A Pilgrimage to Auvergne/Vol 1/Chapter 6

We took our leave of Coucy on beautiful day, having revisited the well-kept walks and venerable walls of the fine ruin, probably the grandest which exists in France. We found a stranger sketching, whose views, though correct, were not chosen with taste, and were extremely entertained by the pains he took to impress us with the idea of his dignity, assuring us that he was not an artist by profession. This weakness, amongst many other instances we met with, struck us as sitting very ill on a people who profess contempt for rank and station, and boast of rendering to art and genius the respect which they deserve.

Our route to Soissons led through a charming wood belonging to Count Frederic de la Rochefoucault, whose château is at Nogent in the ​neighbourhood. We shared the diligence with a pretty young woman, under the care of her brother, a priest, extremely like her: they were going to see some relations, and seemed in high spirits. At first our road was good, but the rapid pace at which our driver went was rather startling; this pace he did not slacken when we entered the wood, and at every hundred yards our way became more and more rugged. One of the horses was very restive, and had been kicking most unceremoniously all the way. We were suddenly alarmed by a violent jolt, as we plunged into a deep rut and came to a stop, the axle-tree having given way, and the lumbering vehicle plantée là. The conducteur, on discovering the fact, began to bemoan himself, wringing his hands and gazing in despair at our condition. No entreaties, however would induce him to let us out of our prison, till we represented the impossibility of the carriage ever being dragged out if we remained. An active and zealous friend of his own accordingly lending a hand, after procuring a new pole in the wood, and the vivacity of the restive horse being restrained, the coach was rescued from its position, and by dint of much splicing and cording we were in a condition to proceed. All this time the cuckoos and nightingales had kept up a con​tinued concert, so loud, so full, and so incessant that we could scarcely hear our own voices or, fortunately, those of our guardians.

Half a league more of ruts, a foot deep on each side, much jolting and vehement urging, brought us into the main road. When the new one is completed from Coucy, which will join this, the wood and all its dangers will be avoided. The driver traverses this, however, twice every day, yet he never thinks it necessary to take any precaution, and seemed as much surprised at our accident as if he had never scen or felt the ruts before.

The woods and valleys in this part of the journey were exquisite; the road was immensely wide, a defect which is not avoided in the new ones, which are being made everywhere, yet our driver preferred keeping at the very edge of a precipice the whole way; and when, as we expected, his pole broke again, he could hardly be made to comprehend the superior safety of leading his angry and impatient horses nearer the opposite side while he arranged his harness. “C'est ennuyant! mais je suis là—il n’y a pas de danger!” were his exclamations as with one hand he held the broken pole, and with the other tried to push one of the curveting horses from the edge of the ravine. ​He at length acknowledged with a smile that our advice was worth attending to, and after half an hour's further delay, recollecting that, as he carried the mail, he might cause some uneasiness in Soissons, he set off at a furious pace, without stop or stay, and never paused till by the light of a fine moon we rattled into the town, and found ourselves safely deposited at the Croix d'Or.

Modern Soissons, although a new town, generally well paved, with airy streets, and good plain, not “brown brick,” but stone “houses,” cannot console us for the loss of all that was venerable within its rampart walls. Yet it has recollections about it so interesting that it must always attract attention. The fertile banks of the Aisne were amongst the first settlements of the men of the forests, called by the Romans Celts; and here the flocks of the Kimri wandered through the valleys and roamed through the woods of the extensive Suessonnaise, the great mother of the forests of Compeigne, Retz, and Villers-Cotteretz, of those of Dole, Fère, and Ris. Here, where till of late spirits made resort, might be heard the interrogations of the mysterious haunters of the Druid stones, who addressed the traveller on his way and revealed to him the future. Here the Druid priest raised his altar and offered his sacrifice, enveloping himself in clouds which have never ​been dispelled. Here, in 1732, on clearing away some old buildings, was fouud a small oaken coffer, containing two girdles, woven with thread of gold and crimson, ornamented with elasps of gold, and massive gold medallions enamelled in various colours and representing figures of priests and divinities: silver rings of various sizes were pendant from these belts, destined, doubtless, to support instruments of sacrifice. M. Martin, whose history of the town is interesting, imagines that these ornaments might have been worn by a priest of Isis, the wondrous goddess of a thousand names: but the learned have no longer an opportunity of deciding on the question, for those who had the direction of a new hospital, conceiving that the money they might produce would aid the good cause better than all the speculations of the savans, sold the treasures for 115 livres tournois, aud the priceless gold was melted into ingots! The victorious and irresistible Cæsar has left traces of his power in the city he conquered after more than usual trouble; and Augustus laid the first stone of a temple dedicated to Isis and Serapis, which stone was found beneath a mass of ruin, and is now to be seen in the museum. A Roman pavement, too, in a perfect state was long the boast of the museum, but that which time had so long spared was reduced to powder by the cannon of 1814, when Soissons was taken and ​retaken four times. A precious remain of antiquity, however, may still delight the curious eye in the Musée of the Louvre, whither it was transported from the spot where a fortunate accident brought it to light: this is a group of figures larger than life, representing the children of Niobe. It is a variation, not a copy, of the famous group at Florence, exquisite in expression and execution, but unfortunately headless. A very sentimental treasure was also rescued from oblivion, in the shape of a bronze ring engraved with these words,

“Non tituli pretium, sed amantis accipe curam,”

which M. Martin conjectures, as well from the delicacy of the sentiment as the fault of quantity, to have been written by a fair Roman and given to her loyer, who had quitted her for the land of barbarians.

The Romans seem to have delighted in the vine-clad hills of their conquest, until a somewhat singular command of one of their governors (Domitian) caused all the vines of the country to be rooted up. This absurd decree, though strictly enforced, did not long deprive the inhabitants of one of their chief boasts, and the wine of the Soissonais had, at one time, a reputation superior to that of its neighbours of Champagne. A new era was, however, approaching, in which this ​favoured portion of the Gallic empire took its share. According to religious legends, before the end of the third century, twelve enterprising Christian pilgrims, having received the benediction of the Bishop of Rome at the tomb of the Apostle Peter, set out, staff in hand, to preach their new faith in those wild regions where Paganism reigned triumphant. Their success was great, and numerous were the martyrs gained to heaven from year to year; amongst others a virgin named Macra was fortunate enough to obtain the crown, and is one of the first spoken of as having suffered in the neighbourhood of Soissons. Then began the events which have given rise to a host of traditions, and excited multitudes to dedicate their lives and their worldly goods to the service of heaven, desirous of emulating those whose real acts of devotion and virtue have been deformed by ignorant and superstitious relations, till they have come to be doubted altogether. Clovis, the first Christian King, appears, before his conversion, to have had a somewhat arbitrary notion of justice, which the following anecdote relating to the famous Vase of Soissons will illustrate. One day Clovis, returning from an expedition to some neighbouring cities, was crossing the territory of Reims, and passed under the ramparts of that town, ​which had not yet acknowledged his supremacy. The monarch, who had a great respect for the friend of his Christian wife, St. Remy, was anxious that his soldiers should not enter the town, being aware of their propensity to pillage; but he was unable to restrain them, and, in spite of his orders, a band entered Reims, and finding no resistance, fell upon everything within their reach, pillaging without mercy, as he had anticipated. Amongst other valuables from numerous churches they brought way a vase of great size and beauty. St. Remy, afflicted at this loss, sent to Clovis and entreated the monarch to restore to him this vase, even if he were unable to give him back the rest. Clovis answered the envoys,—"Follow me to the city of Soissons, where all will be divided which has been acquired, and should the vase fall to my lot I will gratify the desire of the holy father." On their return to Soissons the Franks, as was their custom, placed all the booty in a common heap: Clovis asked of them the vase over and above his part: no one objected, till one of the soldiers raising his two-edged axe, with a savage clamour exclaimed, "Thou shalt have nothing, O king! but what chance may give thee;" so saying, he struck the vase a heavy blow with his axe. The king endured the insolence with apparent patience; ​nevertheless, he took the vase injured as it was, and gave it to the envoys of St. Remy, keeping his anger hidden in his heart. According to the custom of the Germans, at the end of winter the tribe of the Salians assembled under arms to deliberate on future expeditions, on public affairs, and civil and commercial proceedings. These meetings were called mall. The next year the mall was formed, and Clovis prepared to make a general inspection of the arms of his soldiers; when he reached the man who had struck the vase, he suddenly called out, "There is none here whose armour is so dirty and ill kept as thine: neither thy lance nor thy axe is fit for service!" So saying, he seized his axe and cast it on the ground; as the man stooped to pick it up, Clovis raised his own and clove his skull—"Let the same be done to thee," cried he, "as thou didst to the vase in the city of Soissons." This summary mode of administering justice was beheld without murmurs, and the redoubted chief's act was looked on as a punishment due to want of discipline.

A walk across fields of rye and flax, or by the banks of the clear river, leads to the ruins of the once famous Abbey of St. Medard. Every vestige above ground has disappeared, but on ringing the bell of a dwelling situated at the ​extremity of a long and fine avenue of limes, we were invited to enter and view the establishment for the deaf and dumb. In a large square were a number of healthy-looking boys at play, and being shown into a pretty cool parlour we were shortly joined by the Abbé Dupont, the creator and director and sole supporter of this most interesting and benevolent institution. Welearnt from the frank, intelligent, and enthusiastic Abbé, that, in his solitary curacy of Coucy le Château, he formed the idea of instructing this afflicted portion of his fellow creatures; that in order to obtain funds to aid him in his philanthropic intention, he sold a fine collection of antique medals, which after many years he had gathered together with antiquarian zeal. By little and little his plans began to ripen, and the children of his adoption, whom he supported, clothed, and fed, promised so well, that he felt sure the scheme must succeed. He found that a large deserted tan-house was to be sold: he hesitated not to purchase this shelter for his protégés, and, aided by a few benevolent persons, in the short space of sixteen months he has been able to form the noble establishment which, since it has now attracted the attention of the Queen of France, will doubtless prosper, and by its success reward the exertions of the ​benevolent man, who has given up all his own quiet enjoyments to devote his time and attention solely to perfect the institution. He has now twenty-five pupils, male and female, who remain there till a suitable trade has been found for them. Sixteen are gratuitous, and the expenses of the good Abbé cannot but be considerable but his whole soul is in the cause. Occasional visitors contribute their mite towards the support of the institution, and a lottery is at this moment on foot, to which all the female part of the royal family have sent offerings, and for which many ladies of distinction have employed themselves. It is on this spot that once stood the celebrated Abbey of St. Medard, and the Abbé can show all that yet remains. He is about to employ his boys in a labour of excavation, which has already been singularly fortunate; and by and bye many hidden treasures of tombs and statues, and vases and urns, will no doubt be disinterred, and his desire accomplished of seeing a perfect chapel established in the magnificent crypt which is the pride and wonder of Soissons, and should be of all France, or, according to the learned M. Bethmann of Hanover, of all Europe, for such another specimen of a construction of the sixth century does not exist. The perfect shape of the subterranean ​chapel is exquisite—the regularity of the building, its grace and loftiness, the apparent freshness of the stone, the sharpness of the pillars, the painting still vivid, altogether strike the beholder with astonishment: round the principal chapel hollowed in the walls are niches for seats of a form very rare and curious in their simplicity: the roofs are finely groined, the windows spacious, and the whole range free from damp or chill. When altogether arranged it will form a most interesting monument,—it is so indeed at this moment thanks to the care of M. Dupont, and antiquaries from far and near will crowd to see it, as pilgrims hurried to the shrine of St. Medard of old. The Abbé has a liberal, though, perhaps, somewhat romantic notion, of hereafter fitting up a part of the premises as a residence for strangers whom a love of art may lead to the spot, and there he proposes they shall be received, and remain at liberty to prosecute their studies as long as they please; consulting a library that is to be at their service, and a museum which, together with a valuable collection of enamels and paintings by ancient masters of rare excellence, the Abbé can himself furnish. The position of the school is one of singular beauty, and the choice of it does great credit to the taste of the monks of St. Medard ​of old. A splendid view is obtained from all the windows, and spacious gardens and fine groves surround the house—where the nightingale and cuckoo in the spring season keep up a continual concert. Embowered in this solitude sleep, perhaps still to be discovered, the two kings, Clothaire and Sigibert, both benefactors to and enlargers of the enormous building, which grew with centuries till revolutionary rage swept away all traces of its existence. A fine head, supposed to be of Clothaire, is to be seen in M. Dupont's collection; and a beautiful little female head, with the hair gilt, and delicately formed features, is another of the treasures lately found beneath the ruined walls. The legend of St. Medard is told of several other saints; but if his bones really became too heavy to proceed until the king had granted all the land required to build the abbey, there certainly could be no blame attached to the saint, for a more salubrious or charming spot could not have been selected by him.

But perhaps the most interesting recollection attached to the remains of this monastery is that of a portion of it having been the prison of the unfortunate Louis le Débonnaire, who was confined here by his son Clothaire in the year 833:—

"I was conducted," recounts the deposed mon​arch himself, according to his historian the monk Odilon, "by a hostile troop to the monastery of the saints my lords, and as it was known to my enemies that I greatly loved this place, it was hoped that I would, of my own accord, abandon arms and adopt the religious habit. After having thrown me into a prison, they announced to me that my wife was dead, and that my innocent child, my little Karl, he who was my best beloved of all, had been shaven and forced to enter a monastery. At this news I could no longer contain my grief, deprived as I was of my kingdom, of my wife and my child. I wept for many days, and felt myself consuming away in consequence of the weight of my misfortunes. I had no one to console me but God alone—all access to the great church of St. Medard, all communication with the brotherhood was interdicted, except at rare intervals, when I was closely watched by my guards. Still I had occasionally the power of pouring out my sorrows at the sacred altars; and I implored the holy lords St. Medard and St. Sebastian to intercede for the repose of my wife's soul, for I believed her to have passed from this life. I then was reconducted to my prison, in those dungeons which had, alas! become too familiar to me."

This cell, which is still to be seen, is only four ​feet wide and about seven long: it contains two recesses; opening into it is a vaulted cave which might have been a chapel, and near it another of smaller dimensions where guards were probably stationed.

Two verses in Gothic character, with abbreviations, are cut deeply into the wall of the prison, and have been attributed to Louis le Débonnaire; but, however appropriate to his misfortunes they may be, they are of the fifteenth century, and were no doubt traced by the hand of one equally wretched, though probably of less exalted rank. Louis, it should be remembered, would have expressed his complaints in la langue tudesque. At all events there is misery enough in the following simple words to excite sympathy for the captive who allowed himself the sad consolation of recording his feelings:—

It is impossible on beholding Soissons as it is, and considering it as it has been, not to sigh after the gorgeous monuments which time and war have swept away, until scarcely a trace of them remains. However, the cathedral is still ​in part there, shorn indeed of its glories, having but one beautiful tower left, and kept together by repairs, in which solidity rather than taste has been the aim of the architect. Wherever the inquiring stranger wanders, on the ramparts or in the streets, far or near, looking down upon him, as from the clouds, appear two buildings of very different character, but which equally excite his attention, and appear to divide the town between them. One is the dilapidated but venerable Cathedral, the other the pinnacles of St. Jean des Vignes, once a monastery of enormous extent, guarded, battlemented, moated, and surrounded with every sort of defence, embosomed in vineyards and gardens, wealthy, powerful, and proud. Of all its glories nothing now remains, but the fragile shell of its exquisitely beautiful façade. Its aërial spires and elevated portal still overlook the valley of the Aisne, the bright blue sky gleams through the fretted windows, and the glorious sun lights up the ogives of its delicate galleries: it stands as a monument of art, unrivalled in its grace, but its fairy-like texture seems

at once to destruction,—yet there it stands, with ​nothing to support the beautiful tower; and the surmounting steeple appearing like a toy cut in alabaster or ivory, which the hand of a child could destroy in a moment.

The majestic rival of St. Jean des Vignes, the haughty and imposing mass of St. Crépin le Grand, has not even a stone left on its site to tell where it stood; and all the jealousies and contentions of the monks of the "two houses," are at rest for ever, though for centuries they divided the country into factions to maintain their quarrels. All the relics and treasures once possessed by these rich establishments have long since been scattered to the winds or melted into coin; and Soissons now cares little for her former pride, rejoicing as she does in her commerce, and the wealth of her population. It matters little now, whether the monks of the one monastery or the other had the right to ring their bells first, or stand in the place of honour in the Cathedral;—it avails not that the relics of St. Gregory or the martyred St. Sebastian were possessed by both; all all are nothing, and ages have passed away since the abbots and monks disputed à l'outrance for the honour of their community. No longer do the mothers of Soissons warn their heedless children to beware of "la bête à Béra qui est dans la rue avec ses cornes!" in memory of the redoubtable ​Count Bersald or Bérald, whose domestic stag was accustomed to run freely about the streets, to the terror of young and old;—no more does the spirit appear of the vexed canon, pursued by two devils, who returned to earth after death, to warn his companion and friend of the danger of incurring divine anger, repeating in a terrific voice—"Il est horrible de choir dans les mains du Dieu vivant!" Few now are aware of the illustrious guest which the walls of these abbeys once contained; few know that here the sainted Thomas à Becket, escaping from the dangerous shelter of St. Bertin, of St. Omer, which was too near his indignant and outraged sovereign, arrived to claim the willing hospitality of his friends, and was here met by Louis VII., the rival in love and war of Henry II., and the former husband of the fatal heiress of Aquitaine. Yet in Soissons, encouraged by pope and cardinals, king and people, the great rebel came to pay his vow before the shrine of the thrice-blessed Confessor Drausin,^[1] who had the power of rendering invincible those who asked ​his aid with warlike intent, and who watched all night by his tomb: for this purpose, from Burgundy and Italy flocked numerous champions, who, it seems, never prayed in vain. "Here the Archbishop passed three nights in orison, in the churches of Nôtre Dame and St. Medard, after which he departed towards Vezelay, whence he proposed to launch his excommunications on the day of Pentecost." Six centuries after this a chapel was shown in St. Jean des Vignes, where Thomas the Sainted had celebrated mass, and which, after his murder, had been dedicated to ​him. But the manufacturers of Soissons never dream of these things, content with their new and comfortable houses, built upon the site of edifices where such strange doings abounded. "Tout ça ce sont des choses de la religion, qu'on ne connait pas maintenant," is the reply to any inquiry on these auld warld subjects.

The armies of the Huguenots of 1567 paid but little respect to the beautiful fabrics which were the boast of Soissons. Statues, paintings, ornaments, were destroyed wherever they were met with—large fires were made in the churches, into which the archives and precious volumes were thrown by the pitiless soldiery—all the gold and silver melted on the spot, and little left but a wreck of the fine buildings given up to them as a spoil. Nevertheless, the ashes of St. Gregory, enclosed in a white damask bag covered with gold lace, were conveyed by water to the dwelling of the tailor of the Abbey of St. Medard, who brought the precious sack to the Abbess of Nôtre Dame. By the wit and presence of mind of this lady, some of the riches of the Abbey of St. Crépin were rescued. She obtained permission to carry away what remained of provisions, and her agents contrived to fill vessels with jewels, relics, and papers, which were placed in barrels between barrels of wine, and thus carried ​off by the drunken soldiery themselves to Nôtre Dame. All that was then spared has since been sacrificed: and the only surprise is, that after such devastation carried on for centuries, any vestige of antiquity can be found.

The following anecdote of the youth of Louis XV. is related at Soissons. Languet de Gersey, a protégé of Madame de Maintenon, had been appointed Bishop of Soissons, and received the young king Louis XV. on the occasion of his passing through on his way to be crowned at Reims. He was a finished courtier, having passed his youth “dans les antechambres des dames du palais,” and spared no cost or trouble to please his illustrious guest; so well did he succeed, that, on the king’s return from Reims, he remained three days longer with the merry and obliging bishop. On this oceasion a scene took place more childish than dignified, in which Louis played a distinguished part. Illuminations, fireworks, triumphal arches, and loads of bonbons were prepared for the royal child and his court. He was then twelve years of age, and though already affianced to the Infanta of Spain was but a boy in every respect. He was taken out into the balcony of the garden of the bishop’s palace, to present himself to the children of Soissous, who were assembled there to behold him, when, on a sudden, a hundred ​rabbits were driven into the enclosure, who began to scamper in every direction to conceal themselves, while a peal of firearms and the ascent of numerous rockets added to the bustle and confusion. The delighted children, uttering loud cries, forgot in a moment the presence of the king, and rushed off in hot pursuit from hedge to hedge. Louis could not behold this scene unmoved; he escaped from his party, darted down the grand staircase, and in a moment was amongst the laughing and vociferous group: with equal ardour he followed the chase, until, having succeeded in capturing one of the unfortunate animals, he returned in triumph to his somewhat scandalized attendants, holding his struggling prisoner by the ears. All the children having managed to be equally successful, were afterwards introduced to his majesty, each grasping his prize; and much and long was the laughter on the occasion, doubtless to the infinite gratification of the reverend prelate, whose fortunate plan had so much amused his guest. The next day Louis, anxious for a new opportunity of distinguishing himself in mischief, slipped away from his people, quitted the palace, and got into the cathedral, where he met an aged canon, to whom he expressed his desire to mount to the top of the tower. The old man hastened to conduct him to the steps which lead ​to the great bells; the king, in an instant, sprang up to them, and got to the summit before his guide had reached half way. There he suspended himself to the cord of a bell which was never rung but in case of fire, and ringing it with all his might, cried out at the very highest pitch of his voice,—“Fire! fire!” An alarm was spread throughout the town, and while the inhabitants were secking in all quarters to discover where the conflagration had broken out, the officers of the king, his governor, and all the court, were in consternation at the absence of their royal charge. At last he was found at the ringer’s place, and rescued from the perilous situation in which he had placed himself; for it was a mere chance that he had not fallen through one of the numerous yawning openings of the old gallery. He gave the terrified bellringer a silver cup engraved with the arms of France, in return for havine usurped his post; and on his return many years afterwards to Soissons with the dauphin, he related this escapade, and forbade him to visit the tower, from the dangers of which he had escaped.

Although so much that is antique in Soissons has disappeared, yet superstition preserves a few legends still; and that attached to the Rue de Montrevers once held so high a place, that it ​ought not to be neglected in an account of the town.

About the end of the seventh century lived St. Wouël, or Wodoël, or Hoël: he was a simple monk, who had left his native Welsh or Scotch mountains on a pious pilgrimage, and had sought Nôtre Dame de Soissons, where he attached himself to the service of the holy men of the abbey; but in order to live more retired and pass his existence in more abstracted contemplation, he chose a cell near the walls of the town, where he became an example of sanctity and devotion.

The Abbess Hildegarde, who looked upon him with the utmost veneration, was accustomed to send him his daily repast on a silver dish. Wouël, in the benevolence of his heart, gave his dinner to a poor man, who not only devoured it, but disappeared with the costly dish, leaving the pious anchorite to the anger of the abbess, who would not credit his account of its being stolen. Overwhelmed with her reproaches, he prostrated himself with humility, without replying a word; then rising up, he took his staff, quitted his retreat, and recommenced his pilgrimage, which he continued for nine long years, meeting by the way with numerous adventures.

During this time, the Devil, taking advantage of the absence of the holy recluse, established ​himself as absolute master of the town of Soissons. He chose his domicile in a cavern in the Rue de Montrevers, and from thence was in the habit of issuing forth, maltreating and sometimes carrying off whoever of the passers-by was so unlucky as to be the thirteenth. A servant of the abbey, too bold and too incredulous, resolved to dare the adventure, and passed the thirteenth. The Evil One did not carry him off, but entering into his body, tormented him in so furious a manner, that the poor man had no rest night or day. In his agony he repeated without ceasing the words “Wouë! Wouë!”

Every one was aware that he called upon Wouël to help him, but the difficulty was where to find that holy man who had been so unjustly banished by false accusation.

It so happened that at this very period the saint had embarked in a vessel which was to convey him back to his own country, but being wrecked on the coast of Gaul, an angel visited him, and desired him to go and finish his days at Notre Dame de Soissons. He obeyed, and scarcely had he arrived, when he was entreated to afford relief to the possessed man. His prayers soon drove the devil from his hold, and the man was delivered from his power; but not content with this, Wouël resolved to seek the enemy in ​his cave. Accordingly, accompanied by twelve individuals of the convent, all in a state of grace, he advanced towards the spot, being himself the thirteenth. The Devil, nothing doubting that he should gain a victim, instantly rushed from his hiding place and pounced upon the holy man: instead however of suceeeding in overpowering him, he found his own strength gone, and fell at the feet of Wouël a captive. The saint lost no time, but hurled him to the very bottom of the river Aisne, where his prayers imprisoned him beneath the Tour Lardier, afterwards called La Tour du Diable.

Wouël then, anxious to keep a strict eye on a prisoner of such importance, resolved to take up his abode in the tower, where he remained till the end of his life. The Father of Ill was not, however, tranquil in his watery dungeon, but from time to time revolted, and, by his efforts to escape, the tower became the theatre of struggles and combats worthy of St. Anthony. One stormy night, when all was dark and gloomy, and the wind howled fearfully round the old tower, while the waves of the Aisne were troubled with unusual violence, the saint sat reading at his desk, where he had been for many hours. Sleep surprised him, and at length his head fell on his clasped hands, and he became unconscious of all ​around him. It was then that the rest of the inhabitants of Soissons were suddenly awaked by a savage howl, and many of them, rushing to their casements, beheld an appalling sight. The whole river seemed on fire, the high tower sent forth tongues of flame, which darted into the black clouds above it: on the topmost turret stood a tall dark figure tossing to and fro a burning torch, and leaping and shouting amongst the flames.

It appeared certain that the pious Wouël must fall a prey to the wicked designs of his enemy, when he was suddenly seen, by the fire-light, on the tower, struggling with the foe, who had nearly overcome him, when a bright flash illumined the whole sky, and an angel appeared hovering, with shining wings, over the building. The angel, descending quickly, caught the saint from amidst the burning ruins at the moment that part of the turret fell on which the devil stood; he was precipitated once more into the abyss, and Woël found himself seated in a bower of fragrant flowers and shrubs, in an island of the river, the waters flowing gently at his feet; day breaking with a flood of golden light, the flames of the tower were extinguished, and nothing was heard but a hoarse roar beneath to tell that the Evil-one was again a captive. ​Every year since then, long after the death of the holy man, but always on the anniversary, the chaplain of the abbey read from the top of the Tour Lardier the exorcism, which was used by Wouël to keep the devil in durance, and there he remained inert and conquered in his dismal and damp oubliette.

It was only in 1755 that a Jansenist bishop, holding in contempt these observances, and much to the scandal of the monks of Nôtre Dame and the religious people of Soissons, suppressed the ceremony altogether. As might be expected, the devil, no longer kept in awe, recommenced his old practices, and was soon reinstated in the Rue de Montrevers.

Very shortly after this, a young pupil of the college was missing for several days, and no doubt was entertained that he had become the prey of the designing one. He had been seen to enter the fatal street, but not to return from it! Terror was at its height, the town was up in arms, not an old woman could keep in her house, not a mother but locked up her son, when the object of all this anxiety made his appearance to the amazement of every one. His clothes were torn it is true, but he said it was with brambles in the woods, where he had been wandering; his lips were black, but he confessed ​to having indulged in blackberries and plums; and the only consequences which resulted from the event were a sound whipping which the young hero received for having played truant.

Nothing more was said about the devil from that time, and if he remained in the Rue Montrevers, he kept himself quiet till the great revolution, when he no doubt took his revenge. At that period disappeared the little bâton of St. Wouël, preserved in the treasures of Nôtre Dame, which had the virtue of extinguishing fire. On the 5th of February, the day consecrated to the memory of the saint, it was customary to perform a solemn promenade in the interior of the abbey, and make the sign of the cross with this relic near all the chimneys, in order to charm them against fire.