A Pilgrimage to Auvergne/Vol 1/Chapter 18

From Nevers the road lay through Pougues, a small town or bourg, in a charming valley, surrounded with hills cultivated to their summits. Houses, of a better appearance than is usual in French villages, and a large handsome hotel by the road-side announced the vicinity of the mineral waters, which have enjoyed considerable celebrity from the fifteenth century, and whose fame increased in consequence of their having been visited by Henry III. and IV., and Louis XIV. and many other great personages, amongst whom the Prince de Condé greatly embellished the buildings near. The waters of Pougues possess similar properties to those of Spa and Seltz.

We stopped at La Charité, a town at the foot of a hill planted with vines, on the right bank of the Loire, over which is a stone bridge ​of remarkable form, rather handsome; and a suspension bridge which has a pleasing effect. It has a good port, but is an ugly ill-built place, and very dirty. Its dilapidated church must have been fine, but it looks as if it had not been repaired since the assaults of the English in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. The towers are beautiful, and an arch of entrance, with a flight of steps which now lead only to a ruined court, is extremely grand.

We now entered the ancient province of Berri, and were in the department of Cher, of which the curious and interesting old town of Bourges is the capital, we arrived there in the evening of a wet day, and were deposited at the sign of the Boeuf Couronné, in the antique and strange, sunken Rue Bourbonnoux, which, if named from the dirt and mud in which it was rich, seemed well to deserve its appellation.

The hotel, like every other in the town, was full, in consequence of the assizes being held at this period, and we were therefore obliged to be content for the moment with a haunted-looking bricked room, on a level with and forming one side of the stable yard in which all the diligences of the quarter were collected.

Our travelling companion, who had detected ​my propensity to sketch, had laid a plan to obtain the portrait of his little girl; he was to continue his journey the same night towards Tours, and, as he had but little time to see the town, he entreated us to take charge of his child, and at the same time, with the utmost sang-froid begged that I would employ the interval of his absence in making a picture of his little Ada. We were amused at the ease with which he made this request, to travellers who were fatigued with a day and night's jolting; but I nevertheless complied, and with some difficulty induced "the best child in the world" to behave commonly good while I sketched her pretty little face and costume. The father's delight might have repaid my trouble, but unluckily for me he made it known at the table d'hôte to the whole household, as I afterwards found to my annoyance, for I believe every body connected with the establishment expected me to draw their portraits. The mistress of the hotel sent by a bonne the next day, a remarkably ugly child, very finely dressed, with a cool request that she might be depicted; and, announcing that when that was done, her sister, still plainer than herself, would indulge me with a sitting. My refusal caused very black looks, and great surprise, as the mother evidently ​thought her progeny far better subjects for my pencil than all the old stones and pillars of the cathedral, to which she was aware I directed my attention.

Distracted with the noise of arrivals and departures all night we insisted on some better apartments being given us, and were the more resolute as our attendant at breakfast remarked quite coolly, when I reminded her of the over-night promise to accommodate us better: "Ah, mes chères petites dames—il faut absolument renoncer a l'idée."

This was too much, as we proposed remaining for some time at Bourges; we therefore proclaimed our intention of instantly seeking another domicile. This changed the aspect of affairs, and one of the best rooms they had was immediately prepared for us. This chamber had windows looking to the street as well as the court; its partially boarded floor was covered, for carpet, with a large piece of antique tapestry where bricks occurred; and the beds were white and clean. We were therefore propitiated, and took possession amidst vociferous assurances that so much elegance was not to be found in Bourges as was now our portion. When we considered the black ruined staircase up which we mounted, and had visited another vast desolate cham​ber, containing three beds, which was destined for some English travellers who shortly afterwards arrived, we were obliged to agree that we were comparatively well lodged, and, provided no accident happened to us mounting and descending a staircase which must have been built in the fourteenth century, and never repaired, we might be better off than our neighbours.

No stable stair in England in a tolerable decent establishment could vie with this, and few coachmen or their assistants would be content with such a room as three English gentlemen, arriving in their carriage, were shown into. The beds were, however, probably good, as ours were, but the washed-out red cotton curtains! the broken brick floor, uncleaned for centuries—as it appeared, certainly had no parallel.

The Bœuf Couronné we nevertheless found was the best hotel in Bourges, and situated in the best quarter; what the others might be we did not venture to conjecture.

Although replete with interest, and possessing almost inexhaustible stores of recollections, and although it has one of the finest cathedrals perhaps in the world, Bourges has a dismally dull, neglected, dirty, and ruinous appearance: no life, no bustle, no commerce, no gaiety, no ​movement—all silent and quiet, sombre and solemn, and certainly one of the least exhilarating spots which could have been chosen for the abode of a deposed monarch, as Don Carlos, his queen, and sons probably find it. The ex-king of Spain himself is, as formerly, always occupied in his chapel, and his whole time is taken up with his devotions to the Virgin; his companions, if not equally devout, must be sufficiently ennuyés in this melancholy town, which seems destined to be the seat of kings in distress.

An object of deep interest, and one so great that no journey could be too long to visit it, no place too dull which leads to it, is the unrivalled Cathedral. Volumes might, and have been written in description of this superb edifice. If only as regards art, this monument, one of the finest in Europe, would take a life to do justice to its merits. There are few which can compare with it in the perfection of its architecture, its ornaments, and its sublimity. Reims, Chartres, Amiens, Beauvais, Rouen, have features in common with this splendid Cathedral, and they may rank with it; but there are not many others which would not suffer by a comparison. I am told that the little known and seldom visited Cathedral of Ferté Bernard, in the Sarthe, is very ​similar, and deserves to be named at the same time with these glorious monuments.

Immediately on beholding St. Etienne a silent veneration takes possession of the mind, which is increased when the gorgeous doors are entered, and the majesty and lofty grandeur of the interior is displayed to the astonished view. Its five naves with their gigantic pillars, the extraordinary elevation of its bold roof, the streaming glories of its jewelled windows, the countless ranges of its reedy columns, its sombre recesses, illuminated chapels, galleries and arcades,—all fill the senses with rapt admiration. Every part of this wondrous church, every capital and pillar is full of details, all amazing and exquisite in their exccution; the painted glass of all the chapels is entire, and richer in its hues than any we had yet seen, though nearly similar to that at Reims; it would seem that the same artist who painted the unrivalled rose there, had thrown the same luxury of colour over every pane of these enormous windows. I have felt the same delight in looking on the chef-d'œuvres at Rouen, but my sensations of admiration on seeing St. Etienne were not surpassed even there.

The first stone of this wonderful edifice is said to have been laid under Charlemagne, the fine ​crypt was built under Raoul de Turenne, Archbishop of Bourges in 845; but the exact period of its construction does not appear to be altogether determined. The pointed style predominates throughout, though in many parts the circular arch exists.

The collateral porches which flank the porticoes on the north and south have a circular vaulting, as has also a cave in the catacombs, which is evidently a Gaulic structure. At whatever period built, these decorated porches are the very perfection of grace and richness; no church in France has anything similar to them. The gorgeousness of ornament in them is amazing, they might suit the entrance to a Moorish palace, and the figures on the portals immediately leading from them are in Eastern costumes. The doors are also magnificent, and the numerous pillars ranged on each side are covered with the most elaborate decoration; the beautiful and apparently complicated patterns of the columns rivet the attention; hour after hour we remained beneath these charming porticoes contemplating them, and I employed myself in endeavouring to bring away some reminiscences of their exquisite beauty, in faint sketches that might resemble them, but their profusion dazzles ​the eyes, and their sharpness and precision amaze the mind.

In the crypt, which is very grand and of great elevation, are several statues placed there, but not originally belonging to the place. Amongst them is that of Jean le Magnifique, Duc de Berri, uncle of Charles VI. The statue is considered a portrait; in which case this turbulent, ambitious, and clever prince was not handsome. The head is large and square, and is not without a character of grandeur and intellect. The drapery is peculiarly fine. At the feet of the statue lies a little bear, very well sculptured; the usual symbol which he loved to repeat of his wife, a lady of the illustrious family des Ursins. Her name was always expressed in writing by him in hieroglyphics, representing a bear, ourse; and swan cigne; his devise was, le temps vinra. The bear at his feet is muzzled and chained, which does not so appear on the margin of his beautifully illuminated book of Heures, which is still existing, and one of the greatest treasures of the Bibliothèque royale. This precious book bears the signature of Nicolas Flamel, and was painted expressly for Duke Jean, who was a great encourager of the arts and literature; although the manner in which he possessed himself of a library, which he seems ​to have stolen at the death of his brother, Charles V., does little credit to his morality whatever it may do to his taste.

The monument has been much defaced; all the exquisite little statues of pleureuses, similar to those of Philippe le Hardi's tomb at Dijon, have been dispersed and broken, and nothing remains of this once superb tomb but the marble slab and figure, which are quite perfect, as well as the inscription in Gothic characters.

There are several other figures which formerly lay in tombs, from which they have long since been separated; several are of fine execution, but who or what they represent is uncertain.

That which is modern in the cathedral is also worthy of admiration; the grey and pale rose-coloured marble, with which the choir is paved, is extremely beautiful. The altars are handsome, and the decorations suitable; the carved wood of the seats and pulpit fine and appropriate, and all in good keeping.

We went to hear mass one day when Don Carlos and his party attended, and were rather struck with the style of attention shown him. The bishop officiated, and all the priests in their richest robes; throughout the ceremony, all the honours paid to the altar were shared ​by the ex-king: the incense thrown towards those sacred objects which the shrine encloses was liberally bestowed on him; the reverences paid to the altar were repeated as each priest or chorister passed the raised seat on which the royal party sat, and to one uninitiated it would have been difficult to discover whether the saint or the king was the object of worship. In spite, however, of all this deference, a tale of caution was told by the gens-d'armes outside the gilded railing, who narrowly watched their charges throughout the service, and were ready in their path as they paced along the aisle to the carriages, apparently the only vehicles of the kind in Bourges. Don Carlos appeared very devout, and never ceased crossing himself with vehement gestures. He is gloomy-looking, and by no means distinguished; his queen has a majestic air and an agreeable countenance, but the whole business was depressing and sad enough to witness. They are always accompanied in their rides and drives by gens-d'armes, and are under complete surveillance.

The façade of the cathedral is said to be not altogether in harmony with the rest of this superb edifice, although no defect was visible to my eyes, which were only delighted with its singular beauties. The towers are unequal, ​and that of the fourteenth century scarcely appears to belong to the rest of the architecture, and its festooned and adorned pyramid agrees little with the severe pointed arches of the five portails, nor does it correspond with the other tower, which is shorter and of a very different form. The Tour de Beurre was finished about the middle of the sixteenth century, as an inscription placed half-way up the staircase indicates.

Nothing can be more splendid than the five entrance doors, covered with figures and figurines, and incrusted with historical designs; they are stone pictures, framed in cases of the most delicate workmanship; every part might be looked at with a magnifying glass like a miniature, and the general effect this produces is magical. Great reparations are going on: Louis Philippe has granted an enormous sum for the restoration of this chef-d'œuvre, and the works are directed by artists of superior taste and ability. It appears certain that the figures must formerly have been painted, as in many the colours can still be traced. What an amazing blaze of brilliancy must then have been presented to the eye!—the imagination can scarcely conceive the gorgeousness of such a spectacle, almost too splendid to be looked on. There is so much ​about this beautiful building of Morisco character even now, that when in the height of its glory it must have been another Alhambra.

The Protestant party directed their rage against this magnificent fane in 1562, and did it much injury. The intention of the brutalised mob in 1793 was to destroy it, but their power was fortunately unequal to their will.

There exist beneath the cathedral enormous catacombs, which have greatly puzzled antiquarians for many ages. Some consider them as caves hollowed by the early Christians, in which they carried on their worship and concealed themselves from their enemies. But a curious Druidical altar, discovered in the depths of these mysterious retreats, would make them appear of much earlier construction. So much has fallen in of late, that discoveries are now difficult; but it is a matter of infinite interest, which will probably always occupy the attention of the learned.

The celebrated and unfortunate Jacques Cœur, the hero of Bourges, built the sacristy of the cathedral, and one of the magnificent chapels in 1430.

There is no other church of interest in Bourges; and of its forty convents not one remains.

Next to the cathedral, the building which ex​cites the most interest in Bourges is the beautiful and singular Hôtel de Ville, formerly the palace of the unfortunate Jacques Cœur.

This millionnaire of the fifteenth century was the son of a furrier of Bourges. So extensive was his commerce, that it extended not only throughout France, but over the whole globe; the seas were covered with his vessels; he employed more than three hundred factors to transport and exchange the riches of French industry with those of the east.

Charles VII., in 1428, gave him the charge of master of the mint at Bourges, then named him his own treasurer, and subsequently master of the mint of Paris. The enormous wealth of Jacques Cœur sustained his royal master through many of his great straits: at a time when the king could find no money to pay his troops, and France was a prey to the rapine and disorder caused by the numerous bands of brigands who swarmed in the country, the powerful merchant lent two hundred thousand gold crowns to meet the emergency.

Jacques Cœur was, besides the intimate friend of the king, the depositary of his secrets, his adviser and companion: he was ennobled by him, together with all his family, was made governor of Touraine, employed in all difficult diplomatic ​negociations, not one of which failed when he directed affairs. The grateful monarch loaded him with honours and favours: he was made seigneur and Baron of St. Fargeau, of Menetou-Salon, of Marmagne, and of Maubranches. At all these places the great merchant built castles and palaces of the most splendid description. In Paris he erected two palaces; one where now stands the Palais Royal, another, a remnant of which may still be traced in the Rue de l'Homme Armé. At Sancerre, at Marseilles, and at Montpelier, he had other mansions: the last still exists, and is known as La Loge. But, of all, the most magnificent was that which he built in his native town of Bourges: it is unique as a monument, even in its present state. It was finished about 1445. He chose for its site all the ground between the Tour de la Chaussée, which existed at the time, and another tower still larger: the casemates of the ancient ramparts served for his cellars, placed, like many others in Bourges, one range over the others, and the walls of the town served for the exterior façade of the hotel on the Place Berry. It was calculated that the construction of this palace cost about eight hundred thousand francs of the present currency of France.

Jacques Cœur married Marie de Léodepart, ​daughter of a prévôt of Bourges, and valet-de-chambre to Duke John the Magnificent, whose arms, as well as his own, are still to be seen in the sacristy of the cathedral built by him.

But in proportion to the power and greatness of this extraordinary man were his reverses. It remains still a mystery for what reason Charles VII. became his enemy, or why he was pursued, hunted, persecuted, and ruined, in a manner unheard of in the annals of regal ingratitude. Accusations poured in upon him from all quarters when once his star began to wane: all the great men to whom he had lent money took this opportunity of canceling their obligations; exaction, peculation, treason were brought forward as crimes he had long practised. He was said to be on the point of sacrificing France and her king to the revolted Dauphin Louis; finally, it was positively asserted that he had poisoned Agnes Sorel.

"This was the unkindest cut of all." Charles, distracted at the loss of her who was "the ocean to the river of his thoughts," allowed himself to be overcome, and Jacques Cœur was given over to his enemies.

In vain he made appeal to the king as his friend, his pupil, his brother, his confidant—in vain he represented the impossibility of the guilt ​of which he was accused—he was not listened to; instead of which, an order was sent by Charles to arrest him, and he was thrown into the dungeons of the Château de Taillebourg, where he had hurried in order to see the king and justify himself.

From dungeon to dungeon he was transferred; the entreaties and representations of popes and cardinals availed not—his trial was hastened; every witness that could be produced was heard and believed, and the only grace bestowed on the devoted Jacques Cœur was that his life should be spared. He was sentenced to be imprisoned till he had paid a hundred thousand gold crowns forfeit; had done penance bareheaded, sans chapeau ni ceinture; had all his goods confiscated to the profit of the king, and was finally to be banished from the kingdom!

This illustrious victim of royal cupidity, ingratitude, or vengeance, was conducted to Beaucaire, where, one of the few friends he seemed to have left, a factor, procured him the means of escape from the dungeons of a convent of Cordeliers where he was confined. At length, with infinite difficulty, he reached Rome in 1455. Fortunately, he was there able to confer with his factor, who, remaining faithful to him during his misfortunes, had continued to carry on his ​commerce with the same vigour as before. He was soon able to pay the forfeit demanded, of which his enemies little dreamed, as they thought him a prisoner for life in the depth of a convent cell.

It was then that a reaction took place: his accusers were discovered to be perjured; all their assertions were proved to be false, and he was acknowledged innocent of every charge: but this justice came too late. Jacques Cœur had just expired, an exile, broken-hearted, in the island of Cyprus!

An inscrutable mystery envelopes this story, and, amongst the many lights which have been thrown on hidden things, nothing has ever transpired to elucidate conjecture respecting the causes of the overthrow of the great merchant of Bourges.

Everything about him is mysterious and enigmatical his devices, his architecture, his misfortunes, and his death; nothing is certain respecting him, and there is room for doubt and surmise in all. There existed in his palace at Bourges a chamber full of mystery: it was a small room which led from his study, and was approached by a private way, perhaps only known to himself and the artist who worked under his directions, if, indeed, his own hand did not exe​cute the singular bas-reliefs which adorned the walls. It would seem as though, like the barber of Midas, he felt the necessity of whispering the secrets of the king to some inanimate object, when he ventured to grave them on his walls.

It is to be regretted that these bas-reliefs exist no longer, save in the drawings representing various details of the hotel. A figure, dressed as Jacques Cœur is always painted, in his furred gown and chain and peculiar head-dress, is approaching, with hurried step, a tree, beneath which reclines a female, who looks towards him. Her hand touches her head, as if to remove a crown which she wears. Not far off, but placed a little in the back-ground, is a tree in which appears a crowned head with a beard and a banderole, the inscription on which is effaced: there is much surprise and anxiety expressed in this countenance. At the opposite extremity is another tree, behind which is seen a fool, with his bauble and cap and bells; his finger is on his grinning mouth, and he seems attentively observing the parties. The devices of "en bouche close n'entre mouche," and "dire, faire, taire," are introduced amongst the foliage, which forms a frame to this picture. Its meaning is totally unknown.

The task, though agreeable, is difficult, of de- ​scribing the indescribable palace which it gave us so much delight to visit. Though now greatly changed, defaced, and destroyed, rendered commodious, cleaned, cleared, and modernised, there is much still remaining of the ancient structure, and all is interesting and curious in the extreme. But this chef-d'œuvre of architecture must not be merely named at the end of a volume; it deserves to occupy the reader's attention in beginning anew.