A Pilgrimage to Auvergne/Vol 1/Chapter 13

In a little nook, on the confines of Champagne and Burgundy, in the department of Côte d'Or, is a small town, which though on the high road to Dijon, seldom detains travellers longer than to change horses. If, however, it should happen that they sleep at the principal inn, Le point du Jour, as we did, they will probably, in spite of the slovenly street by which they approach the bridge over the brawling river Brenne, be attracted by a very large house, with porte cochère stretching along the lower part of the Rue de l'Hôtel de Ville; and on inquiring who is its occupant, will be struck by a name famous throughout Europe, and then will begin to think it worth while to remember that they are in the town of Montbard, where lived and where died the great naturalist Buffon, and his collaborateur, ​Daubenton. All that appeared flat and unprofitable in the insignificant place immediately puts on a different aspect.

It is no longer a matter of indifference that the little stream runs murmuring along between verdant and vine-covered hills, and bathes the foot of one more remarkable than its fellows; no longer is its course watched listlessly by the uninterested stranger—his glance now follows its windings with pleasure, as he marks on the summit of the mountain, which rises from its banks, a huge tower, of antique form, crowned with a diadem of singularly shaped turrets, and elevating itself far above the tops of a thick wood of pines and limes. Beneath he observes, gleaming through the thick foliage, walls grey with age, terraces, where rows of orange-trees extend, roses and honeysuckles appearing here and there, buildings of various heights and sizes, until he becomes lost in the labyrinth of leaves which spread before him.

He now asks every particular of the little town, and learns that the soft sound of waters which he hears is caused by a fall in the river, where it joins the great canal of Burgundy, which connects Paris and the Mediterranean. The canal runs under the bed of the Brenne, and then throws its long, silvery arms along ​the valley as far as the eye can reach. A vast basin, formed by the surrounding hills, encloses Montbard.

The view is circumscribed by this verdant wall, and only occasional openings permit the far off blue mountains of Burgundy to become visible. All the valley, and all up the steep coteaux, is cultivated chiefly with vines, which love a rocky soil. However, the wine is not so good here as at Tonnerre, where the vintages are famous, and where the ground is less rich. To the eye the vines are as good, and their growth is, indeed, beautiful; the broad, graceful leaves, and twining branches and tendrils, together with their tender green, and, above all, their intoxicating fragrance,—a softer, fresher perfume of orange flower, cannot but delight the senses and please the view at all times. Masses of grey rock appear now and then amidst the green, and give a solemn aspect to the landscape.

On an enormous block of this stone was built, in ages remote and mysterious, a stupendous castle, frowning on the very summit of the mountain, and commanding all the country around. It might be of Roman construction originally, as is recorded, and have served as a retreat to the feudal lords of the troublous ​times which succeeded. St. Louis might have dwelt there, for his name is given to one of the towers; at all events, there are walls enough tall, strong, and thick, to build a town, if it were possible to dislodge their masses from the earth.

Buffon found this treasure on his estate, and resolved to improve the happy accident, at the same time desiring to excrcise his benevolence, and benefit the industrious poor around him. Hundreds of labourers were employed by him to arrange the grounds below these fine ruins in terraces and platforms; and under his eye, and directed by his taste, rose magnificent alleys, smiling gardens, secluded bowers, and open walks; avenues of larches, sycamore, acacias, ash, beech and lime, spread far over the space; the rugged mountain was transformed into an elegant series of promenades, adorned with statues, vases, and all that a pure and classic taste could imagine.

The tottering walls of the antique towers were repaired, the rubbish of years cleared away, and from stage to stage of La Grosse Tour de l'Aubespin the fine proportions of its beautiful salles brought forth, its windows relieved from these obstructions, and allowed to afford the magnificent views, which they could ​present on all sides, its winding stairs renewed and made safe, and the whole fabric restored in all its original grandeur; the ruined walls planed and levelled where necessary; several of those most adapted were covered in, and chambers formed within them, without a stone being displaced or any change of form effected; the perfect, groined roofs still asserting their antiquity, and the thick walls telling the tale of their age.

Far beneath, at the last descent of his terraces, appears the fine habitation in which the creator of all these wonders resided, and where he received aud entertained his numerous friends and guests; but it was not here that his valuable studies were carried on. In the most secluded part of his domain he chose an isolated tower, which he had fitted up with every precaution to exclude noise—double windows and thick doors. Here, surrounded by his books and free from interruption, the great philosopher of nature meditated, casting his eyes round on a peaceful and silent scene, and allowing his mind full scope. The principal part of his works were written in this retreat, and it would seem to be still held as sacred, few persons venturing to penetrate into the interior, being content to be told, "Here the great Buffon passed his hours ​in study," as they look upwards and observe the walls of the pavilion.

It is extremely to be regretted that this relic is in a manner neglected. It is true that the windows have within a few years been repaired, but nothing more has been done, and the opportunity of regaining the fauteuil and desk, which were formerly used by Buffon, was allowed to escape. Nothing but bare walls remain; and gloomy, dirty, and sad looks the old tower, peeping out from the garlands of a magnificent species of small-leafed ivy which almost envelope it. No one now looks from the lattice where the philosopher gazed on the pleasing landscape spread out before him; the door is closed, and it appears that the key is lost, for, after several demands, the disappointed traveller will be told there is "Rien à voir, et il ne vaut pas la peine d'y entrer."

The general reproach which may be made to the Burgundians is an apathy and indifference to their treasures of this description, and an utter disregard of the beauties both of nature and art. Ask a peasant either in Champagne or Burgundy the name even of a street or church in his own town, and the first answer is invariably, "Mais, mon Dieu, je n'en sais rien. Ah! par exemple, ça peut être la rue de —— et l'église de ——." ​Civility is not wanting when it is discovered that the stranger is sufficiently original to wish to find out something by which they set no store.

The present owner of the Château de Buffon is the widow of the son of the naturalist, who fell a victim to revolutionary madness during the Reign of Terror. La Comtesse is very much beloved in her neighbourhood, and justly so. She kindly permits all the respectable inhabitants to walk in her gardens, and they are, indeed, a general promenade to the town, as there is scarcely an inch of ground where they could make resort; besides, this permission is particularly valuable, and few are slow to take advantage of it; consequently there is little privacy left to the château itself, and the noise of village children without the grilles, and clatter of village occupation all round the dwelling, destroy the quiet which an English resident would require.

Not a marriage takes place but the whole of the guests immediately repair to the château, enter by the front entrance, climb the steps of the first terrace, and spread themselves over the grounds, talking and laughing, without a thought or care of disturbing the indulgent and kindhearted mistress of the domain. Preceded by ​their violon, the joyous party, all orange flowers and white ribands, mount from terrace to terrace to the ancien château; there they open their baskets of provisions and regale themselves, and there the dance and petits jeux commence till night falls, and they retrace their steps to the town below, which is as steep, stony, and slovenly as any French country town need be.

The château is very large and commodious, furnished very simply, clean and neat, and with bright-polished floors, parqueté. In the principal salon are three good pictures of Buffon, his wife, and Daubenton. Bronze figures of Jean Jacques and Voltaire adorn the chimney-piece, which is of the marble of Montbard, the discovery of which is due to Buffon himself. Though not remarkably fine, this marble is very beautifully variegated, and its colour is pleasing to the eye.

There is a tradition that the philosopher, with his usual benevolence, was anxious to reconcile the two most celebrated authors of their period, and invited Rousseau and Voltaire to meet at his house; they did not, however, agree, and parted much as they met, with no other result than having inspired with dignified pride the barber of Montbard, who, living till the age of ninety, boasted for many years after, that he had had the distinguished honour de faire la ​barbe to all the three illustrious savans in one morning.

One circumstance cannot be doubted, that the author of "Julie," when he beheld the cabinet in which Buffon studied, was seized with a fit of enthusiasm, and, prostrating himself on the threshold, kissed with the fervour of idolatry the steps so often pressed by the feet of him whom he reverenced as a deity. There is nothing to record this, but, in its stead, on the closed door may be deciphered a name less dear to the lovers of romance, but scarcely less known to the world; "Bergami, écuyer de la Reine d'Angleterre," wrote his illustrious name in pencil here!

The unfortunate queen of George IV. took up her temporary residence at the Point du Jour, at Montbard, on her way to her trial and to death!—a strange place enough for a princess to choose to remain in: for, without exception, Montbard, particularly that part of it in which the inn is situated, is the dirtiest town in this part of France, and the accommodations she could have had must have been poor enough.

But to return to the interior of the house,—there is a good billiard-room, and a long gallery, which forms one wing of the château, and is on a level with the raised terrace above; the walls ​of both of these chambers are covered entirely with coloured engravings in narrow gilt frames, which touch each other, of the birds described in Buffon's great work on Natural History, and have a very pretty effect; the hues are all bright and the forms pleasing, and, as they were executed under the eye of the master, make an agreeable impression on the mind.

A small chamber thus ornamented, in enamel, would be very beautiful: why should not some of our millionaires adopt the fashion? Could there be a prettier boudoir than one thus adorned? The subjects could be varied at will, and the artists employed chosen by a tasteful patron, who might thus occupy numerous persons of talent in a new way.

Whoever has visited the chambers of the Hôtel de Buffon, will agree that the effect is charming. Less so is the prospect which the windows present on the side next the street, and it is difficult to coincide in opinion with the respectable housekeeper, who admires that part of the house most,—"Voilà qui est gaie! ça donne sur la rue où on voiÿ^[1] tout le monde; on ne s'ennuie pas;" the monde consisting in gentry who pass, driving carts, laden with coals, towards the canals; peasants in ​blouses carrying loads of different kinds, seldom picturesque, except, indeed, they appear with bundles of hay, intermixed with blue corn-flowers and poppies, which make huge garlands round the heads of the labouring women.

From the salle à manger, however, which is exactly opposite a street leading to the bridge, can be seen, above the tops of the houses, the green summit of a mount, crowned by a sort of shed or pavilion, formerly the retreat of a certain hermit, and, in later times, the abode of a solitaire, who amused his leisure by attending to the growth of silkworms, and had the honour of being a friend of Buffon's. The last proprietor appears to have been also a philanthropist, for he left the small piece of land, on the top of the hill, to the town for a pleasure-house for the people, who sometimes meet there to dance; his library and house he bequeathed to Montbard, which can now boast of a bibliothèque publique, certainly but little required and never resorted to, except by inquisitive travellers, who will there find some of the best modern works of poetry and the drama, some excellent engravings, and classical authors.

The church of Montbard is without interest, except from its position; the high spire appears ​above the pine grove which surrounds the ancient castle, and is a charming object in the view. At the Revolution, the tomb which enclosed the ashes of Buffon was destroyed, the lead of his coffin melted into bullets, and his bones scattered. We must not trust ourselves to comment on such a deed; but the same hands that murdered his son might well have perpetrated it. It was said that the interesting and amiable young count was betrayed by a valet-de-chambre, who denounced him and his wife of sixteen, the niece of Daubenton. The latter, after passing a whole night in a cart, expecting to be led, at daybreak, to execution, after hearing of her husband's fate, and that of many of her friends, was suddenly delivered by one of those changes which saved the lives of thousands. She returned to Montbard, to find the mob in possession of her house; her furniture destroyed or dispersed; her pictures, her plate, all her cherished treasures gone; and she, but lately a bride, destitute. After a time restitution was made, to a certain extent, but the once princely fortune of one of the greatest men France has produced was dwindled to a trifle.

The statues which adorned those beautiful ​walks were broken, the carvings defaced, the trees torn up, the flowers trampled down, and desolation reigned triumphant. By degrees, and in the course of years, the terraces, the orange-trees—which are remarkably fine—the groves, and walks, revived; but it would have required the fortune lost to do justice to this retreat, and make it what it was. One monument alone remains, and that is very interesting; namely, a small, slender column, standing exactly beneath the enormous tower which commands the surrounding hills. It was placed there by young De Buffon, during a short absence from home of his father; who, on his return, discovered with pleasure the tribute paid him by one so dear. The inscription is as follows:—

It is unfortunate that the house should be placed so low as to prevent any sort of view being obtained from it, or indeed of it, for the ugly roofs of the surrounding houses entirely mask it from sight, and the terraces and immensely high trees close it in, and overshadow the whole building, which is kept in excellent repair, and has a handsome front next the ​garden, but can never be wholly seen even from the terrace immediately opposite, half of the structure being beneath the spectator, who stands amongst the orange and myrtle trees, or sits beneath the gigantic acacias, which wave their graceful branches "in sign of worship" of the memory of him who planted them there.

Although now so insignificant, Montbard was once a place of great importance. Its seigneurs were the richest in Burgundy, and distinguished in all the expeditions of their time. They almost all fell in battle for their liege lords the dukes, who, in default of heirs, became possessed of their domains, and granted many privileges to the town. Hugues the Fourth, in the year 1230, granted the inhabitants a charter de commune, reserving for himself, in consequence of want of money, fifteen days' credit with the bakers and wine merchants, beyond which time they were not bound to supply him till he had paid his debts. Philip the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, several times fixed his residence at Montbard, and there received his bride, Marguérite de Flandres, to whom the ladies of l'Auxois came to pay their devoirs, adorned and dressed in all the splendour of fashion. Twice the Estats de Bourgogne assembled here, in 1376 and 1388; and the Edit de Montbard fixed the ​pound at sixteen ounces. The town and castle held out for the League, but were obliged to yield to the victorious arms of Henry IV. in 1590. Since that time, little mention is made of it in history, and the glory it obtained in becoming the abode of Buffon has effaced its former renown. The old gardener, who used to relate numerous anecdotes of the naturalist, is dead; he reached nearly the age of ninety, and was never weary of talking of the ancient glories of the place. His daughter, who remembers only the burial of M. de Buffon, has now the care of the flower-gardens, and, though abounding in zeal, has not, as she herself allows, sufficient hands to weed and water, and tend and dress the beds as they should be; therefore, more than half is left in all the simplicity of nature. The jardin potager is that which is most attended to: it is of immense extent and very productive; its grapes and wall fruit are of the finest flavour, and it is in general in tolerable order; but being much too large for the wants of its owner, the whole of the domain cannot but present an appearance of neglect and decay, however beautiful and venerable the trees, shrubs, and walls may be. Such as it is, however, by the liberality of the countess, it belongs quite as much to the town ​as to herself, and is a real treasure in the country, and an object of extreme interest to all travellers in Burgundy.

During our stay at Montbard, to whose excellent countess and her society we were indebted for much attention and politeness, we accompanied some friends of her's to visit a family in the neighbourhood, who are remarkable in many ways; in the first, from their residence at the ancient abbey of Fontenai, next from their bearing the names of Mongolfier and Seguin, and lastly for their singular beauty.

The head of this family is son to the well-known Mongolfier, whose discoveries of the power of balloons have made his name familiar. He has a great many daughters and nieces, married and unmarried, all of whom live in his house, and each of whom is more or less beautiful. It is a sight to astonish a stranger to see the drawing-room, into which one is ushered, filled by degrees with a crowd of lovely girls, few of them above twenty, some with one infant, some with several, as pretty as their mothers, and to hear that all these are sisters and cousins: they all, it seems, marry relations, some so near as to startle English and Protestant ideas of propriety. One exquisitely lovely young woman—a perfect Houri, with dark eyes, ​—for instance, was the wife of her uncle the brother of her mother and the father of her cousin, who was the wife of her brother, and thus her daughter and sister. This last was also as beautiful as can be conceived, and so young that when she produced her infant, it appeared almost a fable to consider her as a mother. Another of these nymphs was a widow, with a sweet melancholy expression in her magnificent dark eyes, quite enchanting. The youngest married sister-cousin entered the room with the only single one of the party, not so regularly handsome as the rest, but full of grace, vivacity, and brilliancy. She had a large straw hat, with a blue riband, such as is worn by peasants, thrown negligently over her bright hair and shading her face, which was all roses and smiles—her shape quite unconfined, as was the case with each, as pliable and waving as a dancing girl, her step like a dryad, her eye like a gazelle; in fact, as the whole party formed into line, and accompanied us through the aisles and cloisters of the abbey, I could not help thinking they looked like a band of young priestesses, chosen for their beauty to officiate at the shrine of some pagan deity, as they walked along with their arms entwined round each other, and the charming heads peered over the pretty shoulders, ​while explanations of all the wonders of their domicile poured from their lips.

They all appeared to possess remarkable talent, some for drawing and painting, some for music and singing; and we were delighted, during our long visit, by the evidence given us of the latter accomplishment. One of the finest instruments, by Pepe, I ever heard, was touched with consummate skill by her whom I considered the most beautiful of this lovely community of aunt-mothers and wife-nieces.

We walked with them over their pretty romantic gardens in the depth of the valley where the abbey is situated; and as a group of them stood clinging to and seated carelessly by an ancient fountain, I never beheld so picturesque a sight, or forms so classical and poetical. The charm of these goddesses of the place for a long time made us forget that our object in visiting Fontenai was particularly to see all that remained of the abbey, whose buildings now furnish chambers, in which M. Mongolfier has established a paper manufactory. At length we were able to observe the effect of the ruins themselves, and to separate from them the lovely beings of this world, whose presence so agreeably disturbed the monastic solitude. The arrival of some of the husband-uncles and bro​thers, who are not, in outward appearance, distinguished from good-looking ordinary mortals, enabled us, by their kind guidance, to explore the wonders of the monastery, once so celebrated in Burgundy, so powerful and so extensive, and standing on the site of an establishment formed by the Druids, perhaps equally imposing, and of still greater power.

The Abbey of Fontenai, of the order of Cîteaux, was called the second daughter of the powerful monastery of Clairvaux. It was founded in 1118 by Bernard and Millon de Montbard in a spot called Chatilun, near a wondrous fountain, famous for the miracles performed there by a holy hermit, called Martin, who had chosen it for a retreat.

The rich bishop Evrard of Norwich was at this time forced to fly from England in consequence of the insubordination of the clergy under his care, and, quitting his diocese, he repaired to this secluded place, where he established his abode on a neighbouring hill, from whence he looked down on the rising convent at his feet. In a short time, the monks succeeded in exciting his interest, and, his religious zeal being roused, he undertook to assist them with money and advice. At his own charge he built for them a fine church, ​of enormous dimensions. Pope Eugene III., accompanied by ten cardinals and eight bishops, and a great number of abbots, assisted, with St. Bernard, at the consecration of this building.

On Evrard's death, he was buried here in a magnificent monument in the centre of the choir; several other tombs of dukes and duchesses of Burgundy afterwards added to its splendour.

The abbey was governed by thirty-two regular abbots and thirteen commendataires. Numerous privileges were granted them by the Popes; amongst others, they had a singular right, which goes far to prove the turbulent state of their lives, namely, the permission to fight amongst themselves, and to be absolved for so doing.

They were declared exempt from excommunication, let what would be their crime, and permitted to wear the ring, mitre, and pastoral staff. Philippe le Hardi, although described as rude chevaucheur et âpre chasseur, exempted the abbot from furnishing white bread for his dogs when he hunted near the abbey.

Jean sans Peur permitted them to fortify the monastery, and Louis XII., in 1500, renewed the same privilege: this appeared necessary, as they were so frequently at war with their neighbours, the monks of Moutiers Saint Jean. In 1250 there were no less than three hundred monks. ​Part of that which remains is said to be the léproserie: but the finest part is a council chamber, the roof and pillars of which are gorgeously beautiful: the convent kitchen is also fine, and the immense range of cloisters are unrivalled, except by that of St. Trophine, at Arles.

The church, now partly used as a coach-house and partly for manufacturing purposes, is of great extent, but has little of its ancient grandeur left. It was dedicated to St. Croix and St. Petronille and Hélène, as a tablet still seen on the wall sets forth. Numerous tombs of abbots pave the floor, amongst which that of St. Bernard himself, the great adversary of Abelard, is shown, much defaced.

The water of the miraculous fountain still flows on; our beautiful friends told us that they were very jealous of the paper-mills, which stole so much from their flower-garden, where their fountain was placed, that it seldom had enough to allow it to play in the picturesque manner they had planned. In the stream beyond are found trout of enormous size and excellent flavour.

Till the great Revolution, a community of monks still enjoyed this delicious retreat, surrounded by antique forests. Immense masses of grey rock are scattered over the hills, and rear ​their venerable heads amongst the thick foliage: the pretty river runs sparkling on its winding way, through a rich romantic country, presenting every here and there delightful views of rural beauty. The walk through the woods to Montbard must be delicious in a dry summer, but in the winter the pretty inhabitants of Fontenai are indeed recluses; for it must be perfectly impossible to pass the roads, which are sufficiently rugged at all seasons, and must then be quite impracticable. The air is subject to violent changes; even in the hottest weather, when the day has been sultry, a sharp frost will come on at sunset, which makes a fire necessary, and it is seldom that a moonlight walk can be enjoyed through the cloisters, or to the romantic glen where the fountain rises.

At night, however, the beauty of these open galleries is finely brought out by means of gas, with which they are lighted, and which must indeed have a splendid effect: as we saw them with the sun-light streaming through, they appeared to extreme advantage, but a violent fall of rain which lasted two hours convinced us how sad and damp and desolate a residence the Abbey of Fontenai must be in "winter and cold weather." ​Not long since, in digging before the portal of the principal entrance, in order to construct some new buildings connected with the manufactory, a curious discovery came to light. Only a few feet below the ground was found an oval temple, surrounded by a colonnade, in tolerable preservation: several instruments of Gaulic sacrifice were lying about in different parts; and there is reason to suppose that, had the excavations been carried on, many curious evidences of Druid worship would have occurred. As, however, this was not the object of the proprietor, and he did not wish to disturb the venerable remains, the ground was reclosed, and marks placed so that the spot could be readily found again, and the mysterious temple was restored to its original obscurity.

The valley is altogether a place of singular interest and beauty, and tradition says that this charming race of fairies of Fontenai is not the only family distinguished for loveliness,—no less than three vieing with each other in attractions, as the stream is followed. One however is now gone, which was considered to bear the bell, and consisted of a Scotch lady, married to a French husband, and her daughters, all si charmantes, si séduisantes, as a gentleman of Montbard ​described them to us, that it was positively incautious to look at them:

I christened the course of the stream "the Dangerous Valley,"—a title which appears, if all be true that is told, appropriate enough.