Outre-Mer, Volume 1 Read online

  With these delightful feelings I rembled on from street to street, till at length after threading a narrow alley, I unexpectedly came out in front of the magnificent Cathedral. If it had suddenly risen from the earth, the effect could not have been more powerful and instantaneous. It completely overwhelmed my imagination; and I stood for a long time motionless, and gazing entranced upon the stupendous edifice. I had seen no specimen of gothic architecture before, save the remains of a little church at Havre; and the massive towers before me--the lofty windows of stained glass-- the low portal, with its receding arches and rude statues--all produced upon my untravelled mind an impression of awful sublimity. When I entered the church, the impression was still more deep and solemn. It was the hour of vespers. The religious twilight of the place--the lamps that burned on the distant altar--the kneeling crowd--the tinkling bell-- and the chaunt of the evening service, that rolled along the vaulted roof in broken and repeated echoes--filled me with new and intense emotions. When I gazed on the stupendous architecture of the church--the huge columns, that the eye followed up till they were lost in the gathering dusk of the arches above--the long and shadowy aisles--the statues of saints and martyrs, that stood in every recess--the figures of armed knights upon the tombs--the uncertain light, that stole through the painted windows of each little chapel--and the form of the cowled and solitary monk, kneeling at the shrine of his favorite saint, or passing between the lofty columns of the church,--all I had read of, but had not seen,--I was transported back to the Dark Ages, and felt as I shall never feel again.

  On the following day I visited the remains of an old palace, built by Edward the Third, now occupied as the Palais de Justice; and the ruins of the church and monastery of Saint Antoine.--I saw the hole in the tower where the ponderous bell of the Abbey fell through;--and took a peep at the curious illuminated manuscript of Daniel d’Aubonne in the public library. The remainder of the morning was spent in visiting the ruins of the ancient Abbey of St. Ouen, which is now transformed into the Hotel de Ville, and in strolling through its beautiful gardens, dreaming of the present and the past, and given up to “a melancholy of my own.”

  At the Table d’ Hôte of the Golden Lion, I fell into conversation with an elderly gentleman, who proved to be a great antiquarian, and thoroughly read in all the forgotten lore of the city. As our tastes were somewhat similar, we were soon upon very friendly terms; and after dinner, we strolled out to visit some remarkable localities, and took the gloria together in the Chevalier Bayard.

  When we returned to the Golden Lion he entertained me with many curious stories of the spots we had been visiting. Among others he related the following singular adventure of a monk of the Abbey of Saint Antoine, which amused me so much, that I cannot refrain from presenting it to my readers. I will not, however, vouch for the truth of the story; for that the antiquarian himself would not do. He said he found it in an ancient manuscript of the Middle Ages, in the archives of the public library, and I give it as it was told me, without note or comment.

  MARTIN FRANC AND THE MONK OF SAINT ANTHONY.

  Epigraph

  Seígnor, oiez une merveille,

  C’onques n’oïstes sa pareille,

  Que je vos vueil dire et conter;

  Or metez cuer a l’escouter.

  Fabliau du Bouchier d’Abbeville.

  Lystyn Lordyngs to my tale,

  And ye shall here of one story, Is better than any wyne or ale,

  That ever was made in this cuntry.

  Ancient Metrical Romance

  MARTIN FRANC AND THE MONK OF SAINT ANTHONY.

  Quoth hee, heer is a chaunce for the nones,

  For heer hangeth the false Munk by cocks bones.

  The Mery Jest of Dane Hew

  In times of old there lived in the city of Rouen a tradesman, named Martin Franc, who, by a series of misfortunes, had been reduced from oppulence to poverty. But poverty, which generally makes men humble and laborious, only served to make him proud and lazy: and in proportion as he grew poorer and poorer, he grew also prouder and lazier. He contrived, however, to live along from day to day, by now and then pawning a silken robe of his wife, or selling a silver spoon, or some other trifle saved from the wreck of his better fortune; and passed his time pleasantly enough in loitering about the market place, and walking up and down on the sunny side of the street.

  The fair Marguerite, his wife, was celebrated through the whole city for her beauty, her wit, and her virtue. She was a brunette, with the blackest eye--the whitest teeth--and the ripest nut-brown cheek in all Normandy;--her figure was tall and stately--her hands and feet most delicately moulded--and her swimming gait like the motion of a swan. In happier days she had been the delight of the richest tradesmen in the city, and the envy of the fairest dames; and when she became poor, her fame was not a little increased by her cruelty to several substantial burghers, who, without consulting their wives, had generously offered to stand between her husband and bankruptcy, and do all in their power to raise a worthy and respectable family.

  The friends of Martin Franc, like the friends of many a ruined man before and since, deserted him in the day of adversity. Of all that had eaten his dinners, and drunk his wine, and philandered with his wife, none sought the narrow alley and humble dwelling of the broken tradesman, save one; and that one was Friar Gui, the sacristan of the Abbey of Saint Anthony. He was a little, jolly, red-faced friar, with a leer in his eye, and rather a naughty reputation for a man of his cloth; but as he was a kind of travelling gazette and always brought the latest news and gossip of the city, and besides was the only person that condescended to visit the house of Martin Franc,-- in fine, for the want of a better, he was considered in the light of a friend.

  In these constant assiduities, Friar Gui had his secret motives, of which the single heart of Martin Franc was entirely unsuspicious. The keener eye of his wife, however, soon discovered two faces under the hood. She observed that the Friar generally timed his visits so as to be at the house when Martin Franc was not at home,--that he seemed to prefer the edge of the evening,--and that as his visits became more frequent he always had some little apology ready, such as ‘being obliged to pass that way, he could not go by the door without just dropping in to see how the good man Martin did.’--Occasionally, too, he ventured to bring her some ghostly present-- such as a picture of the Madonna and child, or one of those little naked images, which are hawked about the streets at the Nativity. Though the object of all this was but too obvious, yet the fair Marguerite perserved in misconstruing the Friar’s intentions, and in dexterously turning aside any expressions of gallantry that fell from his venerable lips. In this way Friar Gui was for a long time kept at bay; and Martin Franc preserved in the day of poverty and distress, that consolation of all this world’s afflictions--a friend. But finally things came to such a pass that the honest tradesman opened his eyes, and wondered he had been asleep so long. Whereupon he was irreverend enough to tweak the nose of Friar Gui, and then to thrust him into the street by the shoulders.

  Meanwhile the times grew worse and worse. One family relic followed another;-- the last silken robe was pawned:--the last silver spoon sold; until at length poor Martin Franc was forced to ‘drag the devil by the tail;’--in other words, beggary stared him full in the face. But the fair Marguerite did not even then despair. In those days a belief in the immediate guardianship of the saints, was much more strong and prevalent than in these lewd and degenerate times; and as there seemed no great probability of improving their condition by any lucky change, which could be brought about by mere human agency, she determined to try what could be done by intercession with the patron saint of her husband. Accordingly she repaired one evening to the Abbey of Saint Anthony, to place a votive candle and offer her prayer at the altar, which stood in the little chapel dedicated to Saint Martin.

  It was already sun-down when she reached the church, and the evening service of the Virgin had commenced. A cloud of incense floated before the
altar of the Madonna, and the organ rolled its deep melody along the dim arches of the church. Marguerite mingled with the kneeling crowd, and repeated the responses in Latin, with as much devotion, as the most learned clerk of the convent. When the service was over, she repaired to the chapel of Saint Martin, and lighting her votive tapes at the silver lamp, which burned before his altar, knelt down in a retired part of the chapel, and, with tears in her eyes, besought the saint for aid and protection. Whilst she was thus engaged, the church became gradually deserted, till she was left, as she thought, alone. But in this she was mistaken; for when she arose to depart, the portly figure of Friar Gui was standing close at her elbow!

  “A fair, good evening to my lady Marguerite,” said he significantly. “Saint Martin has heard your prayer, and sent me to relieve your poverty.”

  “Then, by the Virgin!” replied she, “the good saint is not very fastidious in the choice of his messengers.”

  “Nay, good wife;” answered the Friar, not at all abashed by this ungracious reply; “if the tidings are good, what matters it who the messenger may be?--And how does Martin Franc, these days?”

  “He is well, Sir Gui;” replied Marguerite; “and were he present, I doubt not would thank you heartily for the interest you still take in him and his poor wife.”

  “He has done me wrong;” continued the Friar, without seeming to notice the pointedness of Marguerite’s reply. “But it is our duty to forgive our enemies; and so let the past be forgotten. I know that he is in want. Here, take this to him, and tell him I am still his friend.”

  So saying, he drew a small purse from the sleeve of his habit, and proffered it to his companion.--I know not whether it were a suggestion of Saint Martin, but true it is, that the fair lady of Martin Franc seemed to lend a more willing ear to the earnest whispers of the Friar. At length she said;

  “Put up your purse; to-day I can neither deliver your gift nor your message. Martin Franc has gone from home.”

  “Then keep it for yourself.”

  “Nay, Sir Monk;” replied Marguerite, casting down her eyes; “I can take no bribes here in the church, and in the very chapel of my husband’s patron saint. You shall bring it to me at my house, an’ you will, Sir Gui.”

  The Friar put up the purse, and the conversation, which followed, was in a low and indistinct undertone, audible only to the ears for which it was intended. At length the interview ceased; and,--O Woman! the last words that the virtuous Marguerite uttered, as she glided from the church, were;

  “To-night;--when the Abbey clock strikes twelve!--remember!”

  It would be useless to relate how impatiently the Friar counted the hours and the quarters, as they chimed from the ancient tower of the Abbey, whilst he paced to and fro along the gloomy cloister. At length the appointed hour approached; and just before the convent bell sent forth its summons to call the friars of Saint Anthony to their midnight devotions, a figure, with a cowl, stole out of a postern gate and passing silently along the deserted streets, soon turned into the little alley, which led to the dwelling of Martin Franc. It was none other than Friar Gui. He rapped softly at the tradesman’s door; and casting a look up and down the street, as if to assure himself that his motions were unobserved, slipped into the house.

  “Has Martin Franc returned?” enquired he in a whisper.

  “No;” answered the sweet voice of his wife; “he will not be back to night.”

  “Then all good angels befriend us!” continued the monk, endeavoring to take her hand.

  “Not so, Sir Monk,” said she, disengaging herself. You forget the conditions of our meeting.”

  The Friar paused a moment; and then drawing a heavy leathern purse from his girdle, he threw it upon the table. At the same moment a footstep was heard behind him, and a heavy blow from a club threw him prostrate upon the floor. It came from the strong arm of Martin Franc himself!

  It is hardly necessary to say that his absence was feigned. His wife had invented the story to decoy the lecherous monk, and thereby to keep her husband from beggary and to relieve herself, once for all, from the importunities of a false friend. At first Martin Franc would not listen to the proposition; but at length he yielded to the urgent entreaties of his wife; and the plan finally agreed upon was, that Friar Gui, after leaving his purse behind him, should be sent back to the convent with a severer discipline than his shoulders had ever received from any penitence of his own.

  The affair, however, took a more serious turn than was intended; for when they tried to raise the Friar from the ground,--he was dead. The blow aimed at his shoulders fell upon his shaven crown; and in the excitement of the moment Martin Franc had dealt a heavier stroke than he intended. Amid the grief and consternation, which followed this discovery, the quick imagination of his wife suggested an expedient of safety. A bunch of keys at the Friar’s girdle caught her eye. Hastily unfastening the ring, she gave the keys to her husband, exclaiming;

  “For the holy Virgin’s sake, be quick! One of these keys unlocks the postern gate of the convent garden. Carry the body thither, and leave it among the trees!”

  Martin Franc threw the dead body of the monk across his shoulders, and with a heavy heart took the way to the abbey. It was a clear starry night; and though the moon had not yet risen, her light was in the sky, and came reflected down in a soft twilight upon earth. Not a sound was heard through all the long and solitary streets, save at intervals the distant crowing of a cock, or the melancholy hoot of an owl from the lofty tower of the abbey. The silence weighed like an accusing spirit upon the guilty conscience of Martin Franc. He started at the sound of his own breathing, as he panted under the heavy burden of the monk’s body; and if perchance a bat flitted near him on drowsy wings, he paused, and his heart beat audibly with terror: such cowards does conscience make of even the most courageous. At length he reached the garden wall of the abbey,--opened the postern gate with the key, and bearing the monk into the garden, seated him upon a stone bench by the edge of the fountain, with his head resting against a column, upon which was sculptured an image of the Madonna. He then replaced the bunch of keys at the monk’s girdle, and returned home with hasty steps.

  When the Prior of the convent, to whom the repeated delinquencies of Friar Gui were but too well known, observed that he was again absent from his post at midnight prayers, he waxed exceedingly angry; and no sooner were the duties of the chapel finished, than he sent a monk in pursuit of the truant sacristan, summoning him to appear immediately at his cell. By chance it happened, that the monk, chosen for this duty, was a bitter enemy of Friar Gui; and very shrewdly supposing that the sacristan had stolen out of the garden gate on some midnight adventure, he took that direction in pursuit. The moon was just climbing the convent wall, and threw its silvery light through the trees of the garden, and on the sparkling waters of the fountain, that fell with a soft lulling sound into the deep basin below. As the monk passed on his way, he stopped to quench his thirst with a draught of the cool water, and was turning to depart when his eye caught the motionless form of the sacristan, sitting erect in the shadow of the stone column.

  “How is this, Friar Gui?” quoth the monk. “Is this a place to be sleeping at midnight, when the brotherhood are all in their dormitories?”

  Friar Gui made no answer.

  “Up, up!--thou eternal sleeper, and do penance for thy negligence. The prior calls for thee at his cell!” continued the monk, growing angry, and shaking the sacristan by the shoulder.

  But still no answer.

  “Then by Saint Anthony I’ll wake thee! So, so! Sir Gui!”--

  And saying this he dealt the sacristan a heavy box on the ear. The body bent slowly forward from its erect position, and giving a headlong plunge, sank with a heavy splash into the basin of the fountain. The monk waited a few moments in expectation of seeing Friar Gui rise dripping from his cold bath, but he waited in vain;--for he lay motionless at the bottom of the basin--his eyes open, and his ghastly face distorted by the ri
pples of the water. With a beating heart the monk stooped down and grasping the skirt of the sacristan’s habit, at length succeeded in drawing him from the water. All efforts, however, to resuscitate him were unavailing. The monk was filled with terror, not doubting that the Friar had died untimely by his hand; and as the animosity between them was no secret in the convent, he feared that, when the deed was known, he should be accused of wilful murder. He therefore looked round for an expedient to relieve himself of the dead body; and the well-known character of the sacristan soon suggested one. He determined to carry the body to the house of the most noted beauty of Rouen, and leave it on the door stop so that all suspicion of the murder might fall upon the shoulders of some jealous husband. The beauty of Martin Franc’s wife had penetrated even the thick walls of the convent, and there was not a friar in the whole Abbey of Saint Anthony who had not done penance for his truant imagination.--Accordingly the dead body of Friar Gui was laid upon the monk’s brawny shoulders,--carried back to the house of Martin Franc, and placed in an erect position against the door. The monk knocked loud and long; and then gliding through a bylane, stole back to the convent.