A Pilgrimage to Auvergne/Vol 1/Chapter 5

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We could not quit Laon without regret, but had great hopes of finding much interest at Coucy, the renown of whose castle, famous throughout centuries, and said to be magnificent in its ruin, had attracted us from afar. We therefore trusted ourselves to the guidance of an old gentleman en blouse, who conducted a rudely-formed diligence from Laon every day to the desired spot, seven leagues distant. As he carried the mail, we thought ourselves secure of an arrival, and accordingly took our places in his patache with one horse. The sun was as brilliant and scorching as on our last journey to the miraculous shrine, and we had some misgivings as to the possibility of the vehicle being somewhat warm; however, we had agreed to go, and could ​not well draw back. Our driver, though he showed some symptoms of impatience at our indecision, vaunted the excellence of his horse, the quickness of the trajet, and the pleasantness of the road. We climbed into the machine, and were soon hid in the fond, which was our exclusive right. Scarcely, however, had we started than we began to repent. After rattling down the hill of Laon, we paused to take up more passengers, and then the real dispositions of both our driver and his horse showed themselves. He insisted on stuffing his carriage fuller than it would hold, and in spite of our remonstrances admitted several more persons than he had any right to do, accompanying his peremptory commands that we should rester tranquille with expletives by no means gentle.

As the heat of the day increased, the warmth of his temper scemed to keep pace with it; he flogged his horse, who snorted indignant resistance, without intermission; rattled, abused, and tyrannised over man and beast; drove over a drunken traveller, whom he had knocked down after half agreeing to add him to our overflowing car, where we sat as devoted victims, protesting against his cruelty and oppression, and finally becoming calmer as we neared the town, deposited us at the Pomme d’Or at Coucy. We had in one ​stage of his fury declared our intention of getting out of his prison, and seating ourselves on our baggage by the road side, preferring to trust ourselves to the chance of a passing carriage to continuing under his arbitrary sway, but he had frightened us into submission; and as by good fortune he had taken up a gentleman whom we knew, whose property was in the neighbourhood, and who contrived to soothe his irritated feelings and reassure us, we bore our fate as well as we could.

Nothing could be more humble and obliging than this crazy-headed conducteur on our arrival; all his sound and fury had passed away; his occupation was o’er, and he subsided into civility. We were told that he was always in this state of excitement when driving, and as his life had been passed on the road from Laon to Coucy for thirty years, and he always brought the mail regularly, had never been overturned, was honest and sober, no one minded “his trumps and his frenzy.” He rested at each of the towns which he honoured by his sojourn a few hours only, at evening and morning, and then was again en route. He had never done anything else, and considered himself monarch of the road. No grim baron of Coucy could show himself a greater tyrant, or keep his vassals in greater awe, than ​did this personage, and we found that to complain of him was quite out of all règle.

Our journey, independently of the disturbative character of our driver, was very pleasant; the country was charming, rural, and pretty in the extreme, with occasional scenes of a bolder description, and here and there on an eminence the remains of an ancient château. Near the Château de Pignon we began to ascend a very high hill, and a second horse was brought from a stable by a young woman to be companion to our single one. Our driver then gave up all concern of his carriage to this damsel, who, having harnessed the great powerful creature, took the whip and marched by its side up the hill. About half way, however, the animal, who from long acquaintance with our strange driver seemed to have learnt his habits, suddenly asserted his right of free will, and turning round deliberately, began to descend, regardless of the exclamations of all parties. Our driver then came to the rescue, and loud and furious were his invectives against the assistant of his own imperturbable and apparently contemptuous beast.

The first sight of the Château de Coucy is extremely imposing. One high white round tower, crowned with a diadem of ornamented stone and a circle of small loopholes, rises alone above the ​plain which seems to surround it. Sometimes it is lost amongst woods, or concealed by a hill, then it re-appears higher than before, so brilliant in colour, so perfect in shape, so clearly defined, and so correct in outline, that it was long before I could persuade myself that it had not been very recently restored. As we approached nearer, it appeared to me as if the blue sky shone through certain rents of ruin, but again its sharp crown cutting against the clouds puzzled me, and my conjectures and exclamations greatly amused our companion in captivity, whose enthusiasm for his native towers knew no bounds, and who delighted in pointing out every point of view in which they could be seen to the best advantage.

All the minor miseries that we had suffered on our way were amply compensated by our sojourn at Coucy, which is altogether one of the most interesting and charming spots it is possible to discover throughout the pleasant country of Valois.

The division of town called Coucy le Châtel or le Château, is beautifully situated on undulating

ground, near a fine forest called La Forêt Basse; it is the most considerable part, and is called the higher town; the lower, termed Coucy la Ville, stands at a considerable distance, and is now no more than a dependent village. Coucy le Château is still surrounded in part by high walls, ​

​flanked by a great quantity of towers, once of extraordinary strength, and forming a fortress of formidable power. The town has still the remains of its three gates. That of Laon is very majestic; its enormous towers, on each side of the low arch of entrance, are covered in the most picturesque manner with a mantle of ivy and flowering parasites, which fall in verdant drapery about them; from these massive walls of stupendous thickness reach to other towers at distances as far as the eye can follow, and on the tops of some of these the inhabitants have planted delicious and luxuriant gardens, whose roses peep over the venerable parapets, and whose light trees wave amidst the ruins. Nothing can be more beautiful or more imposing than the aspect of the town from this side; its gigantic walls, fine towers, luxuriant vegetation, deep moats, ruined bridges, solemn shades, and flower-crowned battlements. An artist sees at every change of position some point which might engage his pencil, and with difficulty can he move away from one romantic spot to another, which for the time appears to him still more attractive. In the mean time he is detained from the principal object of attraction, the glorious and splendid castle itself, worthy to allure from every part of Europe the admirer of the picturesque and beautiful. ​At the season when we were so happy as to visit this sequestered nook of France, everything

combined to render Coucy all that a poet or a painter can desire and enjoy, and I cannot imagine any circumstances under which it would not appear to advantage. Even in gloomy or severe weather it has features which may accord with the time, it has recollections, grave and gay, which render it a fit object of attention at all periods, and it must still appear, as it long existed, the reigning monarch of the district which it adorns.

The ruins are kept carefully closed, the breaches in the walls repaired to a certain extent so as to exclude the idle and mischievous, and an advantage gained by the neighbouring hospital in the exhibition of the dungeons, towers, and chambers. This precaution keeps the interior courts, where it is in force, clean and uninterrupted; but the approach to this part of the building is not agreeable, in consequence of the army of ragged children who follow the visitor.

The enormous round tower stands in the inner court in a hollow which, in some positions, masks its real height, which is gigantic. It appears nearly as large at its base as the round tower of Windsor, but is infinitely higher; is blanched white as though with age and exposure to wea​ther, the blocks of stone of which it is built are as sharp and square and compact as if lately renovated, and it is impossible to convince oneself of its real antiquity for some time, till the tour of its enormous bulk being made, it is discovered that the majestic structure is cleft from the crown to the foot in three places. Tradition says that an earthqnake, in 1692, made these breaches, which neither time nor siege had been able to effect. There it stands, however, as strong as ever, with its sculptured head and its yawning openings, surrounded by the large towers, its attendants, which it frowns into insignificance. It is only when the unequal ground conceals its form for a time that the grandeur and size of the other defences are perceptible, and the Tours de Raoul, des Preux, des Chevaliers, and du Roi, assert their proper dignity. From the ruined windows of each of these the views of the surrounding country are exquisite, the Haute and Basse Fôret spread out their broad bosoms clothed with fine trees, and a wide extent presents itself of meadow and valley and plain, clustering villages, and distant mountains, all smiling and rich and grand.

There is still much curious sculpture left on the walls, remains of the former splendour of the place. The salle of the Grosse Tour in particular ​has some fine bits: it was four stories high, but all the floorings have long since fallen in; the ground is heaped with their débris round. A well of incredible depth and size, such as usually existed in the interiors of fortified castles, astonishes the beholder by its dimensions, and the oubliettes of hideous memory are not forgotten. The walls are thirty-two French feet thick. Some remains of the sculptured lions of Coucy are to be seen; and two large blocks at the grand entrance still retain their form. These lions are objects of awe and interest to the peasants, and a legend explaining their presence is repeated to the stranger.^[1] ​It appears that in the time of the famous warrior Enguerrand de Coucy, by whom the Château was built in the eleventh century, a Lion desolated the country far and near. A hermit, who lived in one of the forests adjacent, finding that the prayers, usually efficacious in such cases, produced no diminution of the ravages caused by the savage animal, solicited the knights assistance to rid the neighbourhood of this scourge.

Armed cap-à-pie, the knight sallied forth guided by the holy man: they had not long entered the forest when at a sudden turn as they approached a pile of grey rocks half concealed by trees, the Hermit uttered an exclamation of fear, and pointed ​trembling to some objeet immediately before them. At the same instant a hideous roar announced the savage, who, as if aware of the hostile intentions of the pair, had come to meet them sooner than they expected. Enguerrand drew forth his trusty sword, and, as he received the attack of the monster, called out with a smile to his terrified companion, “Ha, ha—vous me lavez de trop près montré!”

A furious combat ensued which ended in the defeat of the Lion, who was slain, and the country delivered from his violence. In memory of this event, the pious knight founded a monastery on the spot to which he gave the name of Prémontré, and caused to be represented over the entrance to his new château, carved in stone, the battle be- ​tween himself and the Lion, which can still be traced.

There existed, till of late, that is, till the destruction of the great and powerful abbey of Prémontré, a ceremony called La Fête des Rissoles. The Abbot of Prémontré was obliged every year on this day to send a man-at-arms mounted on a horse fully caparisoned, bearing a wheat measure to the Lord of Coucy, filled with rissoles, a sort of fried condiment, commonly eaten by the people; a dog with a rissole in his mouth, preceded the procession which accompanied the man-at-arms. There were some quaint observances respecting the conduct of the horse, which decided whether he should be forfeited to the Lord of Coucy or whether the Abbot should gain a sum instead. The Lion in effigy was placed in a conspicuous position, and to him the man-at-arms did homage.

The hero of the sad tragedy, well-known in Troubadour history as the lover of La Dame de Fayel, was a Châtelain de Coucy, who was killed at the sicge of Acre. When dying, he ordered his squire to preserve his heart, and place it in a casket to be delivered to his beloved lady, together with the last letter which his expiring hand traced. The Lord of Fayel, whose castle was near St. Quentin, unfortunately met the faithful messenger on his way to his lady: having killed him, he took the letter and the casket, and its precious ​contents, were, by his order, made into a savoury dish, which he served up to his unconscious wife, who, haying eaten of it, and being afterwards informed that it was the heart of her lover, starved herself to death.

This tragical story was so great a favourite with the early poets, that it is constantly repeated in their verses, and the circumstances attributed sometimes to one hero and sometimes to another. M. Francisque Michel has in his fine edition of the works of the Châtelain de Coucy in question, given it as his opinion, that he is the real personage to whom the tale refers. Probably, in these very walls, the ill-fated lover, whose mistress was denied him by her cruel relations, and afterwards foreed to marry a man she detested, composed many of his beautiful and tender verses, to which the “fair unhappy” replied.

The following are translations of the originals, followed as nearly as possible.

​Most of the Lords of Coucy distinguished themselves in the different ages in which they lived: some of the earlier Châtelains were, however, rather remarkable for their cruelty and oppression than for their justice. One of the most celebrated was an Enguerrand, who was all sent as a hostage for King John of France to England, and who married a daughter of Edward III. He was one of the most accomplished, refined, and graceful knights of his time, learned, valiant, and wise, and a great favourite of Charles V. of France, who took every opportunity of evincing his respect and regard for him. He was offered, at the death of Du Guesclin, the bâton of Constable, but declined it in favour of Olivier de Clisson. He died a prisoner to the Turks in 1396, and his remains were ransomed and brought home to his widow and deposited in the Abbey of Nogent. His virtues and the sad consequences of his death are thus mentioned in a ballad of the time by Eustache Deschamps, bailli de Senlis.

Our arrival in the quiet little town of Coucy, like that of most strangers, seemed to create some sensation, as we afterwards found. Probably with a view of doing us honour, or perhaps to cut a figure on the approaching market-day, our opposite neighbour, a saddler and harness-maker, whose trade was indicated by two dyed sheep-skins hung at his door, resolved that his shop should exhibit a handsome appearance, Accordingly he had ordered iwo of his men to beat the dust out of these woolly symbols, that they might look new and brilliant at our levée. All night the heat had been intense, and the noise worse; at midnight we heard the voice of our tyrant departing for Laon, and after he was gone, coaches, carts, wagons, and horses, seemed in a combination to deprive us of sleep; at length a short pause ensued which, as day broke, was interrupted by a knocking, loud, long, and measured, and apparently interminable, and of such a peculiar sound that we were quite unable to account for it. The mystery was unravelled by our attendant nymph, who, throwing the persiannes wide open, exhibited to our regards ​the active harness-makers just giving the last blow, and proceeding to hang up their flecey sign in all its cerulean glory.

We soon forgot our vexations in most agreeable wanderings about the neighbourhood, and found in the evening a most delicious retreat in the tower gardens belonging to the Pomme d’Or. These were arranged in terraces, the highest being the plateau of one of the great towers of the town. They were full of flowers, chiefly roses of various kinds; mossy seats were to be found, formed of parts of the antique wall and shaded by acacias and other light trees. Shining out clear aud distinct against the intensely blue sky, the whole range of the fine castle towers appeared at a short distance, raised on the high mound which elevates them above the plain, and the majestic Grosse Tour, with its delicately carved crown and its deep rents, grew whiter and whiter as the soft shades of evening came gradually on. I never beheld so glorious a sunset as followed, though the more experienced eye of our hostess saw in its brilliant hues and the increasing crimson which at last flooded the whole heavens, indications of a storm. Presently a vivid flash of lightning issued from a cloud above the summit of Enguerrand’s tower, and was followed in rapid succession by others, a deep purple canopy ​seemed drawn slowly over the gold and crimson sky, and hung suspended, as if waiting a given signal to pour down its concealed thunders. The sharp mournful wail of the screech-owl rose suddenly close to us as, emerging from the ivy, its light form was whirled along by the increasing breeze, the welcome and refreshing air was full of perfume, and the charm of the moment was increased by the rising of a fine bright moon, which promised by its light to overcome the dark clouds that threatened above.

Our hostess, an honest simple woman, had brought, to introduce to us, a young ouvrière, whom she called Therèse, that she might give us all the information we had asked relative to the neighbourhood. “Therèse,” she said, “can talk well, and knows all the stories of the places round: she will be your guide, if you please, to all the prettiest spots, and, as she is very genteel and much above her position, you will like her for a companion: she is a perfect treasure to me, for if I am absent she keeps my keys and can manage the house as well as I can. She is a good girl, and very industrious, and supports her mother.” All this was said aside, while Therèse was gathering us a bouquet, and we were soon aware that she would be indeed an acquisition when she began to speak. She was full of in​formation, and very eloquent in her descriptions, seemed to have a strong feeling for the beauties of nature, was pretty, graceful, and had something about her very different from the ordinary run of ouvrières,—an occasional tone almost approaching to haughtiness, a good deal of independence of manner, checked by natural politeness, and a sadness which seemed to struggle with her youthful cheerfulness and sometimes predominated. We made her the companion of our walks when her business would permit, and were greatly interested in all we gathered of her history. While we were enjoying with her the freshness of the air on our tower, a low growl near made us imagine the lion of Coucy, whose legend she was then relating, was close beside us; the thunder suddenly bursting from its prison-cloud left us, however, in no doubt that the storm, long withheld, was beginning. Assisted by Therèse to descend the steps of the flowery terraces, we managed to grope our way, for all was now black and lurid: the lightning flashes showed us our path, and so splendidly did they play round the venerable castle that we could scarcely be prevailed on to quit the spot where we saw a scene of such majestic beauty. The prudence of our pretty guide, however, got the better, and we left our tower a prey to the ​tempest, just gaining shelter before the whole of its vengeance broke forth. For many hours the roaring of the thunder and its echocs amongst the old towers was awful, and the continuous glare of the lightning made the darkness of the sky more fearful. Alas! the long-wished-for rain was now come, and was destined to continue, with but short intervals, during the whole summer!—however, the relief it brought at the time was great, and for the remainder of our sojourn at Coucy the coolness and freshness was delicious, and enabled us to enjoy the woods and woodlands still more.

The church of Coucy is a beautiful specimen of early architecture, and is seen to advantage from the terrace of a fine house belonging to a gentleman of the town, who with extreme politeness invited us to visit every part of his grounds, and the interesting apartments once visited by Henry IV., and where the fair Gabrielle presented him with her first child, afterwards Duke de Vendôme. A small plate of copper over a chimney-piece records the event: it is defaced at one corner, and tradition says that the imperious beauty, not content with the wording of the inscription, in a fit of passion threw a heavy candlestick at it, which caused the fracture. Henry, with his usual imprudence, left ​his troops and ventured through the midst of enemies from Laon, then besieged by him, to visit the object of his adoration: it appears that he profited by the absence of Sully, who had just left him for a time, or he would probably have been dissuaded from so dangerous a journey. He had hardly returned to the camp when his faithful friend arrived, and to his surprise found the king in bed, although it was three o'clock in the day. Nothing could be more rudely simple than the couch on which he reposed, a paillasse and two mattresses on the floor. “Welcome, dear Sully,” said he, embracing him. “You are, no doubt, astonished, you who know me well, to see me in bed at this time of day; for I am not used to be idle when there is so much to do. But I tired myself so excessively last night, that I cannot sit up; and in order that you may not suspect me of counterfeiting, I will show you my feet.” So saying he uncovered his feet and showed them covered with wounds and scratches, which he had gained by climbing amongst the vines and briars and thorns of the mountains, exposing himself to the greatest fatigue and constant danger, in order to accelerate the works of the siege; not allowing his duties as general to be neglected in consequence of his love expeditions. ​Coucy la Ville is at some little distance from Coucy le Château, and the walk to it is beautiful, through fresh fields and along pretty lanes. The church is very curious, and its pierced and ornamented spire a fine object in the. landscape; a few singular brasses still remain on the floor, but there are no tombs. The Château de Verneuil is not far from this place, and is a picturesque specimen of the domestic architecture of the sixteenth century. The majestic towers of Coucy le Château are seen from its windows and gardens, as if close by, and, in summer weather, this country-house must be very enjoyable, though how the carriage of the lady to whom it belongs contrives to reach it by so rugged a road is a mystery.

Our next walk was with Therèse to see the ruined tower of Moyenbrie, in a thick wood about two miles from Coucy: our way lay across a beautiful tangled heathery plain skirting the forest, by the side of exhausted quarries, from whence yellow sand was taken, used in making glass bottles, and formerly stone for the buildings of the vicinity. These quarries serve as habitations to numerous poor families, and the chimneys of their subterranean dwellings appearing above the ground have a very singular effect. Round and above the entrances of these ​caves are pretty gardens neatly kept, and the whole underground village has an air of propriety and cleanliness remarkably striking. The woods were ringing to their inmost recesses with the notes of nightingales, and the large rain drops, still hanging from the leaves of the thick trees, glittered like diamonds with the reflection of the intruding sunbeams, which oecasionally broke through the grey clouds. All was still and solitary as we wandered on amongst the overarching branches, till we reached the tower of Moyenbrie, apparently coeval with the château of Coucy. A modern house has been built on the site of the rest of the castle, and the old tower has served as a chapel, its spire similar to that of Coucy la Ville. The vaulting is still entire, and a rosette in the centre is formed, instead of the leaves of a flower, which it at first resembles, of grotesque faces grouped together.

The former dwelling-house is being destroyed, and a new one building in its stead. The park and gardens must have been delightful: magnificent, avenues of trees extend in all directions to a great distance, and the remains of rare flowering shrubs amongst the wild foliage indicate where the ornamental gardens were. One sequestered spot Therèse led us to, where grew a gigantic yew-tree, which it appears has long ​been the admiration of the country, and indeed regarded with no little degree of awe by the peasants. She told us with a sigh, that when a child she often came here to gather a branch, when the good, kind, and beloved master, M. de Milly, lived there and dispensed the blessings of his benevolence to all the neighbourhood. “He was very kind to me,” she added, “and would have me constantly to see him and walk about with him in the gardens. It so happened, that our names were the same even to the De, which however we have now dropped, and this, perhaps, pleased him. He was very good to my mother, and left us a little pension, all he could afford, for he was so generous, that at his death there was hardly anything left, and, to the great grief of the country, he was obliged to leave his château, which he could not keep up, and go to Paris, where he died about fifteen years ago. Though I was but a little child, I can never forget or cease to regret him: he was such a kind friend, and used to tell me all he should like to do, if he had money enough to make improvements. Here he would have placed a fountain, and there a temple—but it all ended long ago.”

We learnt by degrees from our interesting guide that this M. de Milly was said to be a ​natural son of Louis XVI. by Madame de Courval, to whose family the Château de Moyenbrie belonged. The uncle of Madame de Courval left the estate to this son, but the fortune he was able to give him was insufficient to support the expenses of his liberality and princely munificence. In person he is described to have been extremely like the Bourbon family, and to have inherited all their virtues, without, apparently, them defects. Therèse was also an illegitimate child, and it was more than hinted that the accident of her bearing the name of De Milly was not unexplained. Her mother, however, was respected, and had always conducted herself well; and this rural scion of the Bourbons was no disgrace to her royal birth. She must have suspected the truth, and it may account for the slight appearance of discontent in her manner, her scarcely-repressed haughtiness, and a certain dignity about her which her assumed humility did not altogether conceal.

Our return through the yery centre of the wood, which is on a hill, was sufficiently precipitous, and not a little amusing. We slipped and slid along the narrow path, intercepted by thick underwood and fiowers, down which a little torrent made its way, till, on reaching the valley, the towers of Coucy rose before us on the oppo​site hill; and after fording a rocky stream which separated us from the steep road, formerly the only one to Soissons, we mounted by that rugged and romantic pass and regained the postern gate which led to our hotel.

We were amused at the observations of Therèse on some Sœurs de la Croix whom we met, accompanied by two good-looking priests. She said they seldom entered the order, except they had lost their hopes of getting married. I remarked that one was remarkably pretty, and very young. “Oh, she will no doubt find a husband all the same,” said she; “the vows go for nothing in such a case, for they are only religious vows, and can always be got over. So these people think, who are always in extremes, and do not know the meaning of what they undertake. Neither the Church nor the nobility are cared about as they used to be—every one does as he likes. You will hear our peasants called Monsieur, and all our merchants and tradespeople are Counts and Marquises; for no one knows his own position.” She laughed somewhat bitterly as she spoke, and I thought, probably, this regret for the old system of things, and contempt for the new, might be an echo of her mother’s sentiments, rather than an idea derived from her own experience; and we could not help picturing the pair seated in their ​solitary cottage, and looking back on old times when their protector’s woods were waving, and the smoke from his château invited the poor to seek relief in his hospitable halls.

About half a league from Coucy is the pretty village of Folembray, where was a château, called Le Pavillon, built by François I. as a hunting-lodge to Coucy, which he found too severe and guarded for a pleasant residence. A few ruins only remain of it, but the walk to the place is beautiful.