one day kindly applied his tusky lancet to his thigh, and gored him seriously, before, hand to hand, he managed to finish him with his hunting-knife.

At the first glance, Navarre's aspect appeared strange and forbidding, and savage as the locality in which he lived. The fact was, that, like Robinson Crusoe, he was frequently arrayed in a suit of skins of which he had been the architect, on a fantastic pattern, that his own queer imagination had created.