CHAPTER XIV

Heading, chapter XIV; Dijon: Decorated windows of the Maison Milsand

After this long historical digression, it is quite time that we returned to the Salle des Gardes, where there are many good things to be seen beside the tombs of the Dukes. Not the least interesting are the ducal portraits, all very Jewish, and bearing a strong family likeness. In the picture gallery adjoining is a portrait of Charles le Téméraire, by Van Hemerren, done, it is said, shortly before his death at Nancy. Here is Valois madness, indeed; shown in the wildly staring eyes, the furrowed brow, the pursed lips, the poised head, the spread hands, and straying fingers—a mind and body in extreme of tension. What brought the last of the Valois Dukes to such a pass? Readers who do not know will discover, when we come to talk of—the Post Office!

Upon the many other things worth seeing in that Salle des Gardes, I have no time to dwell; also the reader will find them catalogued in any guide. But one or two I will mention. The most striking of all, perhaps, is the magnificent chimney-piece, built in 1504, after the great fire, which, in 1502, destroyed all the decorations and the original ceiling of the chamber. On the walls are two gorgeous altarpieces in wood-gilt, done by a Flemish artist, Jacques de Baerze, to the order of Philippe le Bon, in 1391. The subjects of one are: The Execution of John the Baptist, The Martyrdom of St.Catherine; and the Temptation of St. Anthony. Those of the other include the Adoration of the Magi, Calvary, and the Entombment. All the figures, especially the Roman soldiery, in very mediæval clothing, playing dice for Christ's vesture at the foot of the Cross, and the weeping relatives, are treated with the usual vivacity and realism of the Burgundian school; the whole is decorated with flamboyant Gothic detail of richness unrivalled, so far as I am aware, by any similar work, excepting, possibly, the famous rétable at the Eglise de Brou. The painting and gilding of the volets is by Melchior Broederlam, court painter to Philippe le Hardi.

Dijon Museum; Woman at Prayer

There are also two charming sixteenth century renaissance doors, from the Palais de Justice, carved with the most perfect arabesques, and a torso by Hugues Sambin, the famous architect who built the curious façade of the Eglise St. Michel. The guide will point out to you, in the centre cabinets, St. Bernard's Cup, the cross of his friend St. Robert, who received him when he first came to Citeaux, and other good relics, including a cast of a skull, said to be that of Jean sans Peur, with a slit in it—the slit through which the English entered France, as our guide sagely remarked. The epigram earned for him the respect due to an homme instruit, until he proffered the information that the église Notre Dame is not a thirteenth century church!

If you want to get an idea of Dijon in mediæval times, study the sixteenth century tapestry in this salle. It shows a walled city with many churches, most of which have now disappeared. Indeed, with the exception of the Tour du Logis du Roi, or Tour de la Terrasse, beneath which you are standing at the moment, very few of the buildings are easily recognisable. The subject represents the siege of the City by the Swiss. The blackvirgin, now, I believe, in the Eglise Notre Dame, has been borne out to assist in the relief of the City, and the mayor of the town is in negotiation with the enemy. They covenanted to raise the siege for a specified sum; but were foolish enough to depart without the cash, which, consequently was never paid.

The remainder of the musée installed in the Palace has little that is of first-rate interest, except, the ducal kitchen, some good Burgundian altarpieces, and a large collection of modern statues, chiefly by the Burgundian Rude (1784-1855).[168]Among hundreds of inferior pictures, I was most interested in three paintings of Dijon Castle, in salle 8, by G. P. H. Jeanniot. Dijon Castle does not now exist. If the reader can endure more history, I will tell him the reason why.

If you will walk down the Rue de la Liberté, in this town, and turn, two hundred yards or so below the arch, along one of the narrow streets to the left, you will emerge on to a largeplace, in the centre of which stands a great, white building. That white building, the Post Office, occupies the site of the Castle, which, until a few years ago, stood as a memento of the end of the Valois Dukes. Dijon, however, now grown to be a great and prosperous city, a centre of the wine trade, is more concerned with the development of her industries than with her historical monuments; consequently, when a new Post Office was needed, the authorities came to the conclusion that a castle so centrally situate must go.[169]It went: but its memories remain. Its story is that of the final struggle between Burgundy and France, between Charles le Téméraire and Louis XI., respective champions of the old order and the new.[169]

These rivals were not well matched. It was the unequal combat of the matador against the bull. Charles, though a prince of great charm and ability, endowed with the dual qualities of scholar and general, was still but a man of his time. If he possessed the virtues of the middle ages—courage, daring, resolution,—he shared also its defects—pride, obstinacy, shortsightedness, boundless ambition, and a touch, perhaps, of the hereditary insanity of the House of Valois. Dreams of more than feudal glory, of empire, even, dazzled him.

His father had been "Philip the Good"; the son should be Alexander the Great. "Si grand et si puissant qu'il put être conducteur et meneur des autres." He would re-establish in greater glory, with wider bounds, the ancient Kingdom of Burgundy. And France! He reckoned without France. It was not within the power of this man to fathom nor to play move for move against such an opponent as Louis. He had held the king in his grasp once,[170]and had let him go. The opportunity would never recur.

Patient, untiring Louis, touched, just as his rival was, with insanity, endowed with more than the common cunning of his type, possessed a mind as modern, almost, in essentials, as was that of Bacon half a century later. He foresaw clearly enough the coming death of feudalism, and, while waiting wolf-like, to prey upon the corpse, he bent his mind to the wider constructive processes of a subtler, more Machiavellian policy.

The reigning princes of Europe were old; Louis, noting the fact, realized that he had only to wait, leaving the active part to his ally, Death, a power as certain as God's, and one, moreover, that he need not cajole with prayers, nor bribe with silver balustrades. He waited, while the black angel shook the tree; then he gathered the plums as they fell: and France was his.

King Charles, meanwhile—king in all but name—was burning to fight all comers. He flung himself first upon the Swiss, who were in league against him. He was defeated at Grandson, and again at Morat, on the 22nd June, 1476, losing many men and much spoil, including his great diamond, one of the largest in Christendom.[171]He lost heart, too, and retired into solitude, letting his beard grow, and dreaming of revenge. There was to be no revenge for him.

On the 22nd October, he commenced the siege of Nancy, which he prosecuted with quiet energy, until, in the following January, he heard that the Swiss were advancing against him to the relief of the town. The doomed Duke turned to meet them, and his fate. His army, wearied by much campaigning, was completely routed. The following day Duke Charles could not be found; various rumours were current in the town concerning him.

He was dead; he was not dead. "Beware," said the timid ones, "lest you behave otherwise than if he were yet alive, for his vengeance will be terrible on his return." On 6th January there was brought to Duke René, a young page, named Jean Baptiste Colonna, who said he had seen his master fall, and could find the place. The next day they recommenced their search for the body. The page led them to a pond called the Etang de St. Jean, distant about three culverin shots from the town. There, half-buried in the mud-banks of a little stream, near a chapel, lay a dozen despoiled corpses. "They commenced to search all the dead; all were naked and frozen, scarcely could one know them; the page, passing here and there, found many mighty ones, and great and small, white as snow. And all turned them over. 'Alas!' said he, 'Here is my good master.'"[172]

Others gathered round. As they lifted the head from the ice to which it had frozen, the skin was torn from the face. Already the wolves and dogs had been at work upon the other cheek; moreover a great wound had split the head from the ear to the mouth.[173]

In such condition the corpse was not easily recognisable, but Olivier de la Marche and others identified it by the teeth and the nails, and by certain marks, such as the scar of the wound received at Montlhéri. When they had washed the body in warm water and wine, it was easily recognised by all. In addition to the wound in the head, there were two others, one through the thighs, and another below the loins. The dead Duke was borne into the town, and placed in a velvet bed beneath a canopy of black satin. The corpse was clothed in a camisole of white satin, and covered with a crimson mantle of the same material. A Ducal crown was laid on the head, scarlet shoes and golden spurs upon the feet. "The said Duke being honourably clothed, he was white as snow; he was small and well-limbed; on a table, well wrapped up in white sheets, upon a silk pillow, on the head a red cap set, the hands joined, the cross and holy water beside him; all who would might see him, none were turned away; some prayed God for him, and others not." The victorious René, Duke of Lorraine, came to throw holy water upon the body of the unhappy prince.

He took the hand beneath the coverlet; tears came into his eyes. "Ah! dear cousin," said he, "may God receive your soul, you have brought on us many an ill and many a sorrow." Then he kissed the hand, fell upon his knees, and remained for a quarter of an hour in prayer.[174]

Louis XI. made no attempt to conceal his rejoicing over the tragedy of Nancy. A silver balustrade, weighing 6,776 marks, erected around the tomb of St. Martin de Tours, testified his gratitude to the heavenly powers, who had removed the rival of the most Christian King. Then, with great energy, he proceeded to support his claim to Burgundy. Towns were occupied; rebels and seditious persons were executed and proscribed, and a castle was erected at the gates of Beaune, in addition to that at Dijon. Both were occupied by royal garrisons responsible for the subjection of the country.

On July 31st, 1479, the king made his solemn entry into Dijon. "The mayor, the échevins, the procureurs, clothed in scarlet robes, walked before him, as they had formerly walked before the Dukes; the clergy in their chapes bore the holy relics. Louis proceeded first to the Abbey of St. Bénigne, where the Dijonnais swore fealty to him, as to their natural lord, and prayed him to hold them in his good grace; then, preceded by trumpets, tambourines, and minstrels, he went to lodge at the Ducal Palace. Everywhere they covered with lime the arms of Burgundy, broke the windows of the Chambre Des Comtes which bore that device, and replaced it by that of the King with the cord of St. Michael and the arms of the Dauphin."[175]

So ended the power of Burgundy. From the days of Philippe le Hardi, onwards, there had arisen in the minds of those proud dukes—who were more than dukes—a dream of a new kingdom that should exceed in extent and in dominion the old Burgundy of their fathers—a kingdom, an empire, perhaps, freed for ever from the hated rivalry of the Fleur-de-lys. But that dream was not to be realised. All the conditions, geographical, historical, psychological, were against them; nor had the dukes themselves, for all their abilities, the constructive minds necessary for the accomplishment of such a task. Louis, on the other hand, as we have seen, possessed such a mind; and destiny and death, as though consciously realizing the fact, worked for him. Burgundy was no more than the greatest of the fruits that fell into his lap.

Dijon; a StreetSTREET IN DIJONFacing page 208

STREET IN DIJON

Facing page 208

Nevertheless, we shall surely do well to remember these years, and these Dukes, that went to the making of France. Dijon, it appears, proud of her mustard, and of her wine-begotten prosperity, does not care to remember. She has pulled down the unworthy memento of subjection. Truly she has her reward. She has the best Post Office in the Duchy.

Now, after all this history, what of Dijon as it is to-day? Well, modern Dijon, despite the ever-to-be-deplored demolition of the Castle, remains one of the most individual and fascinating of French towns—a cheerful, lively, bustling little city, full of fine buildings, and unexpected architectural surprises of the Renaissance and earlier times. For its size, I know no town in France in which past and present have blended more happily. Wherever you walk, in the heart of the town, the next corner has something fascinating to show.

The building which first calls for attention is the Cathedral of St. Bénigne. Of the early, circular, Romanesque church, which dated from the eleventh century, and was probably imitated from the Holy Sepulchre, nothing now remains but the crypt. The primitive, carved pillars are the oldest of their kind in Burgundy, and mark the origin of an art of sculpture, that, as we have already seen, was to go far. In this rude church was buried St. Bénigne, the Christian martyr of the third century; here, too, the pious Alèthe, St. Bernard's mother, was laid, probably in the year 1110; and here, many a time, Bernard himself came down from his father's castle at Fontaine, to pray, in those early days when his spirit was torn between the claims of cloister and the world. The cathedral, above ground, though historically interesting, as the scene of the inaugural ceremonies of the great Dukes, and the solemn merger of the duchy into the kingdom of France, is not architecturally of first-rate interest. Gothic art was not always well inspired in Burgundy during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries; and St. Bénigne is no exception to the rule. The façade is very bold, for a church of cathedral rank; the west window is weak and shallow, and the parvis mean and uninteresting. Nor is the interior successful. The triforium, one of the feeblest I know, is suggestive of a cardboard model, and the simplicity of the nave has been broken by a series of restless yearning statues, that, poised upon the abaci of the capitals, grimace at one another across the nave. The thirteenth-century choir is better; though spoiledarchitecturally by bare spaces of wall between the triforium and the sills of the clerestory. The exterior, however, especially as seen from the east-end, is impressive, and the "Snake-skin" tiling, though rather trying at first, is rich and effective, when the eye has become accustomed to the shock.

Opposite to St. Bénigne is a typical Burgundian church of the twelfth century, with a triple porch and narthex, an octagonal tower, and a beautiful Romanesque south doorway. It is now a secular building, as are several other old churches of Dijon. You may look, as I did, through a decorated window of St. Etienne, and see a man changing his shirt!

Another church of considerable interest, from the architectural point of view, is St. Michel. I am not referring to the interior, which is, on the whole, an ineffective example of late Gothic, with clumsy vaulting ribs, and heavy, square, nave piers, rounded off by vaulting shafts at the angles—but to the façade, one of the best examples I know of Gothic design worked out in Renaissance detail, with four classical orders superposed.[176]Hugues Sambin, the architect, or reputed architect—he who did those beautiful doors for the Palace de Justice, that we have seen in the Musée—has made so harmonious a compromise of the two styles, that I wonder he has not found more imitators. The fact that others dared not follow emphasises the difficulty of the task.

But the most interesting, by far, of all the churches of Dijon, is Notre Dame, that, within hail of the Palace, and dedicated to Our Lady, enjoyed the special patronage of the Dukes. It was here that, after the great tournament at the arbre Charlemagne, in the plain south of Dijon, to be spoken of presently, the competing knights came to hang up their shields, and to render thanks to their preserver. Here, too, in 1453, after long imprisonment in the east, came Philippe Pot, whom also we shall meet again, barefooted, amidst a brilliant assemblage, to fulfil his vows to Notre Dame de Bon Espoir.

Notre Dame is a purely Burgundian Gothic church, of the thirteenth century. The interior, with its typical stiff leaf capitals, and pointed arches, is not very remarkable. The arcade round the choir is good; but the square blocks above the abaci, that take the vaulting shafts, are clumsy, and the rose windows without tracery, in the transept, are not effective. As with St. Michel, it is the exterior design that makes the church so remarkable from an architectural point of view. The triple porch—if its carvings were as good as those above—must have been very charming before the revolutionary gentlemen set to work with hammer and axe upon tympanum and arch.

Dijon; Door of Eglise St. Michel

Even now it is pleasing. Indeed, the west front, as seen from the Rue des Forges, though, perhaps, a little stiff, is most striking, especially when the bright sun of Burgundy is picking out in warm light and pitchy shadow the triple row of strange eager faces, that, craning their necks out over the street, gaze down upon the passers-by. These grotesque beasts, and the friezes in which they dwell, are among the best examples of Burgundian sculpture to be seen anywhere. They have all the vigour, individuality, and vivacity that are characteristic of the Province. The façade, as a whole, with its double arcade, between the friezes, surmounting the triple porch, is one of the most original in France, and would be much more effective than it is, could it be better seen. The tower, too, and the flanking turrets, are boldly designed, and relieved with little sculptures, grinning suns and grimacing heads, on the corbels and the springings, that suggest an art lively and alert compared with the conventional dulness of St. Bénigne. The sense of realism is increased by the many pigeons—not of stone—who glide all day over monsters' backs, and coo into old monks' ears.

Dijon; A Font in the Eglise St. Michel

The Jacquemart clock on the tower was brought to Dijon by Philippe le Hardi, after the sack of Courtrai, in 1383. Froissart, charmed with it, declared it to be "ouvrage le plus beau qu'on put trouver deçà ni delà la mer." Philip may have thought so, too; since he chose it for his trophy.

Nearly every street in this central part of old Dijon, around the palace of the Dukes, has many good things. Late Gothic buildings meet you atevery turn, and in no town of France that I know, except, perhaps, Toulouse, will you find better Renaissance houses. The fronts of the Maison Milsand and the Maison des Caryatides, are both charming of their kind; and so is the courtyard of the Maison Richard, or Hotel des Ambassadeurs, with a magnificent mediæval staircase, and a fifteenth century gallery of perpendicular woodwork. Behind Notre Dame is the old Hotel Vogué, with one of the fine snake-skin roofs that are a feature of Dijon.

Sculpture; Notre Dame de Dijon

But of all the quiet haunts in the city, the best are the little garden without, and the courtyard within, the Palace of the Dukes. Looking up through green boughs at the beautiful windows of the Salle des Gardes and the Tour de la Terrasse, or, from a post upon the inner flag-stones, peering into the dark shadows of the lovely Renaissance staircase that mounts by the Tour de Bar,[177]you may go back again into the days when Dijon was more famous, more alive, than mustard and gingerbread can ever make it.

The mention of mustard and gingerbread, reminds me that here, opposite to the staircase, is the kitchen, where, between eight great furnaces, two in each wall, below a converging shaft, fashioned to carry the fumes upward to the blue sky, the Duke's chef superintended a small army of perspiring cooks and scullions.

My wife's brains were busy with such dreams, as she sat in that courtyard sketching the well, the staircase, and little Marie Bon, who, for two sous, and the privilege of being allowed to tell about her uncle, also a painter—he worked on back doors—allowed herself to be drawn. And while the picture grew, tiresome boys would come up and jostle each other, and make remarks—usually, however, of a complimentary nature.

Dijon; Well outside the Duke's Kitchen

"Ma foi, c'est épatant, ça!" "C'est très chic—beaucoup mieux qu'une photographie."

Gallant young men, too, would come, and say boldly, as though prepared to step into the breach, "Madame, n'a pas de cavalier aujourdhui!" And diffident old ladies, shy, but unable to restrain their curiosity, would come up and say, "Est-ce qu'on est permis de regarder un peu, Madame?" And my wife would smile and reply, "Mais oui, certainement." For towards good and diffident old ladies her heart is as soft as it is adamantine towards small and cheeky urchins.

Vine Ornament

One other building in Dijon I will mention—the Palais de Justice, which has a beautiful Renaissance façade, with a high gable in the Flemish style, and a domed Corinthian porch. The threatening darkness of the stone, and the grim, lurid, purplish colours it takes in certain lights, harmonise well with our memories of deeds done in that Salle des Pas Perdus, and the torture chamber of the prisons within. This Palace was also the Parliament House of the Valois Dukes.

But we, who pass our days in London, soon weary of other cities, even though they be ancient and French; besides, we wanted to see something of the environs of Dijon; so a fine afternoon found us cycling along the five kilometres of flat yet attractive road that leads by the Canal de Bourgogne to Plombières, in the valley of the Ouche. There was music all the way; the breeze that whispered to the "paint-brush" poplars, and rustled in the reeds and grasses of the bank; the song of the grasshoppers, the "sound of waters shaken" where they curled foaming through the lock gates. We had beauty with us, too; all the mature beauty of a bright autumn day, as we glided beside the still water, between waving grasses and lichen-gilded trunks. On our left were golden vineyards, and, beneath them, rose-emboweredcottages and jagged quarries where brawny quarrymen were dealing mighty, swinging strokes that echoed through the valley. To our right were the terraced hills of Talant, and ahead the tower of Plombières church, high above the village roofs. We passed white-hooded peasants—ample women with genuine, solid bodies, ambling homeward from the markets of Dijon, and black-bloused peasants, who, blessed with a patience that was never given to us, were "soaking an indefinite bait in an indifferent stream;" we passed blazing bonfires by the side of the road, whereon girls were heaping all the grasses they had cut during a busy day with the sickle. And when we got there, we found the mairie besieged by women in white dresses and men in black coats. There was a wedding; and couples were whirling in the Salle de Bal.

That Talant I spoke of, on the hill, is another spot to make for between tea and dinner; if only for the views it gives you down over the City of Dijon and the Valley of the Ouche. From the village green, shaded with ancient walnut trees, between which the children play with their dappled goats, there lie before you, across the willow-fringed silver streak that is the Canal de Bourgogne, the hills of the Côte d'Or, now shrouded in the purple mists of evening. Southward, looming through the red smoke-wreaths, that curl upwards from its factories, rise the towered palace, and the spires of the ducal city. Below, among the vines and fruit trees, beside the red gravel pit in the grey cemetery, the flames of the peasants' fires, flashing in lines, like the camp fires of a beleaguered town, are deepening with an opalesque veil of floating vapour the gathering mysteries of the night.

As we climbed the road that winds up the hill to Talant, whose old Castle, by the way, was the scene of a hundred memorable events, that I have no time to remember now, we saw on our right another wooded spur of the Côte d'Or, crowned with a big church and a little one. We knew it at once for Fontaine, the home of St. Bernard—a spot not to be missed. The next day found us there. Passing through the village, we came to a small, round pool at the foot of the steep, shaded with a ring of poplars and walnut trees. This must be the very pool in which St. Bernard plunged, when, in the hey-day of youth, he felt his blood glowing too warmly within him. I wonder that the peasants, or the priests, have not made holy water of it before this. We climbed the hill, and, sitting on a broken stone wall, caught glimpses, across the changing vines, of distant Dijon towers, whilethose improvident grasshoppers, who should have been harvesting against a coming winter, just sang and sang, as though they would out-sing the larks.

Then I wandered through the little Burgundian church, and the tangled wilderness of a churchyard, while my wife, sitting enthroned in lilac bushes, and eating blackberries of her own picking, watched the western sun gilding, height beyond height, the distant hills, and dreamed of Bernard, her chosen patron saint. How often must he, torn between chivalry and church, have wrestled with his spirit upon that very spot.

This great building near us, on the crest of the hill, is built on the site of Tescelin le Roux's castle; and contains, I believe, some remnants of it; but it has no longer any attraction for us. Restoration and modern additions[178]have stolen away its hoary age. We may be foolish in these matters; but we got more pleasure from a wooden bust of St. Bernard, that we bought for three francs from a white-winged sister, in the pilgrimage shop beside the basilica. We still look at it daily, and believe it—quite wrongly, no doubt—to be a perfect likeness of Tescelin's perfect son.

Before we part from Dijon, there is one other episode in its history to which I should like to refer.

Leaving the town by the southward road that leads to the ancient village of Rouvres—Philippe le Hardi, by the way, before his accession to the dukedom, was Philippe de Rouvres—you come upon a vast plain traversed by many poplar-fringed roads.

It was in this plain, close to Dijon, towards Nuits, that was held, in July, 1443, the great tournament known as the Tournoi de l'Arbre Charlemagne, given by the Seigneur de Charny and twelve other noblemen of Burgundy. Two lists were dressed—the smaller one for combats on foot, and the other, much larger, for mounted knights with the lance. Between them was a great pavilion of wood. The larger list had two steps at one end, to enable attendants to assist, to arm, or to disarm their knight, without compelling him to dismount. On the Dijon side of the lists was a great tent, for use as occasion might require. The tree of Charlemagne, close by, was draped with cloth of high warp, bearing the arms of the Lord of Charny; near it was "a fountain large and fair with a high stone capital above which were images of God, of Our Lady, and of Madame St. Anne, and upon the said capital were raised in stone the thirteen blazons of the arms of the said Lord of Charny and of his companions."

Dijon; a fifteenth century Window

On that 11th July, "the princes having come they entered the house set apart for this purpose (which was right honourably decked and hung); and the Duke of Burgundy held a little white baton in his hand to throw and separate the champions, their arms being concluded, as is the custom in such a case. As for the lists, they were a sight most triumphant to see; for they were decked with two pavillons for the knights, bearing their arms and devices in blazons, banners, and otherwise ... the entry of the assailant in the lists was on the side of Dijon, and that of the defender and guardian of the pas was on the side of Nuits."

The first fight between Charny and a Spanish knight, both on foot and armed with axes, is too like that already described, in the Tournoi de la dame de Pleurs, to justify us in giving Olivier de la Marche's graphic description of it. We will tell, instead, of a fight onthe 9th day of the Tournament, between the Count of St. Martin and Guillaume de Vaudrey.

"At the third course the said De Vaudrey reached the Count's great arm-guard and disarmed him, so that they had to forge and open the said arm-guard, and two full hours were spent before he was re-armed. At the fourth charge the said Guillaume de Vaudrey reached the Count, with his lance on the arm near the side, and with this stroke he dinted his arm, and broke his lance off short at the blade, so that the blade remained in the said Count's arm, and readily appeared the blood and the wound. So the Duke commanded that he should at once be disarmed, and set aright, and certes the duke and all the lords were most troubled at this adventure; and even the said De Vaudrey regretted right wonderfully his companion's wound."

There was much subsequent discussion as to how this accident could have occurred; and the general opinion seemed to be that it was the Count's own fault, by reason of a bad trick he had of riding at his man from the corner of the lists, and so meeting him cross-wise, instead of charging along the matting—which was laid from end to end of the lists especially for that purpose; but, whatever the cause, as Olivier fatalistically remarks, "Ce qui doit advenir advient: et fut telle ceste aventure."

"On the 10th day of August, a day of St. Laurence, came Monsieur de Bourgogne, Madame his spouse, all the ladies and lords, to see the arms of the two noblemen, and there presented himself Jacques de Challant Signeur de Manille, most honourably accompanied by the Lord of Charny, and by his companions, as also by his relatives and friends; and he presented himself on a charger, covered with cloth of blue damask, right prettily adorned with his letters and devices; as he was mounted and armed ready to furnish arms. On the other side presented himself the knight (who sustained the enterprise), mounted and armed as is fitting in such case. His horse was decked, as I remember, in satin, half white and half violet, quartered; and right well the knight sat on his horse, for in figure he was supple, fair to look upon, andright agreeable to all. All due things were done and the lances distributed; and it came about that in the first onset Jacques de Challant got home upon the knight's arm-guard; by the which he was disarmed, so that the said arm-guard had to be opened by the armourers, (and it took) more than three hours, and while they made good the said arm-guard, the Lord of Charny caused a banquet to be served to the Duke and to the Duchess and to all the Signeurs, where they were sitting, right bounteously, both meats and wines."

After the luncheon they set to it again.

"And at their second charge the noble men rode with all the strength of their steeds; and so stern was this onset, that the Spaniard's charger could not sustain the shock, so fell to the ground; and swiftly horseman and horse were raised, but from this fall the Spaniard's harness was so bent and forced that he was quite disarmed; and they must needs put off those arms unto another day. Within a few days after that the term of six weeks that this noble meeting should last was past and expired, and the following day (which was on a Sunday, a little before the Great Mass) the kings-at-arms and the heralds assembled from all parts further to honour the mystery; and, having put on their coats of arms, they brought by order and with great magnificence, the two shields which for six weeks had been hung and fastened to the tree of Charlemagne, and on which was founded the meeting aforesaid. Then they entered the Church of Notre Dame de Dijon, and all kneeling offered and presented the aforesaid shields to the glorious Virgin Mary; which shields are still in the said church, in a chapel on the right hand as you come to the choir."

End of chapter XIV; Arbre Charlemagne

Footnotes:[168]I should add that there is a good replica of the Puits de Moïse, which gives you an opportunity to study that work at leisure.[169]The demolition was begun in 1870, to give work to the unemployed at the time of the war.[170]At Péronne.[171]Kleinclausz, "Histoire de la Bourgogne."[172]De Barante states that the body was found by a washerwoman, who was attracted by the sparkle of a ring on the Duke's finger. I have followed Michelet.[173]Olivier de Marche, "Mémoires."[174]De Barante, Tome XI; pp. 156-158.[175]Kleinclausz.[176]The classical orders are five: Doric, Ionic, Corinthian, Tuscan, Composite.[177]The Tour de Bar was named after Renée of Anjou (Duke of Bar), known as good king Renée, who was imprisoned there after the battle of Buligneville in 1431, the year in which Joan of Arc was burned.[178]The western portion was rebuilt under Louis XIII.

Footnotes:

[168]I should add that there is a good replica of the Puits de Moïse, which gives you an opportunity to study that work at leisure.

[169]The demolition was begun in 1870, to give work to the unemployed at the time of the war.

[170]At Péronne.

[171]Kleinclausz, "Histoire de la Bourgogne."

[172]De Barante states that the body was found by a washerwoman, who was attracted by the sparkle of a ring on the Duke's finger. I have followed Michelet.

[173]Olivier de Marche, "Mémoires."

[174]De Barante, Tome XI; pp. 156-158.

[175]Kleinclausz.

[176]The classical orders are five: Doric, Ionic, Corinthian, Tuscan, Composite.

[177]The Tour de Bar was named after Renée of Anjou (Duke of Bar), known as good king Renée, who was imprisoned there after the battle of Buligneville in 1431, the year in which Joan of Arc was burned.

[178]The western portion was rebuilt under Louis XIII.

Heading, chapter XV; The Three Huntsmen

By a curious coincidence—by a real coincidence, reader, not by design—it was on a morning of Easter-day that we rode out from Dijon to Lux—on just such an Easter morning as that about which I am going to tell; the air fresh and fragrant, the larks in full song, and the sun shining so strongly in the deep, blue sky, that I had to make a Sunday purchase of a broad-brimmed straw hat. So that, you see, in one sense, I began the day badly, and perhaps deserved the trouble that befell me later.

Lux, the village in which the legend begins, and the village beyond it, are not particularly interesting places, situate on the border of the Forêt de Velours, some twenty or more kilometres north-east of Dijon, in Wiltshire-like scenery reminding one of Salisbury Plain. If you want a not too exciting excursion, to fill an otherwise idle day, by all means go there; but truth compels me to add that this Creux du Diable, when you have found it[179]—and it is not particularly easy to find, being hidden one hundred yards within the wood—is not exciting. It is just a tangled pit running sheer down from the scrub that borders the forest path. One look at it was enough. We felt no desire to follow the devil down into its depths, nor did conscience tell us that we deserved to. True, we, too, had hunted on Easter morning, without going to Mass; but then we had hunted a legend, not a boar—and surely that makes all the difference.

Back to the village, then, we went; and there I re-discovered a peasant, of whom I had asked the way. He was sitting in a lovely doorway, at the top of some broken steps, reading a paper. Hearing the whirr of the wheels, he looked up.

"Ah ha! did you find it?" "Thanks to you," said I, and joined him on the steps.

"Mon Dieu," says he, "It's a strange place. It ends almost in a point—this Creux du Diable. It is just full of foxes' holes; and as for the vipers—there are so many there that, when the time comes to cut the wood, they have to do it in the fraiche; sans cela ils vous mordent les jambes à tout instant. O! il y en a; il y en a!

"Why do they bite less in the fraiche—these limbs of Satan?" I asked him.

"Oh! they are busy in the morning (font leur travail le matin)."

I tried to get the old man's version of the legend; but, discovering that he knew nothing of it, I bid him farewell.

"Good-bye," said he, shaking my hand warmly, "When we meet at Dijon, nous irons boire un coup."

So we rode home through a hop country—a land of blackthorn and good purple furrows, dotted with stacks of poles. Will you listen, while we go, to the legend of that viper-haunted pit?

THE DEVIL'S PITIt is Easter day. From the belfry the Alleluia rings out; the lark sings it above the meadows; the thrush whistles it in the woods; the sun writes it in letters of gold on the blue, blue sky. All nature is in her gayest mood, to celebrate the festival of Christ's resurrection.In the village of Lux, all hearts are echoing this Alleluia. The good people, in their holiday attire, go to hear matins, and to receive communion with holy Jesus, the renewer of heavenly as of earthly spring. But to Gaston, the lord of the village, the pure joys of the Christian Easter are unknown. He is a young baron, proud, haughty, violent, and devoted only to the chase.Loudly he sounds the horn, and cries to his servants: "Saddle the horses, and bring hither my hounds."Vainly the grooms and valets recall to him the solemnity of the day, and our Lord's commandment. "To the hunt," he cries; "We leave prayers to the priests and the women; such a fine hunting day is not to be missed."The steeds are ready; in the courtyard of the castle the hounds are baying. As Gaston gives the signal for departure, the old chaplain lays his hand on the courser's rein."For the love of Heaven, Monseigneur!" cries he, "do not thus outrage God, nor so darkly stain your soul!"The headstrong baron strikes the priest, who, without flinching, offers again his old white head to the blow."Strike again, Monseigneur; but, for pity of your soul, do not fail to hear mass to-day; else, evil will befall you."Again he is repulsed, and the young lord departs.Followed by his hounds and his servants, and blowing great blasts upon his horn, Gaston passes through a straggling village. Disdainfully he looks down on the good villagers, who salute him on their way to church. "Misfortune will come upon our lord," murmur the old men. "Great and powerful seigneur though he be, he insults and scorns a greater and more powerful than himself."Two wide roads meet upon the verge of the forest of Velours. There come two horsemen, riding swiftly as the wind, and place themselves each by Gaston's side. He on the right, mounted on a white horse, is radiant and of noble mien; his eyes shine with a heavenly light, and his clothing, glistening like snow, exhales a perfume sweeter than the meadows on a morning of Spring. The rider on the left is of sullen countenance, and swarthy of aspect; his glance stern and forbidding. His hair is blacker than the raven's wing; and his garments, darker than the night, emit an odour of sulphur. His steed glows like a flame of fire."Friends," cries Gaston, "Welcome to you both. In happy hour you have come, to hunt the great woods with me. Fair fall us then! there is no sport, in heaven or on earth, like the chase—above all when we hunt in goodly company."The horseman on the right speaks: "Young seigneur, the bell calls you; listen to its plaintive note chiming, from far away, through the trees. Return;or misfortune will befall you. Let us kneel together at the altar of Christ. Already, before daybreak, I heard mass, and sang the Alleluia; willingly will I do so again by your side. Come! Our duty done, sweeter by far will be the pleasures of the chase.""Ride, noble baron, ride," cries the black horseman. "Do not listen to this ill counsellor. The bugle blast is finer music than the chiming of bells, and the hunt better pastime far than a dull priest's sermon, and the droning of hymns.""Well said, friend on my left!" cries Gaston. "Without offence to the white horseman, you are jovial company, after my own heart. We young lords want lively sport and merry jests; let us leave sermons and paternosters to the monks."Gaston has unleashed his hounds. Caressing them with eye and hand, urging them on with voice and gesture, he looses them upon the scent. With heads held low and wagging tails, baying with deep bell notes, they dash through the forest upon the track of the game. The baying redoubles, as, plunging into a thick copse, they come upon the lair of a great wolf. With bristling hair, fiery eyed, and snarling horribly, for an instant the fierce brute faces the hounds, then turns, and flies through the forest. Vainly he seeks the thickest brakes, the most secret hollows; always the ravening pack is at his heels.At length the wolf gains the open country, and the chase follows him: the blast of Gaston's horn has collected the scattered huntsmen. Far, far they gallop, by cornfields and meadows, over weald and waste.From a hamlet before them, comes tripping a little shepherdess at the head of her flock. The road is narrow and bordered by hedges. All in tears, the child cries out to Gaston: "Be merciful, sweet lord, be merciful; spare my flock. For pity's sake, do not destroy the widow's sheep, and our dear little lambs.""Have pity, for your soul's sake," cries the white horseman. "Do not scorn her prayers nor her tears; they will rise to God, and cry out for vengeance against you there.""Ride down lambs and sheep," replies the black rider. "What are they—that they should spoil a young lord's sport? For such a trifle must we let our prey escape us?"Through the Forest"You are right," cries the impetuous hunter. He spurs on his horse; after him gallop the grooms and the valets. Only the white horseman turns aside with a sigh.Like a whirlwind the hunt has passed, leaving desolation and death in its wake. The sheep fall bleeding to the earth, the lambs are trampled down, and the little shepherdess is lying upon the ground, bruised like a trodden flower of the field.Still the wolf flies on—by field and wood, by hill and valley, by upland and mountain. None can overtake him. The hounds fall exhausted; scarce a horse can carry its rider further.The hunters come to a lonely valley. There, near a spring which bubbles beneath an ancient oak, a little chapel and a cottage rise from the midst of a field of green corn. This is the little domain of an old hermit, whose days are passed in work and in prayer; one who shelters the poor, and puts the lost traveller upon his way."Noble baron," cries the black horseman, "By my troth, here let us stay, and refresh ourselves. There is water for our thirst, and good grazing for our steeds." "Zounds," replies the hunter, "You say well."Gaston, with a blast of his horn, recalls the hounds and attendants; and, despite the entreaties of the white horseman, and the reluctance of his followers, he bids them turn the horses into the field of green corn. Hastening to him, the hermit cries, in tones of earnest pleading: "Have pity, gracious lord; spare the labour of an old man; do not let your steeds devour and trample down the field which nourishes the solitary, the traveller, and the poor.""To the devil with hermits and nuns," replies the proud hunter. "Away with you, lazy rascal; or your carcass shall go to feed my hounds."Frightened and sad, the poor old man turns away, murmuring to himself: "Father, which art in Heaven, forgive this young man; Thy providence which feeds the birds of the air and clothes the flower of the field will suffice for me also.""Gaston," interposes the white rider, "Your words are harsh. Who knows but that you owe your very life to this old man? that, perchance without his prayers and fastings, your soul, already weighed many times in the heavenly scales, might well have been found too light." But the admonition of the white horseman passes unheeded. Seated beside the spring, the huntsmen make a long and merry repast; the jests ring out, loose and loud;with wild laughter the young baron applauds every sally of his dark companion.'Tis the vesper hour; the hermit rings the chapel bell. To-day he is not alone in the sanctuary; the white horseman, leaving his companions, joins the old man in psalm and canticle. Never has the recluse heard a voice more pure, never has he joined in a more holy communion. The two servants of God, leaving the chapel together, pause for a moment on the threshold. They gaze out over the scene. The huntsmen are gone; the field of green corn is ravaged, blasted, as though by a storm of hail. In one hour, Gaston's horses have destroyed the work of a year.The white horseman bids farewell to the hermit, and hastens to join the baron. Regretfully the recluse watches the departing figure. "Who," he murmurs to himself, "may this noble hunter be? His kiss has filled me with peace and joy, and all my heart is aglow in his presence."Now the hunt is again set on. The wolf has doubled back upon his track. Meanwhile the forest shadows lengthen, the sun is low upon the horizon. Once more the hunt passes through the village. In the road, still red with the blood of the shepherdess, a poor man stands, awaiting Gaston. He seizes the young lord's cloak, and asks alms, for the love of God."Dear baron," cries the white rider, "It is a means of grace, which the Saviour sends you. I beseech you, redeem your sins by the giving of alms; it is like water which quenches fire. Give a helping hand to him who stands for Jesus.""Gaston," retorts the black rider, "For this clown will you stay the hunt, and let the great wolf win the day? Gallop! gallop!""There are my alms," cries the brutal lord; and, making his horse rear, with his whip he strikes at the poor man's head. The beggar utters a cry, and wipes his bleeding face. Again the hunt plunges into the forest of Velours, in pursuit of the tireless wolf. The sun has set behind the great trees; the forest shadows are blotted out in the darkness of the night. 'Tis the hour of solemn thought."Friend," says the white horseman, softly to Gaston, "this has been an ill day's work: you have mocked God, you have insulted his minister; you have trampled upon the shepherdess and her flock; you have ravaged the hermit's field, and you have struck the face of the poor. Turn, I entreat you, a suppliant eye to heaven, breathe a word of repentance towards God.""What is that to me?" replies the hunter with a sneer. "Time enough yet to think of my soul. When I can search the woods no more, then I will wear a hair shirt, throw largesse to monk and beggar, and mutter psalms and what-not in church; but, until then, the gay life for me!""Gaston! the life of man is short and fragile; it is given him, not to waste in folly; but to purchase therewith the joys of heaven. I conjure you, for your soul's sake, implore the mercy of God.""He's dull company indeed! Off with you to your paradise!" cries the young lord, irritated by these entreaties, and by his day of ill-success."Farewell, Gaston," murmurs the white rider. "Why would you not listen to one who would save you?" A tear falls from his eye, as spreading wide two white wings, he soars heavenward, leaving behind him a stream of light.Then the hunter realizes that his good angel has deserted him. Fearfully he looks towards the dark figure on his left; a shiver of mortal dread shakes every limb, and the sweat of death rises damp upon his face. The arms of the black one extend and seize him. He feels his flesh pierced and torn by talons more powerful than a lion's, sharper than those of a vulture. He roars with pain and terror; so bewildered is he, that no cry to God comes from him, nor, with the holy sign, does he invoke the name of Jesus.Still grasping his prey, the black horseman strikes the ground with his lance. The earth groans deeply, opens wide, and from the gaping cavity there rises a column of black smoke. From the abyss beneath, a sea of fire, upon whose heaving waves are rolled the legions of the damned, rise lamentations, cries, and blasphemies, heard above the roaring of the infernal waters. Like fiery serpents the flames writhe and coil round the body of the guilty hunter. "Gaston," hisses the black horseman, as steed and rider leap into the boiling cavity; "Gaston, you have lent ear to me during life; now you are mine for all eternity.""Woe betide me!" cries the reprobate. "I have disregarded the Lord's warning, and the counsels of my good angel!"The abyss closed up, leaving only a dark and fearsome cavity. That cavity is the Devil's Pit.

THE DEVIL'S PIT

It is Easter day. From the belfry the Alleluia rings out; the lark sings it above the meadows; the thrush whistles it in the woods; the sun writes it in letters of gold on the blue, blue sky. All nature is in her gayest mood, to celebrate the festival of Christ's resurrection.

In the village of Lux, all hearts are echoing this Alleluia. The good people, in their holiday attire, go to hear matins, and to receive communion with holy Jesus, the renewer of heavenly as of earthly spring. But to Gaston, the lord of the village, the pure joys of the Christian Easter are unknown. He is a young baron, proud, haughty, violent, and devoted only to the chase.Loudly he sounds the horn, and cries to his servants: "Saddle the horses, and bring hither my hounds."

Vainly the grooms and valets recall to him the solemnity of the day, and our Lord's commandment. "To the hunt," he cries; "We leave prayers to the priests and the women; such a fine hunting day is not to be missed."

The steeds are ready; in the courtyard of the castle the hounds are baying. As Gaston gives the signal for departure, the old chaplain lays his hand on the courser's rein.

"For the love of Heaven, Monseigneur!" cries he, "do not thus outrage God, nor so darkly stain your soul!"

The headstrong baron strikes the priest, who, without flinching, offers again his old white head to the blow.

"Strike again, Monseigneur; but, for pity of your soul, do not fail to hear mass to-day; else, evil will befall you."

Again he is repulsed, and the young lord departs.

Followed by his hounds and his servants, and blowing great blasts upon his horn, Gaston passes through a straggling village. Disdainfully he looks down on the good villagers, who salute him on their way to church. "Misfortune will come upon our lord," murmur the old men. "Great and powerful seigneur though he be, he insults and scorns a greater and more powerful than himself."

Two wide roads meet upon the verge of the forest of Velours. There come two horsemen, riding swiftly as the wind, and place themselves each by Gaston's side. He on the right, mounted on a white horse, is radiant and of noble mien; his eyes shine with a heavenly light, and his clothing, glistening like snow, exhales a perfume sweeter than the meadows on a morning of Spring. The rider on the left is of sullen countenance, and swarthy of aspect; his glance stern and forbidding. His hair is blacker than the raven's wing; and his garments, darker than the night, emit an odour of sulphur. His steed glows like a flame of fire.

"Friends," cries Gaston, "Welcome to you both. In happy hour you have come, to hunt the great woods with me. Fair fall us then! there is no sport, in heaven or on earth, like the chase—above all when we hunt in goodly company."

The horseman on the right speaks: "Young seigneur, the bell calls you; listen to its plaintive note chiming, from far away, through the trees. Return;or misfortune will befall you. Let us kneel together at the altar of Christ. Already, before daybreak, I heard mass, and sang the Alleluia; willingly will I do so again by your side. Come! Our duty done, sweeter by far will be the pleasures of the chase."

"Ride, noble baron, ride," cries the black horseman. "Do not listen to this ill counsellor. The bugle blast is finer music than the chiming of bells, and the hunt better pastime far than a dull priest's sermon, and the droning of hymns."

"Well said, friend on my left!" cries Gaston. "Without offence to the white horseman, you are jovial company, after my own heart. We young lords want lively sport and merry jests; let us leave sermons and paternosters to the monks."

Gaston has unleashed his hounds. Caressing them with eye and hand, urging them on with voice and gesture, he looses them upon the scent. With heads held low and wagging tails, baying with deep bell notes, they dash through the forest upon the track of the game. The baying redoubles, as, plunging into a thick copse, they come upon the lair of a great wolf. With bristling hair, fiery eyed, and snarling horribly, for an instant the fierce brute faces the hounds, then turns, and flies through the forest. Vainly he seeks the thickest brakes, the most secret hollows; always the ravening pack is at his heels.

At length the wolf gains the open country, and the chase follows him: the blast of Gaston's horn has collected the scattered huntsmen. Far, far they gallop, by cornfields and meadows, over weald and waste.

From a hamlet before them, comes tripping a little shepherdess at the head of her flock. The road is narrow and bordered by hedges. All in tears, the child cries out to Gaston: "Be merciful, sweet lord, be merciful; spare my flock. For pity's sake, do not destroy the widow's sheep, and our dear little lambs."

"Have pity, for your soul's sake," cries the white horseman. "Do not scorn her prayers nor her tears; they will rise to God, and cry out for vengeance against you there."

"Ride down lambs and sheep," replies the black rider. "What are they—that they should spoil a young lord's sport? For such a trifle must we let our prey escape us?"

Through the Forest

"You are right," cries the impetuous hunter. He spurs on his horse; after him gallop the grooms and the valets. Only the white horseman turns aside with a sigh.

Like a whirlwind the hunt has passed, leaving desolation and death in its wake. The sheep fall bleeding to the earth, the lambs are trampled down, and the little shepherdess is lying upon the ground, bruised like a trodden flower of the field.

Still the wolf flies on—by field and wood, by hill and valley, by upland and mountain. None can overtake him. The hounds fall exhausted; scarce a horse can carry its rider further.

The hunters come to a lonely valley. There, near a spring which bubbles beneath an ancient oak, a little chapel and a cottage rise from the midst of a field of green corn. This is the little domain of an old hermit, whose days are passed in work and in prayer; one who shelters the poor, and puts the lost traveller upon his way.

"Noble baron," cries the black horseman, "By my troth, here let us stay, and refresh ourselves. There is water for our thirst, and good grazing for our steeds." "Zounds," replies the hunter, "You say well."

Gaston, with a blast of his horn, recalls the hounds and attendants; and, despite the entreaties of the white horseman, and the reluctance of his followers, he bids them turn the horses into the field of green corn. Hastening to him, the hermit cries, in tones of earnest pleading: "Have pity, gracious lord; spare the labour of an old man; do not let your steeds devour and trample down the field which nourishes the solitary, the traveller, and the poor."

"To the devil with hermits and nuns," replies the proud hunter. "Away with you, lazy rascal; or your carcass shall go to feed my hounds."

Frightened and sad, the poor old man turns away, murmuring to himself: "Father, which art in Heaven, forgive this young man; Thy providence which feeds the birds of the air and clothes the flower of the field will suffice for me also."

"Gaston," interposes the white rider, "Your words are harsh. Who knows but that you owe your very life to this old man? that, perchance without his prayers and fastings, your soul, already weighed many times in the heavenly scales, might well have been found too light." But the admonition of the white horseman passes unheeded. Seated beside the spring, the huntsmen make a long and merry repast; the jests ring out, loose and loud;with wild laughter the young baron applauds every sally of his dark companion.

'Tis the vesper hour; the hermit rings the chapel bell. To-day he is not alone in the sanctuary; the white horseman, leaving his companions, joins the old man in psalm and canticle. Never has the recluse heard a voice more pure, never has he joined in a more holy communion. The two servants of God, leaving the chapel together, pause for a moment on the threshold. They gaze out over the scene. The huntsmen are gone; the field of green corn is ravaged, blasted, as though by a storm of hail. In one hour, Gaston's horses have destroyed the work of a year.

The white horseman bids farewell to the hermit, and hastens to join the baron. Regretfully the recluse watches the departing figure. "Who," he murmurs to himself, "may this noble hunter be? His kiss has filled me with peace and joy, and all my heart is aglow in his presence."

Now the hunt is again set on. The wolf has doubled back upon his track. Meanwhile the forest shadows lengthen, the sun is low upon the horizon. Once more the hunt passes through the village. In the road, still red with the blood of the shepherdess, a poor man stands, awaiting Gaston. He seizes the young lord's cloak, and asks alms, for the love of God.

"Dear baron," cries the white rider, "It is a means of grace, which the Saviour sends you. I beseech you, redeem your sins by the giving of alms; it is like water which quenches fire. Give a helping hand to him who stands for Jesus."

"Gaston," retorts the black rider, "For this clown will you stay the hunt, and let the great wolf win the day? Gallop! gallop!"

"There are my alms," cries the brutal lord; and, making his horse rear, with his whip he strikes at the poor man's head. The beggar utters a cry, and wipes his bleeding face. Again the hunt plunges into the forest of Velours, in pursuit of the tireless wolf. The sun has set behind the great trees; the forest shadows are blotted out in the darkness of the night. 'Tis the hour of solemn thought.

"Friend," says the white horseman, softly to Gaston, "this has been an ill day's work: you have mocked God, you have insulted his minister; you have trampled upon the shepherdess and her flock; you have ravaged the hermit's field, and you have struck the face of the poor. Turn, I entreat you, a suppliant eye to heaven, breathe a word of repentance towards God."

"What is that to me?" replies the hunter with a sneer. "Time enough yet to think of my soul. When I can search the woods no more, then I will wear a hair shirt, throw largesse to monk and beggar, and mutter psalms and what-not in church; but, until then, the gay life for me!"

"Gaston! the life of man is short and fragile; it is given him, not to waste in folly; but to purchase therewith the joys of heaven. I conjure you, for your soul's sake, implore the mercy of God."

"He's dull company indeed! Off with you to your paradise!" cries the young lord, irritated by these entreaties, and by his day of ill-success.

"Farewell, Gaston," murmurs the white rider. "Why would you not listen to one who would save you?" A tear falls from his eye, as spreading wide two white wings, he soars heavenward, leaving behind him a stream of light.

Then the hunter realizes that his good angel has deserted him. Fearfully he looks towards the dark figure on his left; a shiver of mortal dread shakes every limb, and the sweat of death rises damp upon his face. The arms of the black one extend and seize him. He feels his flesh pierced and torn by talons more powerful than a lion's, sharper than those of a vulture. He roars with pain and terror; so bewildered is he, that no cry to God comes from him, nor, with the holy sign, does he invoke the name of Jesus.

Still grasping his prey, the black horseman strikes the ground with his lance. The earth groans deeply, opens wide, and from the gaping cavity there rises a column of black smoke. From the abyss beneath, a sea of fire, upon whose heaving waves are rolled the legions of the damned, rise lamentations, cries, and blasphemies, heard above the roaring of the infernal waters. Like fiery serpents the flames writhe and coil round the body of the guilty hunter. "Gaston," hisses the black horseman, as steed and rider leap into the boiling cavity; "Gaston, you have lent ear to me during life; now you are mine for all eternity."

"Woe betide me!" cries the reprobate. "I have disregarded the Lord's warning, and the counsels of my good angel!"

The abyss closed up, leaving only a dark and fearsome cavity. That cavity is the Devil's Pit.

We had started on our way back to Dijon by train, when, at Gemeaux, the first stopping place, I became unpleasantly aware that I had left mynotebook behind me, on the table of a café at Is-sur-Tille. Not caring to leave several chapters of this volume to the vagaries of a very uncertain memory, there was nothing for it but to leave the train, and walk the five kilometres back to Is. Under less anxious circumstances I should have enjoyed that walk, by field paths, below hills that reminded me of the North Downs at Wrotham. The light was golden; the evening breeze rustled in the young crops. In front of me paced a shepherd, followed by a flock of pattering sheep, at whose fleeces the guardian dog tugged mercilessly, when succulent, wayside trifles tempted them from the straight path.

On the bridge at Is, I met mademoiselle of the café, whose beaming countenance revealed to me, before she spoke, the news that she had found my book. So far so good; but how to pass the four hours before the next train? I was cold and clammy; and much too tired to explore that savage étang de Marcilly hard by—lonely and desolate enough for the site of a Cistercian house. Such places need a receptive mood. Moreover, here was no fit place to dine—and I had within me aCreux du Diable. Surely my good angel had left me.

I dined at last—very badly—and there were still two hours to wait. Time flew no longer; it crept. Thoughts came no longer; nothing came; nothing happened. I was bored, bored stiff. Reader, do you know what it is to be bored?

"I wish to goodness you wouldn't be so garrulous—all about nothing."

"That's all very well, Reader; but what the dickens is a fellow to do, cast away for four mortal hours in this benighted hole—except talk?"

"Well its your own fault. You ought to have known, when you started, that it was Easter morning, and——"

"Oh! G r r r r r r r!"

"Monsieur, it is time you left. If you miss this train you will be here all night!"

"Et bien; au revoir, Mademoiselle."

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