A Pilgrimage to Auvergne/Vol 1/Chapter 8

Château Thierry.—Charles Martel—The Bonne.—The Heirs.—L’Embarras des Richesses.— Wedding at La Sirène.—Sleepy Driver.—La Ferté sous Jouarre.—Château de la Barre.—Acquaintance.—Approach to Provins.

Nothing can be more delightful than the position of Château Thierry. It is as clean, cheerful, and handsome a town as can be seen in France, with one of the finest promenades on the banks of the Marne, bordered with several rows of fine trees. Above, on a great height, are the ruins of Charles Martel’s castle, now scarcely more than a name, for its once gigantic walls and towers are levelled with the ground, and hay is made on their summits. The least destroyed of the towers is used as a poudrière, but all the rest is left open as a promenade for the towns-people. Unlike most places in France where every one may walk, it is clean, and the lower paths beneath the ruins well kept: the slopes are planted with vines and gardens, as at Coucy, and the whole is most agreeable. ​The prospect beneath is very fine: spread out to a great extent is the plain on which the town is built, with rich meadows, green and fresh, bounded far off by high hills of beautiful form. On every side new scenes appear, and from the highest part of the castle a perfect panorama is laid out before the view.

We spent hour after hour on this fine eminence, venturing merely to peep down certain openings into fearful vaults and dark passages, most of them stopped up with rubbish, but indicating what still exists beneath, and whispering mysteriously of dungeons and oubliettes.

The most conspicuous object, wherever you gaze from the ruins, is the grand old tower of the once fortified church of St. Crepin. It is so huge, so menacing, so ogre-like, with its dark yawning windows, and rises up so abruptly from the mass of buildings at its feet, that its appearance is quite awful. It looks, in the dim light of evening, like a grim giant’s shade watching the place of his former rapine and cruelty, and grinning with delight over his remembered violence. This tower might well represent the ambitious Charles Martel himself keeping guard, from his neighbouring Chateau of Chesmaux, over the youthful prisoner whom he kept in the inaccessible fortress above. ​The story attached to Château Thierry, for all these castles have a strange history of crime and tyranny belonging to them, is as follows:—

On the death of Chilperic II. King of France, in 720, Charles Martel, maire du palais, resolved to make himself master of all; but the moment not being yet favourable, he permitted the young Thierry, a child of eight or nine years, to retain for a while the title of King. He, however, kept a strict watch over his own interests, and in order to secure them built a fortress for the young monarch in one of the most agreeable and delightful parts of his dominions, and close to his own castle.

He employed ten years in completing Château Thierry, which he named in honour of his captive, whom he surrounded with amusements, but at the same time with strong towers and walls, hemming him in, in a manner to render him securely his own, till the period arrived when he could throw off the mask and declare himself King.

Not a vestige of the original architecture of the castle is left, and in most parts the facing-stones are destroyed, so that the towers appear a tugged heap of ruins. At the entrance-gate the walls are less destroyed, and once massive tower, knobbed all over like the strange sea​tower at Havre, presents a formidable appearance of strength in decay.

We had been, one day, loitering on the ruins for many hours, when the threatening aspect of the sky warned us to descend to the town, which we had scarcely done when the clouds burst with great violence, and we were obliged to run for shelter into the nearest place of refuge. This was a passage which appeared to lead to a tower: at the moment we entered a respectable-looking woman came up with her key in her hand, and with infinite civility invited us to accompany her upstairs to her domicile. We accepted her offer, and soon found ourselves in a neat little chamber, with a bed in a recess, and filled with good furniture; from this another smaller room opened, the shape of which left no doubt that we were in one of the ancient towers of entrance to the town. Our hostess insisted on our being seated on her pretty sofa, and apologised, needlessly, for the negligence of her apartments, observing that she had left them since morning to attend to a sick sister whom she took out to walk every day on the promenade.

In less than ten minutes she had told us her own history and that of all her family, and invited us to go with her to see her brother's beautiful pavilion, from whence she could show us one ​of the finest views in the whole country. “My brother,” she added, “has as good a house and the prettiest of any in the town; it was left to him by the same kind friend who left me un morceau de pain, and provided for us all. You see his portrait there; my brother has a copy of it, and we both prize it as you may suppose.” We looked at the picture to which she directed our attention, which was not badly painted, and represented a benevolent-looking elderly man, rather smartly attired in a white waistcoat, and wearing a ring on his plump finger. We asked if a he had left any family; to which she replied No, that he was a priest, and accounted for his dress, by saying, that never having had a vocation for the church, but forced to it by his relations, after the Revolution he did not resume the habit, but lived single; that she was his bonne for many years, since her mother’s death, who had been his bonne before; that he was much attached to her family, who were all in his service, and having no connexions of his own, when he died last year at the age of eighty, he had left everything to them. Her brother had the house which he had built, and finished only a twelvemonth before his death: all the furniture was new, the gardens in high order, the statues freshly painted and arranged by his own hand, his observatory just ​completed and all ready for enjoyment, when his career was stopped to the eternal regret of her who narrated his story.

We could not refuse her earnest request to accompany her in the evening to see this pretty establishment, and as it turned out a beautiful afternoon we were well pleased with our walk, nor less so with the family to whom we were introduced.

We found a young man in a gardening dress, busy amongst his fine flowers and vegetables, in an extensive garden, which appeared very productive; here and there at the end of the alleys were placed flaring figures of shepherds and shepherdesses, carefully and brilliantly coloured, and so natural, as our friend, the sister, observed, that being of the size of life they might have deceived any one, except that the costumes they wore were more Arcadian than is usual amongst the inhabitants of Aisne. The garden commanded a very fine view of the country, and was in admirable order. Crossing the road, we entered the house, condueted by the young pale wife and crowing son and heir of our host, and here we were indeed surprised to see a beautiful little villa, every floor of which,—and there were three stories,—was fitted up with great taste and elegance with a suite of drawing-room, bed​chamber, and boudoir, as elegant as any in Paris.

At the top of the house was the famed observatory or pavilion, of which they were all so proud, and from whence a really magnificent view was obtained of an immense extent of country, though I did not consider it so fine as from the castle ruins.

These good people seemed extremely embarrassed by their possessions; they kept no servants, and the wife said that she had an endless occupation in dusting and polishing her fine rooms. They slept in each of them alternately, and seemed to think it a duty to keep them aired. They appeared infinitely more at ease in their kitchen, where they begged us to rest a little while, and which was very clean and neat, and evidently their usual sitting-room. They had scullery and offices very complete besides, and plenty of conveniences for their use. They said they were constantly applied to by families who would willingly pay a good rent to be allowed to occupy this pretty complete house,—a perfect wonder in a country-town in France,—that several English people had tried to get it; but as they had plenty of money they had no intention of letting it. The young wife seemed thoroughly ennuyée, and very much fatigued with nursing her ​enormous, strong, fine child; but it never seemed to occur to any of them that much trouble would be saved by engaging servants to help them. Perhaps when they are less new to their possessions, they will find the necessity of this arrangement, but as yet they have not recovered from the surprise of finding themselves gentlefolks all on a sudden.

We took leave of them, and were departing, when we were called back by a loud bon-jour from their parrot, which stood on a perch at the door, and had been a pet of the master’s; the child crowed, laughed, and clapped its hands, the bird its wings, laughing and crowing in emulation. A cat and kitten, also old favourites, which we had observed on a comfortable cushion in the kitchen, appeared at the window, frisking and apparently enjoying the hubbub. Aunt, mother, and father seemed equally amused, and we left them evidently gratified at the pleasure we had taken in their whole ménage, and we sufficiently entertained at the liberal, though perhaps little judicious distribution of his property by M. Babil.

The old church of Château Thierry is curious, and unlike any other I ever saw: it is very massive, and resembles rather a fortress—as indeed it was in its time—than a place of peace. High flights of steps lead up to the entrances, as it is built on ​the highest ground of the town; the great ogre-like tower is of enormous size and height, quite out of proportion to the rest of the building. It has been a good deal decorated, and some of the former ornamental carving still remains. On one side, at a great height, stand knights in armour in niches, and there are several pinnacles, elaborately carved, much injured. In the interior there are some singular twisted pillars round one of the chapels; but the whole is exceedingly defaced, and more remarkable for strength than beauty. There is nothing interesting in the town except the house where La Fontaine was born, in the Rue des Cordeliers.

There was great bustle in our hotel, la Sirène, and much apparent preparation for some important event; numerous bouquets were gathered from the beautiful and teeming rose garden belonging to the house, and we found that a wedding was toward. For two nights the violin ceased not, and every individual appeared given up to the entertainment of the time; for la bourgeoise gave the wedding supper to her two servants, la fille and the garçon d’écurie, who were happily united after a long courtship. We had ordered our carriage at eight o'clock in the morning, having engaged it as far as Provins, and agreed to sleep on the road: we requested to ​have a clean and respectable driver, as that does not always happen, and our civil landlady bade us be quite at our ease, for the garçon she would give us was perfection. “Il est très doux et ne répond jamais,” she added,—a fact which we proved very soon, for he appeared resolved to keep up his character of never speaking, in spite of all the questions we put to him on the route.

Provided with a splendid bouquet of roses of all hues, crimson, white and red, and yellow, and one exquisite rose, called le chapeau à trois cornes de Napoléon, we set out in a tolerably comfortable little travelling carriage, with our young conductor. We had not gone far, when we discovered him to be in a profound sleep; and in spite of all our hints, he only roused himself to fall back again into his dreams. At last he fairly dropped his whip and reins, and we were obliged to insist on his waking up. He now confessed that he was drowsy, and uttered in a heavy tone, “Quand on n'a pas dormi la nuit—allez!” With these words he flogged his horse, and we continued our way through one of the most beautiful countries we had yet seen, by the banks of the Marne, which are here more varied than those of the Loire itself, wanting only its ruined châteaux to be superior in beauty.

At Charly the hills are very singular, being ​covered with large blocks of grey rock, with luxuriant vines between: on each side of the road the charming vines continued, casting forth their delicious fragrance. We passed through several picturesque villages in the vines: Azy, evidently once a place of importance, from the remains of old walls every here and there; at Bonnay the church was covered with festoons of vines; at Creuttes nothing but old thick feudal-looking walls. Beyond this we came to pretty mansions built of party-coloured stone and pebbles, with gardens full of bright roses. We were continually mounting and descending hills above and beside the sparkling and winding river till we reached a suspension bridge which we crossed, and after enjoying a few miles more of charming scenery, entered the little town of La Ferté sous Jouarre.

There we stopped to breakfast, and to see what could be found of interest: we crossed three bridges over the winding Marne to the church, the tower of which is ancient, as are some of the pillars within, particularly two which support the stone holding the eau benite.

We remarked the dilapidated but venerable Château de la Barre, standing on an island: its tourelles shaded with large weeping willows which droop from the walls inte the river. The view ​above the town is very fine, the ancient but now unimportant town of Jouarre crowning the opposite height. La Ferté has a good port, and a considerable trade in mill-stones which, are considered of a superior quality.

We were joined at breakfast by an old gentleman who had been hovering about us for some time, evidently watching an opportunity to make acquaintance, which at last he did, telling us that he was delighted to meet English people, as he had spent much of his youth in England, having been educated at Aberdeen fifty years ago, and lived at Hampstead at other times. He was very gallant and attentive, and imagined that his English was as fresh as ever: he informed us, that his age was seventy-six,—“But,” added he, with a satisfied air, in English,—“but I don’t care.” He lived at Montmirail hard by, the scene of one of Napoleon’s victories, and tried to persuade us to go out of our route to pay him a visit. He saw us into our carriage with all the politeness of the old school, now so seldom met with in France as to be worthy of remark; and we went on, through a country declining in beauty to Coulommiers, which lies in a pretty valley, but is totally uninteresting in itself.

From hence to Provins the road is excellent, ​but very ugly; in the cross-ways, where we had fine scenery, the roads were intolerably bad, and we found the absence of springs to our carriage anything but pleasant: the jolting seemed to have lulled our coachman to sleep then, and the smoothness had the like effect now, for he continued to sleep on, regardless of our remonstrances, never uttering a word since the memorable remark with which he started.

As we met with no sort of interruption, our sleepy guide contrived to convey us safely, but so frightful had the country become for several leagues that we were quite astonished at the change. Even when at a great distance, we beheld an extraordinary shaped tower which we hoped announced Provins; all was still, arid, and grey, and stony. On a sudden, as if starting out of the earth, appeared a mountain crowned with buildings of forms so strange, that we gazed in astonishment and uncertainty, unable to divine whether we had rocks or castles before our eyes.

We approached nearer and nearer, passed the steep mountain, left the auld world towers behind, and discovered beneath us a fine valley filled with houses, groves, and spires; a green and wooded hill beyond, and a smiling rich and beautiful prospect all round. We looked back, ​and saw the desert close behind, and could hardly believe that so sudden an alteration could have taken place.

We descended the steep hill, and wound our way through a labyrinth of stony streets, till we came to what might seem a decent hotel, for our silent companion it appeared knew nothing of the town, where he had never been before. By dint of driving up and down, we at last got into the Grande Rue, and stopped at a very grand looking hotel, where we dismissed our taciturn sleepy coachman, and found ourselves well enough disposed of.