A Pilgrimage to Auvergne/Vol 1/Chapter 2

Poor Charles, though he might have deserved the somewhat rude surname, bestowed on him by his subjects, of Simple or Sot, certainly did not merit the sobriquet of lâche-cœur, which was also given him; for he fought fiercely and valiantly, exposing himself to every danger, and being always in the thickest of the mêlée. It appears that at the beginning of his reign he allowed his confidence to be entirely gained, and all his actions directed, by a certain knight of little note called Haganon, who seems to have possessed all the spirit, sense, and cunning wanted by his indolent master. Charles, encouraged by his favourite, began to show the contempt he felt for the nobles who surrounded his throne, and on all occasions exalted Haganon to honour, bestowing on him riches and benefits to the exclusion of all others. Abbeys and lands were heaped upon him, and the king even dispossessed his aunt, ​Rothilde, daughter of Charles le Cliauve, to give her abbey of Chelles to his beloved friend.

The barons, headed by Robert, Count of Paris and Duke of France, indignant at this proceeding, rose in a body and proclaimed their disgust. When all were assembled in the champ at Soissons, according to custom, to treat of the affairs of the kingdom, by unanimous consent each cast down des fêtus de paille on the ground, as a symbol that they renounced and rejected Charles as their sire, "because he was a king of a coward heart;" and, separating themselves from him, they left him alone in the midst of the field. They repaired to another place to consult, when a certain Count Hugues, who was a secret friend to the king, addressed them thus: "Oh, courageous Franks, you are to blame. Why have you thus shamefully abandoned your lord? A great part of France is on his side, and evil will betide us if we quit him in this manner. I will approach him and will pierce him with my sword; for better is it that he should be slain than left to punish us hereafter." So saying, the knight spurred forward his horse, as though he would have rushed upon the king; but when he had reached him he gave him this counsel: "Send me back to those people; let me be your messenger to them, and entreat them to remain a year longer under your domi​nion; at the end of which time, if they have not reason to be content with your conduct, they may quit you ignominiously."

It appears that this advice was followed, and, after some discussion, the nobles consented to make the trial: however, the reconciliation did not last long. Charles would not give up his favourite, and finding the rebellious nobles too strong for him, they fled together from Laon beyond the Meuse, where they were reinforced by a great number of Lotharingians. Charles collected all his friends who still held in reverence the ancient blood of Charles Martel and Charlemagne, and re-entering France pillaged and burnt all on their passage, advancing as far as Epernay, but was obliged to fall back to the Laonnais, the chief town of which, however, he was unable to recover, Laon having fallen into the hands of the men of Count Robert of Paris, together with all the treasure of Haganon. The king was obliged to retreat, and Count Robert was crowned king at St. Remy de Reims.

A powerful adversary now started up against Charles in the person of Héribert, Count of Vermandois and Peronne, whose sway extended over the Soissonnais, who held in his hand the resources of the archbishopric of Reims, who commanded Chatillon and Château Thierry, could ​control Laon, Meaux, and Troyes, and was almost supreme lord of all the country between the Somme, the Moyenne-Meuse, and the Marne, besides which, he was both brother and son-in-law of Robert. Charles, nevertheless, retook the field with a large army, and advanced upon Robert before he was prepared. In the great plain which extended between the city of Soissons and the château of St. Medard, the Franks were tranquilly refreshing themselves, when Charles, who had crossed the Aisne, came, with his hosts, upon them. Robert and his warriors defended themselves bravely; the aged chief seized the banner with his own hand, and spread out upon his mailed bosom his large white beard, in order that he might be recognised by his party. The banner of king Charles was borne by Count Fulbert, and towards him, in the midst of the carnage, Robert directed his course. He aimed a blow at the standard-bearer which must have been fatal, had not Charles who rushed to the spot exclaimed in a loud voice, — "Beware Fulbert — take heed to thyself!" Fulbert turned, and with a backward stroke cleft the skull of Count Robert, who fell dead at the feet of the king.

The death of his competitor did not secure the victory to Charles: the Franks, animated by Héribert and Hugues the son of Robert, renewed ​the battle with greater ardour, and in the end remained masters of the field, after incredible carnage. Charles once more fled to Germany, but did not yet abandon his cause; he urged his revolted barons, and in particular the Count de Vermandois, to declare themselves for him, and was at length partially successful, for, contrary to the wishes of the haughty Héribert, a prince of Burgundy was proclaimed successor to Robert. Charles in an evil hour was induced to confide in the promises of Héribert and repaired to the city of Vermandois, then beginning to be called St. Quentin, but no sooner was he in the power of that treacherous noble than he found himself a prisoner. He was sent a captive to Château Thierry, and from that peried till his death he became the mere plaything of Héribert, who paraded him from city to city with royal honours and with every mark of respect as long as it served his purpose, only to plunge him once more into confinement in some fortress, to be released again for a time when his tyrannical jailor required some concessions from Raoul, the new king. The Pope embraced the cause of the unfortunate Charles, but merely with a view of obliging Raoul to resign the county of Laon, which he having at length done in favour of Héribert, the latter determined no longer to appear to be the friend of ​the betrayed monarch. Charles was forced to consent to abdicate in favour of Raoul, and a year after this act his sufferings were closed at Peronne in the dismal chamber in La Tour Herbert, which is now shown to the pitying traveller who recals to mind his sad fate, and sighs as he reflects on the “sad stories” which may be told “of the death of kings.”

The bones of Charles were buried in the church of St. Furey at Peronne, which no longer exists. The principal church is very fine, with palm-like pillars and roof, and some beautiful painted glass. The town is surrounded by marshes, and has been strongly defended; it is said never to have been taken, and to an inexperienced eye it would in deed appear impossible to be so: the fortifications, however, in case of another siege, such as that which it sustained in 1536 against the Comte de Nassau, would require much repair, which they seem in a fair way of recciving, as workmen are actively employed on the walls. In these towns the effect is very singular of all the buildings being beneath the level of the ramparts: this excludes a free circulation of air, and must render the streets close, and, one would imagine, unhealthy: as the backs of the houses are towards the promenade, its beauty is not increased, and as a higher wall closes them in on the side next the ​country, the walks are sufficiently triste, though the wide extent of plain and marsh beyond does not offer a particular inducement to the stranger to make any efforts to look over the barrier.

We were accosted in our rambles by an old gentleman, who announced himself as a proprietor, — formerly in business, now living at his ease, — and he gaye us a little information respecting the country, which he described as having become rich in productions within twenty years, though before that time it was a mere fen, extremely unhealthy and dangerous. The inhabitants of Peronne, he said, were rich, and possessed valuable lands; the air was healthy in summer, but on ocecsion of great rains agues were very frequent; nevertheless, he enumerated many of the inhabitants who had attained to an advanced age, and on the whole he did not consider that, of late years, the position of the town was fraught with danger to life. It must be a dismal spot in winter! Two leagues from Peronne are the remains of the ancient château d’Applincourt, where was proposed and signed 13th Feb. 1577, the criminal association, known as the Treaty of the League: and about five leagues off is the terrible castle of Ham, surrounded by its marshes, from whose gigantic tower so many prisoners of state have gazed despondingly over the wide extent of ​plain which offered no means of escape. It was built in 1470 by Louis de Luxembourg, Count of St. Pol, who suffered death under Louis XI. Above the principal entrance is inscribed the motto, in Gothic characters, “Mon Mieux.” There the ministers of Charles X. added their names to the melancholy roll of prisoners, and there Prince Polignac, born under a captive star, looked sadly from his grated window towards the unhealthy spot where he knew his young and interesting daughter, whose eyes he could not close, was dying of the pestilential air which breathed around, asking in feeble tones for her beloved father whose unfortunate fate had preyed upon her sensitive mind till the delicate frame sank under her regret and despair.

Prince Louis Napoleon now expiates in that mournful retreat his breach of honour and mad imprudence. Few travellers are allowed to approach the walls, and least of all the English, whom no explanations can exculpate in the minds of the French, always obstinate and unjust in their conclusions, from having encouraged the foolish attempt of the ill-advised young man who has badly exchanged his handsome house in Carlton Gardens for a damp and dreary abode like the horrible chateau of Ham.

The appearance of the country improves on ​approaching St. Quentin from Peronne; the villages are remarkably clean and neat, and convey an idea of prosperity and industry. St. Quentin itself is a ville champétre, uninclosed by walls or moats, and, after the sombre, guarded looking places we had passed through, greeted our sight with an aspect of gaiety and comfort peculiarly pleasing. It is built on the summit and slope of a hill of some extent, at the foot of which runs the Somme. The canal of Picardy surrounds a part of the town, where are walks planted with trees and offering promenades of the most agreeable and inviting description, laid out with much taste, and leading to fields of extreme beauty. We were delighted to roam about in this charming place, and extended our rambles to some distanee through fields of rye and colza (rape), then all golden with its bright yellow flower, the perfume of which, on the breeze, is fresh and pleasant. A place called Bellevue, but a short walk along these pretty fields, is appropriated to Sunday fêtes, and is arranged with infinite neatness; the gardens, rich and luxuriant, and the shades very agreeable and soothing. Few towns in this part of France possess greater advantages in this particular than St. Quentin, and we were not surprised at the vociferous hoasting of a loquacious attendant who did the honours of our ​hotel, and who appeared resolved not to leave us during our stay in his town, which he considered superior to every other. Having unfortunately encouraged him at first in his deseriptions, his eloquence knew no bounds, and scarcely could we obtain a hearing when we interrupted his rapturous accounts of the riches of St. Quentin and its neighbourhood, to entreat his offices, — for he proclaimed himself the chef, — to procure us some dinner. He had now another field for protestation, and left us with promises of an unique repast; it is but due to him to remark that he was true to his word.

Our zealous friend the chef would, however, scarcely permit us to enjoy a moment’s quiet; for as soon as he conceived that we had sufficiently reflected on the perfection of his art, he made his reappearance with an excuse to demand our passport. This led to a discussion on the custom of asking for passports, which involved the expression of his opinion of the English, French, and every other government under the sun: at length, animated by his subject, he fairly seated himself on one of our trunks, and, in spite of cold looks and short answers, which he did net appear to observe, he entered into an exposé of the political conduct of all the rulers of Europe, in a strain which proved him equal to have taken the lead in any ​popular tumult. His eyes flashed, and his singular countenance became almost fearfully animated; his words flowed without the slightest hesitation, he threw his arms about with violent gesticulation as he proclaimed, that if he had the offending parties, whom he anathematised as betrayers of the national honour of France, in the great square opposite our windows, he would be the first whose hand should seize the rope which should suspend them all “à la lanterne.” “I speak,” said he, “the sentiments of all France — we want no rich, we want no aristocracy — we are men and Frenchmen, and we adore our honour.” Seeing his excitement, I begged him to change the subject, upon which suddenly he pulled off his white nightcap — the distinguishing crown of a chef — placed his hand on his heart, apologised for talking politics before ladies, begged us not to imagine that he was a sanguinary character, and with renewed offers to conduct us himself to see all the wonders of St. Quentin, disappeared, with a bow which would have graced a dancing academy.

We took the first opportunity of slipping out of the hotel unobserved by our persecutor, and concealing ourselves in the streets of his town, where, forgetting his disturbative eloquence, we sought the beautiful and quiet retreat of the cathedral, the elevated roof of which had long in​vited us from the windows of our enormous, gloomy, singular looking apartment, which looked out into the fine square, considered the wonder of that part of the country. This square is of great extent, and surrounded by irregular built but good-looking houses; on one side is the antique Hôtel de Ville, quite a treasure of Gothic ornament. Its eight columns form a handsome arcade and gallery; their capitals are grotesque and curious, and the foliage of its cornices is exquisitely designed. The building is surmounted by a beautiful open tower, in which are contained the peal of bells of which the inhabitants are so proud, but whose incessant ringing out of tune every quarter of an hour, together with the accompaniment of those of every church far and near in emulation, make a charivari so intolerable that it is enough to drive the distracted traveller from the place in utter despair of obtaining rest night or day. It has become a custom to compare a talkative noisy person's voice to the Carillon de St. Quentin, and our enemy the chef might well have given rise to the saying.

The cathedral has no towers, but is nevertheless majestic and beautiful, and of a high style of art: there are no tombs, but a good deal of painted glass: the three windows in the choir are very fine and perfect, but many of the others ​are patched: the roses of the cross are extremely vivid and elegant, though not large. Nothing can be lighter or more graceful than the groups of reedy pillars which support the body of the church; those round the choir are very massive and have Corinthian columns, appearing of a much earlier date than the rest. It is remarkably lofty, and an admirable harmony reigns throughout the whole building, which is of great extent.^[1]

There are no other antique churches to be found, the town being almost entirely new, and convents and other religious edifices haying been unhesitatingly swept away to make room for more modern structures. In laying out the Champs Elysées numerous débris were found of ​Roman and Gothic times, a few of which are preserved in the Court of the Bibliothèque, but very little attention is bestowed in this manufacturing town on antiquities, every thought being directed to the getting of money and the extension of trade. St. Quentin vies with Cambrai in its cottons and linens, and their preparation employs an immense number of workmen, of whom many are Scotch. We recognised a countrywoman at the door of a tailors shop, surrounded by several meagre, sickly-looking children. She told us she was from Glasgow, when very young had married a Frenchman, and added, with a sigh, that she had now no chance of ever seeing Scotland again; she regretted that the air of the town injured her children’s health, but she had no remedy for the evil, being established there and obliged to stay. We asked if her little boy spoke English: she replied, “No,” and added, “The French say that the children have an English face on them.” The northern accent was not in the least degree impaired, though her language was a strange mixture of dialects. She was remarkably handsome, and still young, though married fourteen years, but had a sad, neglected, and discontented air, which made us melancholy to look at her and her evidently pining children, whom the fresh air of her native mountains ​would probably restore to health. She had already, she said, buried several, and was about to be again confined.

We managed to effect our escape from St. Quentin at five in the morning, before our vociferous friend was stirring. We had not during our stay beheld a single female in the establishment, and on asking one of the clumsy garçons who attended us to send us the chamber-maid, he, with great naïveté, replied, “La fille—c'est moi.”

We had heard from various persons of whom we had inquired, the most disparaging accounts of the town of Laon, to which we were bound, and began to feel half inclined to change our destination: having, however, observed that our opinion generally differed from that of others, and reflecting that manufactures were not altogether the object of our admiration, we trusted that the contempt expressed for the ancient and historically interesting city, once so great and powerful, might be ill-founded. We were confirmed in our resolve to adventure by hearing at last that there was no trade there, that the inhabitants had no spirit, that all the old walls and streets, and ramparts and churches, stood unmolested—that all was morne et triste, et point de fabriques. Our compagnon de voyage in the ​coupé, an intelligent fabricant, added to this report, that the streets were dirty, the people idle and ignorant, and that there had been no new buildings for centuries: he protested that but from necessity he would never visit such a place, that it was dull enough to give any one the vapours, and that it was so steep that it was next to an impossibility to climb up from the plain, in the midst of which the mountain stood on which the ugly town was built. The word mountain revived us, fatigued as we had been with long-extending plains and never-ending marshes, and when our informant acknowledged that he had not been there for eleven years, we took courage again. We soon after lost him and took up a female, who appeared surprised at our questions as to whether Laon was supportable; her account was highly in its favour, and it had never seemed to enter her thought that her native town could be ill spoken of. Along many leagues of plain, and between hedges of honeysuckle and elder, did we travel in this alternation of hope and fear—the first vines had begun to appear,—when a sudden exclamation from our companion “Voilà Laon!” caused us to strain our eyes eagerly.

Rising like a gigantic shadow between the clouds, was seen on the horizon an elevation ​crowned by towers, which was now visible, now eclipsed, as the road changed its direction or trees intervened.

Nearer and nearer we approached the object; and at length the walls and towers and turrets of beautiful and majestic Laon came out distinctly in the distance. We began to ascend the mountain, which, rising square and huge from the immense plain around, is terminated at its summit by this singular town, unlike any other in France, most inconvenicently placed, except for purposes of defence, but picturesque and curious in the extreme. It took us, with additional horses, more than half an hour’s toil before we found ourselves in the still ascending principal street, which, to our great relief, was open, wide, clean, and cheerful-looking. It was market-day, and all was life, bustle, and movement. Contrary to all our expectations founded on the accounts we had heard, in the principal square we heard the noise of workmen and saw the ground strewn with blocks of stone for the continuation of the construction of a new Hôtel de Ville in a forward state and remarkably handsome; and we stopped at the respectable Hôtel de la Hure, in good spirits and full of expectation, for some of the most beautiful towers we had ever beheld had struck us as we drove up the ascent.