A Pilgrimage to Auvergne/Vol 1/Chapter 9

The extraordinary and antique town of Provins is one of the most singular and mysterious-looking places that the “inquisitive traveller” can well stumble upon, in his unfrequented rambles in this almost forgotten nook of France—the small but fertile province of Brie, which hangs “like a rich jewel” on the ear of the wide district of the vine, more productive than beautiful, where the Counts of Champagne once held sway.

Provins lies concealed between its two heights, which are masked by a wide extent of plain country on either side, not permitting it to be seen till the very last moment. It is ​hailed when tired of wandering along a monotonous road, through fields of rye, or by long dreary marshes for many leagues; one is suddenly startled by the apparition, beheld a moment, then vanishing and re-appearing again at intervals, of a gigantic tower, “such and so strange” as no other part of the world can exhibit, and begins to imagine that the bizarre form was merely some creature of the elements, and had no real existence; but it rises again and again till La Grosse Tour de César of Provins is revealed in unquestionable truth. Of stupendous proportions, it stands on the summit of a hill which overlooks a wide valley, and commands a broad extent of country in all directions for leagues. Its shape is an irregular square, flanked at each angle by a circular tower, which, after forming an upper chamber, is suddenly detached from the masonry, and changes itself into an arch, clinging to the mother tower by means of a flying buttress. The great frame then appears a perfect octagon till it reaches the ground, where it is hemmed in by a circling wall of extraordinary thickness and height, called Le Pâté aux Anglais.

This wondrous structure is surmounted, as well as its four satellites, by a pyramidal roof, within which are enclosed its halls and chambers, and chapels and dungeons. Near it, and only sur​passed in height and solidity by its giant-like neighbour, appears the strange dome of the great temple of St. Quiriace. These two look over the surrounding country, and seem to tell each other of the proceedings of all the wide world beyond, with their loud, deep, solemn voices echoing along the sky, and heard as they are seen, for an incredible distance.

Beneath these stupendous piles lie stretched, from hill to valley, and up the opposite height, the spires, towers, and roofs of the town they protect; and, though but few bells now reply to the summons of the solemn call above, yet there was a time when it would have been no easy matter to count the churches and convents where they swung.

At that period the war-cry of Champagne, Passe avant le meillor, was not heard in vain; and hundreds of banners waved in unison with the music of those bells, whose sound had led the warriors of Provins to the mass, heard for the last time previously to their departure for the Holy Wars, whence the few who returned, brought recollections that identified their native walls with the sacred city; and “Jerusalem! Jerusalem!” was the salutation with which they erected their beloved and long-left city, on the first sight of her towers and battlements. ​Provins has ever since retained the honour which the pilgrims of the cross bestowed upon her, and is still said to bear some resemblance to the Holy City. Its appearance is so unlike anything else, that it may well be so, for even in its decay, and in spite of modern improvements, its original character has not yet doparted from it. Though the eastern rose, which once rendered it famous amongst nations, is now but little cultivated, though its celebrated conserve is now but little valued, the flower is, fortunately for the lover of romance, not yet extinct; and it is no fable to assert, that nowhere has this exquisite rose so fine a perfume—nowhere has it so rich a crimson as in the gardens of its adoption at Provins.

It can hardly be an enthusiastic fancy which believes also that seldom are the notes of the nightingale heard in such perfection as in the thick groves which overhang the rose gardens surrounding the town, beneath the hanging gardens of the former convent of Les Dames Cordelières, whose establishment was so tendered by Le Comte Chansonnier, benefactor, poet, and warrior.

Thibault, the Trouvère, one of the first, whose poetry deserved to live and be recorded; he who encouraged, delighted in, and surrounded himself with the minstrels whose fame was known ​throughout Europe; he who sang and fought, rebelled and bowed, before la belle dame sans mercie, of whom he was for years the slave and plaything, and whose passion has so puzzled the cool brains of philosophers, who cannot comprehend how one so wise and bold, and stubborn and resolved, could love on without hope, yet endure caprice and injustice, and contempt and anger, from a fair tyrant, in whose absence alone he dared assert his rights, but in whose presence he became a cipher;—he, it was, who brought from Palestine the red rose which he planted at Provins, and whose mystical beautics he sang so well.

This rose has not only furnished a subject to poets for ages, but was long an article of trade to the town of Provins. Large fields were cultivated beneath its walls, and the peasants came in crowds before sunrise to gather its blossoms, wet with dew, and carry them to the markets, whence the precious leaves, considered to possess valuable medicinal qualities, were distributed throughout France. One only garden, where it is found in its pure state, and where it is kept closely cut, like the best vines, is now found at Provins: there this beautiful treasure flourishes in security, and two pretty little girls and their mother are sufficient to collect the petals at early morning. ​The garden, a corner of which is appropriated to this culture, belongs to M. Opoix, a great name in Provins; for the father of the present proprietor of this estate was a benefactor to his native town, an, author, a scholar, and a man of genius. He it was who collected the mineral waters, of which Provins is justly proud, into their present fountain—built over them the temple where they spring, and made their virtues known to the neighbouring world. He it was who encouraged the failing trade of roses, and taught not only the art of forming the famous conserve, but recommended the tinting of bonbons with the rich colour which the flower yields; thus, in a country like France where sweetmeats have so much popularity, securing apparently a durable commerce to his con-citoyens. M. Opoix has been dead some months, having, after a useful life, spent in benevolent endeavours to benefit his fellow-creatures and advance the cause of science as well as encourage taste, quitted the world at the age of an hundred years. His garden, now, alas! neglected by his rich heir, who is said to possess few of the father’s qualities, deserves a particular description, as indeed does every part of the intricate labyrinth of Count Thibault’s town, for it is, even yet, a most delicious retreat. On one of the eminences ​which rise from the valley, in passing a thick bocage, the ear is suddenly struck with the sounds of falling water—a gate invites to enter the enticing grove, and presently the stranger finds himself surrounded by fountains murmuring and rushing in all directions, some from rocks and some from jets—one whispering to another from a shaded walk near and at a distance; along alleys of acacia and honeysuckle the sound directs the way to Roman columns and tablets—antique busts and broken remnants of gothic pillars—new fountains meet the eye and ear at the end of every walk—still it is necessary to mount up; the terraces rise higher, the trees become thicker, and the plash of waters is deafened by the song of countless birds; who, undisturbed in their solitude, make the leafy covert vocal with an uninterrupted lay. Beneath a graceful temple is sheltered the mother fountain, from which the rest receive their being, and never was a more secluded or more beautiful spot. The perfume of the crimson rose is mixed with that of numerous other, less rare, but remarkably fine flowers, all of which grow in profusion and add to the charm of the scene. Before the spot is quitted, it is de rigueur to be provided with a choice bouquet and a handful of dried leaves, whose ​odour is long retained, and fitly keeps the memory alive of the bower where they grew. The house situated in the centre of all this beauty is falling fast to decay; some servants,—peasants,—are its only inmates, and the permission to admit the inhabitants is now revoked, im consequence of the devastations committed amongst the objects of virtù: so that, as its present master cares but little for it, the whole place will in a few years, probably, disappear with the remaining antique houses in antique Provins. Revolutionary barbarity did all it could to destroy the wonders of the olden time in this part of the country, but it could not be; and it will require time yet before Provins can be made like a place of this world, and no longer give the impression to the traveller of having fallen upon a suddenly disenchanted city. What art or industry will be able to fill up the leagues of cavern, sculptured and pillared, which exist under the mountain on which the upper town is situated?—What force can level the piles of wall and tower and bastion, which for more than a league surround the vine-gardens and orchards which now flourish where houses, churches, and convents once stood?—Who shall demolish the Tour de César, or root up the Druidical looking columns of St. Quiriace and St. Croix, of St. ​Ayoul, and of the Maison Forte des Brébans?—Who shall sound the depth of Le Puits Certain? or, more than all, who shall quiet the contentions of the learned as to whether this extraordinary mass of buildings, above and below ground, is indeed the Agendicum of Cæsar?

As much can be written for as against the probability of Provins, and not Sens, being the Roman town in question; and perhaps as likely is the conjecture that it was constructed by the Gauls. The inscription on a famous bell has caused great vexation and uneasiness, great quarreling and caviling amongst the learned; and the question is still undecided as to the meaning of the following lines: the bell was founded in 1280, and destroyed in 1437; but the tradition remains, and is thus rendered:—

Alas! that word Gentico!—still current amongst the common people, what did it, what does it mean? None can reply. As for the great bell of the great tower, whoever wishes to hear its undoubted history must ask the willing hospitality of the old lady who fills the office of ringer; for, the neighbouring church of St. ​Quiriace having no bell, the ringing department is performed from the tower:—she will tell you that it is ridiculous to doubt that Cæsar himself built the tower, assisted by Louis XIV. in person, who put up the great clock; and as she boasts of being a personal friend of M. de Sommerard himself, who has presented her with a proof copy of his valuable work on the subject, it is impossible to quit the precincts unsatisfied. She pointed out to us a passage, in her precious volume, which records the date of her companion the bell, where may be read:

This lively old lady who shows the tower is warm in praise of her domicile—no dwelling was ever so warm, so dry, so healthy, or so gay as La Grosse Tour. She scarcely pities Louis d'Outremer, whose dungeon she points out; and, indeed, considering the usual places of confinement destined to captive princes, one can hardly commiserate the unfortunate monarch so much as many of his fellow sufferers. Louis de Débonnaire, for instance, had a much more dismal cell at Soissons, and Charles le Simple’s soupirail at Peronne was damper and narrower: still, if in​deed, as has been doubted, Louis d’Outremer was held in durance here as well as at Laon, the place is sad enough; perched high in the clouds, with a wide range of free country seen through the small window, on which his hands are supposed to have rested so frequently that the stones are worn smooth, the captive could behold all the rich territory of which he was deprived by the “fel et enguignoux,” Count de Chartres, Thibault-le-Tricheur, whose shade still haunts the forest of Marchenois, tormented for the deceits and treachery with which he filled up the term of his life in this world. Let the traveller beware, in traversing le Blésois, lest, even now, he mect the fearful Count, with all his meinie out hunting in the air, and sweeping away to reach his Château of Bury, on the other side of the Loire! The Château of Montfrau, near where now stands the deserted Chambord, could once tell terrible histories of his apparition; but it is not necessary to leave the mountain of St. Quiriace to find horrible traditions. The Trou du Chat still yawns, and its devils are not yet laid—frightful noises are still heard in the nights of winter, and it was no longer ago than in 1818 that witches were at work within the fathomless caverns beneath the gloomy tower, where the diabolic monster which gives name to the low ​arch of entrance has long loved to conceal itself.

Whether the portrait of this hideous creature may be recognised amongst the extraordinary forms which crawl along the foliage of the pillars of St. Croix, is not ascertained, but there is every probability that it is so, as no doubt it had more than once become visible to the monks of the abbey, whose prayers alone kept it in subjection. If this “bête” terrified the inhabitants of Provins, they had a fairer object to repose their thoughts upon in the person of Ste. Lucence, the wool-spinner, whose bones are supposed to repose beneath a tomb in the church of St. Quiriace. No one knows at what period this holy virgin lived, any more than that of the saint whose dome sheltered her ashes, but her miracles are incontestable, as well as the tradition which recounts that, being falsely accused of leading an irregular life, her apron was filled with red hot coals, which had no power to burn her or her garments. Formerly never was prayer addressed to her by a damsel of Provins ineffectual, but she has ceased to exercise her power at present. Of the palace in which the Counts of Champagne lived, and where the great poet Knight sang his lays and had them engraved on the walls, nothing remains but the outer part; ​the building is now a college, where Thibault and his friend Gace Brulé tuned their lutes; all is now a blank, and few know anything of the fame which once resounded throughout Europe.

The Fête des Fous and the grotesque Fête de l'Asnon have also disappeared—no longer does the Priest dance along the nave of St. Quiriace with the prettiest girl in the parish—no more is the wine-cup filled and drained with religious fervour by the canons and their parishioners in the church amidst solemn dances and sacred songs. No longer to the young men and maidens of the town on the 1st of July, the festival of St. Thibault, are distributed bread, cherries, and tarts; no more cream cakes, called flonnets, are given by the bishop to the children of Provins; and more than all to be regretted, no feast of roses can now be beheld! This fête, which was called by the singular name of Chancis (a word which signifies in the dialect of the south of France the return of the souls of the young), partook of pagan rites and a recollection of the customs of the Cours d'Amour. It lasted, as the Fête Dieu does in some parts of the country, particularly at Troyes, for several Sundays, and its performances continued like the ancient mysteries still kept up in Bretagne. It began by a choir of young girls walking in procession before an assembled crowd, ​and at intervals performing a dance in order to obtain a chaplet of red roses with golden leaves, which was awarded to her whose movements were considered the most graceful. The highest officer of each of the parishes, the clergy of the choir-children, the magistrates and dignitaries of the town, wore coronets of fir intermixed with flowers; but that of the curé was made of rosebuds with golden leaves. These garlands were made at the expense of the churchwarden on the eve of the fête, and by him an entertainment was offered to the fair aspirants for honour. The Sunday after this display a less graceful exhibition took place; climbing on a soaped pole, and grinning, as formerly at our fairs, formed the entertainments—the appropriate prize was a tart, worth two sous six deniers, and he who was ugliest and most disagreeable was the happy winner.

The Sunday which followed offered another contrast; a reward of a rose garland, a belt, and a purse, was awarded to her who sang the best—next came a procession in honour of the goat with gilded horns, accompanied with grotesque ceremonies and much wine-drinking. The dragon and the lizard of les Rogations followed, and for many years kept their ground, till the revolution at once destroyed them all, and they live now ​only in the memory of the curious—having passed away like a tale that is told. Provins, of all other towns in France, can best furnish these memories, and every stone in its ancient streets has a legend and a history attached to it, which cannot but excite the interest of all lovers of antiquity.

A sad contrast to the grace and elegance of the poet and lover are the facts which cannot but recur of the cruelty and bigotry of the soldier and the fanatic. Thibault le Chansonnier not only brought with him from Palestine the beautiful rose which has lived to this day, in all its richness and glory, but a gift, more precious still at the period, though long since become worthless and forgotten—nothing less than a piece of the true cross, which was held as a priceless relic in the church of St. Croix, where it was deposited. Tired with the praises of his religious zeal, the lover of Queen Blanche gave way to the fury which animated all the true servants of the church, and, forgetting for the time the interests of his favourite city, he proclaimed a war of extermination against the heretics, in whose hands was the principal commerce of the country: in 1239 the too famous execution took place of one hundred and eighty-three Albigeois, “who all received death on the same day for the glory ​of the holy church,” while Count Thibault the Trouvère looked on and applauded, together with more than seven hundred thousand persons of both sexes! In one of the walls of the palace where Count Thibault resided, is still to be seen an embrasure with a stone seat on which cushions were accustomed to be placed, and which commands a view of the opposite hill; from this window the Count is said to have been favoured with a miraculous vision. During several nights he was aware of a “divine and luminous brightness” which rose over the southern part of the town; in the midst thereof appeared a lady of incomparable beauty, who with the point of a sword traced on the ground a mystic circle. Thibault recognized in the heavenly visitant the blessed St. Catherine, towards whom he had a peculiar devotion. He thence resolved to build a convent for holy virgins, and to place in it those of St. Claire who were still living. St. Claire, in accordance with his desires, sent him six of the most devout of her sisterhood, who remained in the palace of the Count for the space of four years till their convent was completed, when they took possession of it. Fountains and hanging gardens adorned the grounds surrounding the the building, and those are still to be seen, though but little besides remains except the chapel, in ​which a stone to the memory of the liberal founder might lately be seen. The house is now an asylum for aged men and a foundling hospital; but at this moment workmen fill the courts and the chambers, for the antique walls were giving way, the beautiful gallery had fallen, and it was necessary that modern art should replace the ancient fabric of the fair Cordelières. It still looks across the valley to the palace opposite, and the chapel bell still answers to the solemn voice of St. Quiriace in La Grosse Tour de Provins.

The following is a specimen of one of the poems of the lover of Blanche of Castille, which he introduces in the frequent form of a dialogue:

It is not alone la Grosse Tour at Provins which deserves attention; the whole of the higher town is surrounded by fortifications, which it takes several hours to visit. Innumerable towers of all shapes crowd along the walls, each offering features of interest. We were accompanied on our exploring visit by a young apprentice of the chief bookseller of Pro​vins, who with great civility offered us his services for as long as we pleased, as he would be the best guide we could find, having been born n the upper town, which appears to be considered another country, and knowing every nook and corner of the ruins. He guided us well, and seemed to enjoy his holiday as much as we did: there was not a tower or tourelle which he did not seduce us into, and not a height, however dangerous, on which he did not climb; renewing the sports of his infancy when, as he told us, he and his mates used to amuse themselves with picking out the great stones of the walls, and rolling them down into the dry fosses beneath.

With him we visited the Tour aux Engins, where formerly all the machines of war were kept, the Tour aux Pourceaux, the Pinacle, the Tournelle du Luxembourg, Tournelle aux Anglais, Tour de Gannes, Tour le Roi, Tour de César, Tour de St. Quiriace, and numerous others. We peeped down the dark openings of the great and continuous caverns which run under the upper town, and are many of them sustained by rich sculptured pillars, and refreshed by fountains,—a subterranean city. Tradition says, that one extended as far as Vulaines, more than a league from Provins; but most of these ​dangerous passes are now walled up, and their entrances are alone to be descried, except by venturous boys and determined antiquaries.

All the churches of Provins, though much injured, are curious and interesting. That of St. Croix, formerly called St. Laurent des Ponts, has undergone such successive modifications, that it is difficult to recognise its original form. Its architecture is from the thirteenth century to the seventeenth, and there is much in it which appears of Roman construction. An ornament frequently repeated on the walls is a heart pierced with darts: there is some fine carved wood remaining, and many of the pillars and capitals are of very primitive forms, and appear sufficiently old, their bases having sunk deep into the earth, as indeed the church itself seems to have done, which is the case with several others in this antique town. There are two twisted pillars in the body of the church of very remarkable shape, and their capitals are singularly grotesque, and a font of great antiquity, on which are sculptured fleurs de lis and dolphins.

St. Ayoul is also a most interesting monument, its pillars and portals and circular arches proving its extreme antiquity. But St. Quiri​ace, called the Cathedral, in the higher town, even in its present state, is perhaps the most worthy of attention of all. Its fine dome must certainly have served as a temple of the Gauls; its antique columns and circular galleries and bold arches seem to have had a Roman architect, and its mysterious crypt, lately discovered, indicates an antiquity of the earliest date. The exterior does not answer to the inside; and except one door with zigzag ornaments and Roman capitals, there is nothing imposing in its appearance. There are neither painted windows, nor tombs, nor statues left, though once they were very rich, and a great image of St. Christopher was painted on the southern wall, and was sixteen feet high; a thick veil of whitewash has now entirely effaced his glories.

All the other famous churches have disappeared,—St. Thibault, St. Nicholas, St. Pierre, all the monasteries and convents. A salle de dance replaced Nôtre Dame du Val; the Abbey of St. Jacques, where pious pilgrims resorted, established by Count Thibault VII. in 1050, its celebrated terraces, gardens, library, and all its wondrous relics are swept away. Nothing is left of the monastery of the Jacobins where the heart of its founder was inhumed with so much ​pomp, and the little mausoleum which enclosed it placed on the steps of the grand altar with this inscription on copper:

Ici gist le gantieu (gentil) cuer (cœur) le roi Tiebaut roi de Navarre, quens (comte) palatins de Champoigne et de Brie.

In 1791 the municipality solemnly transferred the heart of Thibault VII. and its mausoleum to the church of the hospital where his body had been placed; but in 1794, on the 7th of January, all the precious remains were dispersed and profaned by a furious mob. Fortunately, however, the mausoleum containing the heart had been concealed in time, and could not be found by the evil-minded populace, and on the 6th of October 1807 they were replaced with honour in the church of the hospital.

In former times a superstitious belief prevailed that the crystal globe which enclosed a stone heart, and was hung up over the monument, was efficacious in maladies of the eyes. The monks of the Sainte Larme encouraged this belief, and the people came in great confidence to rub their eyes on this holy relic. In the fountain of the Court of the Jacobins was a fountain of the Holy tear, the water of which cured all diseases of the eyes, and when the fountain happened to dry up, a monk went in the evening of the ap​pointed day to the neighbouring river to draw water, which filled the well, and was found quite as serviceable.

There is amusement enough in Provins in its monuments, its ruins, and its fine promenades, to occupy a stranger for a long time. Although we had a good deal of wet weather we contrived to enjoy our stay there extremely, taking advantage of every gleam of sun and hour of genial warmth. We were standing with our guides on the platform of the Grosse Tour, one day, looking over the parapet at the extensive view round, when we were struck with four objects slowly mounting the high hill beyond the town. Their gait and manner were unlike those of such animals as one is accustomed to; and, as we looked, recollections of the antique time when strange beasts inhabited the neighbouring woods and, coming out of their dens, ravaged the country, flashed across our minds. These reveries were disturbed by an exclamation from the old lady of the tower, "Ah, les ours! les ours!" and pointing in the direction we were looking, we became aware that a party of bears were really quietly travelling along the road accompanied by their keepers, and several jongleurs with their monkeys. Nothing could be more appropriate to the scene, beheld from Count Thibault's castle, ​and it only required a few knights, armed cap-a-pie, chevauchant along the road near them, to make the picture complete.

We were told that this assembly were going to a concours at la Maison Rouge, a lonely village through which we had passed on our way from Coulommiers, and that there was held a sort of fair for merchandise of all descriptions, which attracted every one in the country from all the towns and villages round. It occurred once in three years, and created great sensation in this part of Champagne.

No doubt this is all that remains of the great annual fair of Provins, once of so much importance. Provins was, in fact, in the thirteenth century one of the most flourishing cities of France. Its fairs, according to the poet Garin, were founded by Pepin le Bref, as well as others in Champagne, which were held in the highest esteem.

The cloth fabricated at Provins was considered of the first quality; in the middle ages it was cited for its excellence: the ners de Provins was placed at the side of l'équarlate de Gand and the drap bleu de Nicole. Its wines, now contemptu​ously spoken of as poor Vins de Brie, were formerly highly prized. Garin, in one of his fabliaux, thus names them:

Its wheat was always looked upon as superior, as it is still, and certainly nothing can be finer or more delicate than its bread.

As an instance of the esteem in which the fairs of Provins were held, a specimen may be given from the MS. romance des Lohérains, in which the Prévôt de Metz is represented reproaching his son Hervis for not visiting the great fairs of Champagne to buy merchandise, rather than spending his time in hunting and hawking and the vain pleasure of the court.

The young man objected, that he understood but little of merchandise, but his father insisting on his no longer wasting his time, he consented to go, resolving in his own mind to amuse himself as much as he could instead of devoting himself to business for which he had no taste.

​As soon as Hervis arrived at Provins, he declined lodging with his uncles, who were already there, but engaged a magnificent hotel to himself, and gave instant orders that all the principal merchants who attended the fair should be invited to a banquet, where he entertained them with everything of the most costly description.

Every day he invited more guests, and increased his expenditure, till at the end of eight days he had spent a thousand marks of gold and silver. His uncles now interfered, and represented to him how improper was this extravagance; but he answered gaily:

"Oh! you have only to tax les vilains. I will coin, if it becomes necessary, new money; but I am resolved to take the delight of my heart."

He then purchased an Arab horse, a falcon, two little hunting dogs, and a greyhound of great price. Possessed of these treasures he went out hunting, and returned with a good deal of game, which he showed to his uncle in triumph, and exclaimed:—

This promising youth was at last sent back to his father, who no doubt repented having urged him to go to a place where he found such opportunities of indulging his expensive tastes. He reproached him bitterly for his conduct, but afterwards sent him to the fair of Lagny, where it appears that, to complete his ménage, he bought Alix, the daughter of the King of Tyr, who had been carried off from her father and made a slave, and was now exposed for sale by the merchants to whom she belonged. Whether the father was more pleased with this last purchase does not appear; but it proves the reputation of these fairs of Champagne, which extended to all parts of the world, and attracted traders of every kind.

While in Bretagne all is Celtic, and in Provence all is Roman, the centre of France has lost many of its monuments of both races; having been the scene of such continued revolutions. Still there are traces of antiquity left sometimes in names, which the people do not comprehend, in altars, in tombs, and in stones.

In the neighbourhood of Provins are to be found numerous Celtic remains: at la Croix de Pierre a mound was opened, in which arms, instruments, and human bones were discovered; at ​Bouchets, near the source of the Doué, in an immense plain, exist numerous Dolmens called de Lisurs: some are thrown down, but some are in the usual Druidical form of altars. There is a famous fountain at St. Par, which is still held inveneration, and its water is thought to be efficacions not only in curing maladies, but in procuring husbands and wives for those who drink and believe. A grotto of Sorrens is filled with treasure, and opens once a year during the reading of the gospel which describes the Passion; though it does not appear that any one has ever been fortunate enough to arrive at the spot at the proper moment. In this may be traced the treasures burnt by the Gauls with their criminals, the spoils consecrated to Mercury, and the gold which they cast into their sacred lakes.

Near the wooded summit of Montaiguillon is an enormous mass of flat rocks, laid one on the other, known throughout the country as the stone with a hundred heads, which inspires great awe amongst the country-people, who report that the finger of a child can move the largest of the blocks. These piles are often met with in France, and have doubtless been used as altars, whether so placed by the hand of man or by nature. There are others called les Gros-grès, and some designated Pierres-Boutroutées.