CHAPTER VIII.
Chambéry—the Cathedral—the Château—the Chapel—the Holy Shroud distilling blood—Mules’ refusal to carry the relic away—Respected by the flames—St. Charles of Borromeo’s pilgrimage to its shrine at Turin—Its authenticity denied by Calvin—Drawing made of the Saint Suaire by desire of Philip the Fifth of Spain—Artist on his knees—Savoy—Peter of Savoy favourite of Henry the Third of England—Savoy Palace, his residence—The Green Count Amedée—His tournament—The Emperor Charles the Fourth’s passage—Homage done to the Emperor—The Banquet served by Horsemen—The Carmelites’ whitewash—The Crusade—The Green Count’s embarkation—The Red Count Amedée—his Death-wound in the forest of Lornes—Poison—Physician beheaded—Duel between Estavayer and Grandson—Its real cause—Place of Combat Bourg en Bresse—Otho conquered—His tomb at Lausanne—Duke Amedée’s retreat to Ripaille—His authority delegated to his Son—Six Knights his Companions in the Monastery—Astrologers’ prediction—Author of Peace of Arras—Elected Pope—His renouncement of the Tiara—His return to Ripaille, and death—His Tower and those of four of his Knights still standing—Fête Dieu—The Priest commander of the forces—Les Charmettes—The young Abbé—The old Governor—Censure—Severe Laws for small offences—Rejoicings—Montmeillan—Abymes de Myans—The Black Virgin’s power—Chignin—Iron Collars—Fortress of Montmeillan—Its resistance—Sully’s stratagem—Proof of the King’s Catholicity—Treason of the Governor—Christina of Savoy’s Confessor a captive—His vain intrigues against Richelieu—Richelieu’s anger chiefly excited by a satire written by Père Monod—Monod’s death—Bourget—Amedée the Fifth—Hautecombe—Sepulchre of Counts of Savoy—Tomb of Amedée, who defied to single combat three English Earls—Abbey changed to a Manufactory—Spectres of the Sovereigns of Savoy—Its Restoration.
Hôtel de la Poste, Chambéry,
1st June.
We find ourselves so comfortable that we have determined on remaining at least a week. The weather is intensely hot, the country lovely, and the cleanliness of the inn, as it forms a contrast with those we have of late inhabited, made me start last night when I first caught a glimpse of its floors. The horses have a good groom, a rarity also, and a comfortable stable; by which we wish them to profit, though they performed without fatigue their seventy-five miles’ ride from Lyons, and are quite ready to go on.
We have been to visit the cathedral, a gothic edifice, which by no means pleases me, and has been mercilessly decorated by Turin scene-painters, so that hardly a foot of its walls and ceiling remains pure of flourished ornaments on a bright blue ground. We remained but a few minutes, and then found our way to the château. As, according to ancient custom, it was built on an eminence commanding the town, that part of the castle chapel which forms the choir, a few green trees, and a grey archway way, seem to hang over the narrow street which crosses and terminates the Rue de Boigne, built by the benefactor of Chambéry. A flight of narrow steps at this place conducts to the archway I mentioned, and thence to the green esplanade occupying the space between the façade of the chapel, the modern palace, and the mighty round tower. Beyond the tower is a most delicious promenade, which seems frequented only by a few students. The double rows of magnificent chestnuts surround a small park, or, rather, square field, which occupies the remainder of the hill on which the château stands, and commands, on two of its sides, lovely views. Perhaps the finest is that towards the Échelles; we sate some time gazing at it, for under the thick branches it was cool and dark, even to-day.
Returning to the chapel, we put aside a very shabby curtain of common ticking, which hangs within the open doors, and forms a contrast to the gilding; though where it is ornamented it is rather tawdry than handsome: it is worth visiting from the extreme beauty of its tall narrow windows, painted in gorgeous colours. This church formerly possessed extraordinary privileges, and we read a long list of indulgences appended to one of its walls. The holy shroud, since transported to Turin, was long kept here. Its historians assert, that when the Christians were forced by Saladin to leave Jerusalem, they carried away with them all the sacred relics in their possession, and the Saint Suaire was thus conveyed to Cyprus by those to whom it belonged, and Geoffrey of Charny, there purchased it: it next belonged to his son and grand-daughter Margaret, who married a Seigneur of Villars, one of the “premiers gentilshommes” of Amedée, first duke of Savoy. During a journey she made thither, she was attacked by robbers, and all her baggage plundered; but it is told that when the thieves touched the holy shroud, drops of blood distilled from it, their hands became deformed and crippled, and in terror and remorse they fled and abandoned their booty.
Margaret was well received at Chambéry; and when she quitted it they implored her, but vainly, to leave the relic in their city. When, however, she was about to depart, the mules who carried it absolutely refused to pass the gates; and Margaret, believing the circumstance to be a manifestation of the will of God, yielded the treasure, which was deposited in the chapel.
In 1553, the chapel took fire; and the fire committed such ravages, that even the silver case, which contained the saint linceul, was melted, but the flames appeared to retreat from the linen itself; and such as touched it, thinking it would scorch, were bathed in a fresh sweet dew.
The holy shroud was transported to Turin by Emmanuel Philibert, of Savoy, in 1578, to spare a long walk to St. Charles of Borromeo, who had vowed to make on foot a pilgrimage to its shrine.
The clergy and people of Milan accompanied him to the gates of the city, where he changed his long cloak for a belted robe; gave his blessing to the crowds prostrated before him, and then, assuming the pilgrim hat and staff, set off with his companions. On their way they took only sufficient food to support life, and as they walked sung hymns and recited prayers. During their hours of rest they performed divine service, and after four days’ march, they arrived in Turin, and accomplished their vow.
Among those who contested the authenticity of this relic, the principal was Calvin,—who reminded his hearers that the Hebrews were in the habit of enveloping their dead in bandages, not in shrouds; and gave also a list of the various places in which are exhibited a shroud and the cloth which covered the face, as those worn by the Saviour. He even hinted that the object of his discourse was not the same bestowed by Marguerite de Charny, as that had been consumed in the great fire at Chambéry, and this one substituted.
There have been always great objections made to allowing the curious or pious to approach too near, in order to observe the stains on the linen. Philip the Fifth, king of Spain, when he allied himself to the house of Parma, obtained, with great difficulty, permission to have a drawing taken of the saint linceul. The reliquary was displaced with great ceremony, and illuminated by a multitude of wax lights. The artist remained on his knees the whole time, and executed his sketch while eight bishops said each a separate mass at the eight altars which surround the chapel.
Savoy passed from the possession of the Romans to that of the Burgundians, and next formed part of the kingdom of France ere it again became incorporated in the new kingdom of Burgundy.
In the tenth century this last was united to Germany, and Savoy, then a part of the empire, was governed by counts whom the Emperor named. It was made a duchy in 1417, when ruled by Amedée the Eighth; in the time of Francis the First its southern part belonged to France; become German once more, hostilities recommenced between Duke Charles Emmanuel and Henry the Fourth of France; and the peace of Vervins, which put a stop to them, lost several cantons to Savoy. It was this circumstance which induced the dukes to turn their eyes toward Italy; but when Piedmont had gradually asserted her superiority, the emissaries of France knew how to profit adroitly by the discontent her arrogance awakened. In 1792 Savoy gave herself to France, and remained French till the treaties of Vienna and Paris of 1814 and 15.
The founder of the house of Savoy was Humbert of the White Hands, who died about 1048, and was buried before the portal of the church of St. Jean de Maurienne.
Peter of Savoy (who was born at Suza in 1203) saw a path opened to his ambition by the marriage of Henry the Third of England with his niece Eleonora of Provence. In 1241 he hastened to the British court, where he soon won the feeble monarch’s confidence, was placed at the head of the administration, created Earl of Richmond, and loaded with dignities and honours, till the jealousy of the nation being roused by this treatment of a foreigner he was obliged to return to his own country. The palace in the Strand, which was pulled down not many years ago, and called the Savoy, was bestowed on and named from him. He died in 1268 in the castle of Chillon, which had been built by his order.
The most chivalrous of the Counts of Savoy, and the one of whom the recollection is most forcibly recalled by the ruins of his castle, was Amedée the Sixth, called the Green Count, from the colour he had adopted. On his return from a successful campaign in Piedmont, he held a magnificent tournament in Chambéry. The spot chosen was that which at present serves as exercising ground for the troops, and fashionable promenade, the Vernay; before Amedée’s time, who changed the stream’s course, it was the bed of a destructive torrent, the Leysse, which now flows calmly, hid in its deep channel, far under an alley of plane trees. Opposite this alley, I mean on the other side of the Champ de Mars, is the ancient grove of tall thick trees, the favourite walk of the inhabitants of Chambéry: all round are mountains, near and distant, green, or barren, or snowy; whose variety of colouring is increased by what painters call accidents of light, which, caused by their position and the clouds they attract, alter and add to their beauty every moment. It was here that the lists were prepared in 1347 or 48; the city was crowded with the fair and the noble, who came as spectators or sharers in the festival: the tournament was to last three days. There were nineteen champions, the chief among them young Amedée himself; and the first day they entered the ground prepared for them, each knight on his war-horse, and by his side the lady, whose colours he wore, mounted on a lively steed, and holding in her hand the end of a slight silken string with which she led her champion. Count Amedée appeared in green; the plumes of his helmet, his surcoat, the housings of his charger, the dresses of his squires and pages were all green. He bore away the praises of all, and in remembrance of that day thenceforth adopted the colour, and was called the Green Count.
In the year 1365, the Emperor Charles the Fourth, desiring to return to his own states, prayed Amedée to grant him a safe reception and passage in his lands. The count held himself highly honoured, and conducted the emperor to Chambéry, with all due solemnities. Near the old palace had been raised on a high scaffolding a throne; and on it sat Charles the Fourth, surrounded by his court, and wearing the insignia of empire.
The Count Amedée, richly dressed and nobly mounted, and preceded by six horsemen on beautiful palfreys, each of whom carried a banner, rode within the gate of the castle, and dismounted at the steps of the imperial throne. The first of the banners was that of St. Maurice; the second, that of his ancestors, a black eagle on a golden field; the third bore the arms of the marquisate of Susa; the fourth, those of the duchy of Chablais; the fifth, those of the duchy of Aosta; the sixth, exhibited the silver cross, adopted by himself as his own arms. Two and two after him followed his barons; each bearing a pennon, on which shone the white cross. The rest of the nobility came in like manner on horseback, filling and surrounding the space. Arrived before the steps, they dismounted, and Amedée ascended alone, and kneeling before his majesty did homage as his vassal. The emperor invested him with all his honours and dignities one by one,—that is to say, that, one after the other, he returned to the count’s hands those banners he presented.
The emperor’s people next took them, and tearing them, cast them to the ground, according to custom; excepting only the banner which bore the silver cross: for the count requested of the emperor that he would not desire the ceremony, as regarded this last, should be accomplished, saying, “it never had sunk to the earth, and never should, with the help of God.”
The homage offered, the count entertained the emperor at a splendid banquet in the great hall of the castle. Amedée and his barons mounted on tall chargers, bearing the viands, served his imperial majesty: the greater part of the meats were gilded, and, among other curiosities, there was a fountain which night and day cast forth red and white wine.
The above account is extracted from the Chronicle of Savoy by Guglielmo Paradino. Pity the old hall is down. A memorial of the tournament long remained: the names, arms, and devices of the champions had been painted on the cathedral walls, but the Carmélites whitewashed them!!
In 1366, when the pope had preached another crusade to succour the Greek empire, and many had promised aid but held back when came the time for performance, the Green Count, still the flower of chivalry, alone kept faith; with his own funds equipped at Venice a considerable number of galleys, and embarked with his army of cavalry and infantry, crossbowmen and archers. An ancient chronicle describes the pomp and ceremonial of this embarkation. By order of Count Amedée, the chiefs of his army and his horsemen were dressed in doublets of green velvet, richly embroidered, and himself attired in like manner, walked from his hostelry to his galley, followed by his barons, two and two, and preceded by music: the sounds of the multitudinous instruments often drowned in the voices of crowds pressing to see him, and shouting “Savoy! Savoy!” while to the flourish of trumpets, the count ascended his vessel, raised anchor, and made all sail for Corinth.
At Gallipoli he planted his banner, notwithstanding an obstinate defence—went thence to Constantinople, where he was received by the Empress Mary of Bourbon, who wrote of him, “the presence of the Green Count alone is worth two thousand lances;”—and departed from her to prosecute his victories, and deliver from captivity the Emperor John Paleologo. He died of plague in 1383.
His son Amedée the Seventh, called the Red Count from the colour he adopted, succeeded his father, aged three-and-twenty. He resembled him in chivalrous disposition, and was looked upon as the model of knights when with seven hundred Savoyard lances he went to aid the king of France, Charles the Sixth, in his war against the English and Flemish, and praised as most “frank in manner and fortunate in arms.”
Returned from the wars, he had gone to hunt in the forest of Lornes, which lies on the shores of the lake of Geneva, below Thonon; he was aged one-and-thirty; and as he followed the wild boar at the full speed of his horse, the animal fell with him, and rolled on his rider. The count received a wound on the left thigh, and was carried to Ripaille, where, some days after, he died. Savoy long wept for him, for he was generous and gentle as just. His death following so quickly on the injury he had received woke a suspicion of poison, but though many were enveloped in the accusation which ensued, all were acquitted except Pierre de Stupinigi, the count’s physician, who on this mere suspicion was beheaded. His innocence was acknowledged years after, and, by order of Amedée the Eighth, the unhappy man’s corpse was disinterred from the criminal’s fosse, and laid in consecrated ground.
Six years had passed since the death of Amedée the Seventh, when the report, which had died away, was revived as the cause of a duel famous in the Pays du Vaud. Gerard of Estavayér was the accuser, and the defendant Otho of Grandson. The former had a beautiful wife, and, on his departure for the wars, Otho, who was sixty years of age, offered her the protection of his own walls till her husband’s return. Gerard gladly accepted, and departed in confidence, unconscious that Otho’s admiration of his fair lady had alone prompted this seeming kindness. While he was away, she attempted several times, but in vain, to escape from the castle where he held her captive and abused the rights of hospitality; and when her husband returned, and she was once more suffered to seek her own roof, she revealed to him, with tears, the treatment she had suffered during his absence.
Burning with rage, whose real cause he would not divulge, Gerard of Estavayér branded Otho (whose dislike to the late count had been well known) as his murderer, and offered to prove the truth of his assertion in single combat.
The place appointed for the duel was Bourg en Bresse, chosen by the guardians of Amedée the Eighth, who was still a minor, and was there present with his statesmen and chief nobles. The quarrel had excited an interest which brought crowds from all countries to witness its issue. The adversaries were matched in hatred; unequal in strength and age, for Otho had been ill, though he disdained on that account to refuse the challenge or defer the combat. Arrived in the lists, he spoke aloud to the assembly; recalling to the memories of all there that the particulars of the Red Count’s death had already been brought before them in the course of a solemn trial, which had in no manner stained his own honour.
“Nobles of Savoy,” he exclaimed, “relatives and vassals of the reigning house, if I have done this deed, why have you left retribution to Gerard of Estavayér? he is a false liar; be it the worse for him as it is well for me.” The young Count of Savoy rose and made the sign of the cross. “In the name of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,” he said, “let the signal be given, and God show the right!”
It was the 7th of August, 1397: the two champions met in the lists, each armed with a lance, two swords and a dagger, and a terrible fight ensued, till Otho, weak from his sickness and advancing in years, fell beneath the strokes of his young and vigorous adversary. According to the justice of the time, he was declared guilty, and the castle and lands of Grandson seized by Amedée of Savoy. His marble tomb is in the cathedral of Lausanne. The armed figure lies couched on it, but the hands are cut off; for thus were represented those vanquished in judicial combat.
This same Amedée, whose life had been a series of successes, and who, according to Olivier de la Marche, his contemporary, so ruled his states, that in the midst of those which were a prey to foreign war and civil dissensions, there only were found safety, wealth, and happiness; Amedée, for whose sake the Emperor Sigismund had created the county of Savoy duchy, abdicated in the year 1434. The causes assigned for this weariness of the world’s honours, in whose pursuit he had been ardent heretofore, were the loss of a wife to whom he was tenderly attached, Mary of Burgundy, who died at Turin of the plague, and an attempt made on his life by a nobleman who had been his friend. He had founded some years before an Augustine monastery at Ripaille, half hidden in the forest which covers the tongue of land advancing into the lake near Thonon. Repairing thither in the year 1434, he summoned the principal prelates and nobles of those dominions which called him master, and seated on a throne, his sons Louis and Philip at his side, and Humbert bastard of Savoy at his feet, and the two marshals of the duchy present, he spoke at length concerning all that had been done since his accession to the dukedom, and concluded by informing them of the resolution which was to wake the wonder of Europe. Calling Prince Louis near, he bade him kneel down and conferred on him the order of knighthood. Binding on his sword and embracing him according to the custom of the time, he formally created him Prince of Piedmont and viceroy over his dominions, exhorting him to protect the church, preserve friendship with relative and ally, to administer impartial justice, and, above all, to keep faith inviolably.
It was his express command that, in all important negotiations, Louis should resort to himself for counsel. He next bestowed on Philip the title of Count of Geneva, which was that his brother had held before, and dismissing the illustrious assembly, he retired to his apartments with six knights—men in the decline of life, who had heretofore shared with him the cares of government, and now chose to be companions of his solitary life. The day following, he and they in the church of Ripaille took the hermit’s garb from the hands of the Augustine prior. They neither shaved their heads nor beards, their dress was a tunic of fine grey cloth, and a scarlet cap, above which, like the antique hermits, they wore a cloak with a cowl. They carried the pilgrim’s staff, and the only tokens of their primitive grandeur were golden belts and crosses. Thus was instituted the knightly order of St. Maurice: the necessary requisites were noble birth and an exemplary life, and the number of its votaries could not exceed seven, including the president; it is believed that of those he selected thus, Amedée determined to form the secret council of his states during his own life. They remained five years in the quiet of a retirement, which some thought more devoted to politics than religion; while others attributed his abdication to the prediction of an astrologer which promised him the tiara.
Be this as it may, Amedée retained the ducal power beneath the hermit’s cowl. He was author of the famous peace of Arras and its mediator; freeing France from the presence of the English, and closing their long discords. In 1439, the fathers of the council of Bâle, who had deposed Pope Eugenius the Fourth, elected in his place the retired sovereign; twenty-four prelates, at whose head was the Cardinal of Arles, bore their decree to Ripaille. Unwilling to create a schism in the church, it is said that Amedée refused and burst into tears, and that his resolution was changed by the eloquence of the messengers, who proved to him, that on his acceptance depended the reform of the church and the well-being of the faithful. In the same chapel of Ripaille they clothed him in the papal robes and saluted the first duke of Savoy as Felix the Fifth. Thonon and Ripaille barely sufficed to lodge the ambassadors who came from all parts to tender him homage. He held his court in Geneva, but in 1447, Eugenius the Fourth being dead, Nicolo the Fifth, elected by the cardinals then in Rome, sat undisturbed in the papal chair, and Felix, anxious to put a stop to the divisions which brought dishonour on the church, dissolved the council at Bâle and publicly renounced the tiara at Lausanne which he had worn nine years, and returned to his solitude at Ripaille, and the six knights still living there.
He survived his abdication but eighteen months, and died in Geneva; he was buried at Ripaille, and a noble mausoleum raised above his ashes, which in 1538 the Bernese soldiery broke in search of plunder. His bones were then transferred to the cathedral of Turin, where they lie beside those of Emmanuel Philibert and Christine of France. The duke’s tower and those of four of his knights are still standing; the convent, surrounded by a deep ditch and strong walls, resembles an antique castle seen from the lake, and rising above the oak forest. We returned by the rue de Boigne, a handsome street whose arcades form a shady walk. Part of the high castle terrace terminates it at one extremity, and at the other is a fountain which forms a monument in honour of General de Boigne. His statue stands on the column which four demi-elephants support, and though it is not in the best taste or most perfect proportion, it has altogether a picturesque effect. A boulevard of most fragrant lime-trees leads from it to the Champ de Mars and promenade of the Verney.
June 2nd.
Fanchette just now called me to see the procession of the Fête Dieu, this being the first Sunday following the festival; for processions are observed here as rigorously as they once were in France, though, if I may judge from what I saw to-day, they inspire small devotion. A number of little girls walked first, each troop headed by a nun in her monastic habit. The children were dressed in white frocks and veils and crowns of flowers; the youngest held a crucifix under a tiny arbour of artificial roses. Long lines of women followed in white robes and cowls, the foremost bearing banners and the rest lighted torches: a bevy of young boys, decked out like the girls, and of men attired like the women, came next; and then the priests preceding the host which their superior bore beneath the dais. Two of the former carried each a pole, at the top of which was a lantern; four others threw up their censers, perfuming the street (not superfluously), and each time their office ended, performed a strange movement towards the host, not a curtsey or a bow, but a bob; and a fifth, whenever the priest beneath the dais elevated the host, opened and clapped close a wooden book to warn the people.
When the dais was stopped at the end of the street that the benediction might be given, it would have been an imposing sight to see the white robed figures who lined it, and the people before their doors all kneeling, if one could for a moment have supposed them more attentive than absolutely necessary to the show; but they were talking and looking about and thrusting their torches in the faces of their acquaintances. These white ladies and gentlemen belong to no religious order, but merely to a society; they are mostly peasants, and when a procession takes place, their services are required. At one time, the seeming penitents left an undue space between their companies, and the priest who marshalled them came up in loud anger scolding and driving. The alarm disconcerted the poor women, and running to make up for lost time, they broke their ranks and could not form them again, and there was a thorough rout.
Although I acknowledge I feel small interest in Rousseau, yet hearing that the walk to the Charmettes was one of the prettiest within our reach, we went thither this afternoon, passing on our way Buisson, the residence of the late General de Boigne, which is beautifully situated, and at the very gates of Chambéry, its park filled with fine trees, and ornamented by a picturesque tower. A steep path leads up the hill to a lane shaded by old chestnut trees, which cover the banks on each side and completely exclude the mountain view, or indeed any but of themselves and the little brawling rivulet. In this an old woman was washing, and we asked her where stood Les Charmettes: “Oh,” said she, “you are going to Jean Jacques’ house, there it is,” and she pointed out an unpicturesque mansion built on the high ground to our right. Continuing to climb over rough paths and through a wood, we fancied we were conquering a mountain, but found, when arrived breathless, that we were merely at the top of the low hill, which scarcely seems one looking at it from Chambéry. From the little plain all over wild flowers, we had a view of the glittering city (for the tin, of which they make so liberal use on roofs and church-spires, never rusts in this climate), and a lovely prospect of the country round and beyond it to the Mont du Chat and the lake of Bourget. While we were admiring it, the rain commenced; we fortunately found an ancient tree, whose charitable old age had provided a hollow trunk, which served for mansion during two wearisome hours while the shower fell pitilessly, and the fog hid every object within twenty feet of us; at last however it ceased, and as, during our imprisonment, we had listened to the Chambéry clocks, and were aware the dinner hour was nigh at hand, I advised making a short cut instead of returning by the way we came. We went on rapidly, and the road looked auspiciously for a time till it grew steep, and we had some difficulty in clambering among trees and clinging to them, and when the point and the contemplated short cut seemed attained, we took one step more and arrived in the bed of one of the million streams which spring everywhere: very clear and very bright, but considerably above our ankles.
June 4th.
Our mode of travelling throws us very much for resource on the agreeability of such companions as chance procures, and we sometimes make amusing and cordial acquaintances.
Among these are an old officer of the empire and a young abbé from Montelimart. The day on which the latter arrived was a fast, and there were at table two English gentlemen, who (either wilfully in bad taste, or not wilfully in bad French) made remarks and asked questions which embarrassed the poor priest, who is a well-informed, mild-mannered man. By attempting to soften them down or explain them away, we became acquainted, and you would have smiled to see our intimacy this evening, sitting in the yard in the starlight, as the stifling heat renders the house insupportable. The abbé has a leave of four months, which he employs in travelling, and enjoys like a boy, after the mournful duties of his profession. The old officer speaks with contempt of the fanfaronnades of la jeune France; and the priest with horror of the increasing immorality of French literature, and its spreading influence. “If you heard what I hear,” he said, alluding to confession, “you would tremble—la France est malade, bien malade.”
This morning, when I was wakened as usual by the parrot screaming in the yard, “As-tu déjeûné, Jacot, oui, oui, oui,” I found the whole establishment in commotion, for Chambéry had received orders to illuminate and be gay for the return of its governor, Count Victor Casazza di Valmonte. He is something between seventy-five and eighty, and having become a widower three months since, losing a lady of suitable years, he made a journey to Turin, whence he now brings a young wife. It is whispered he will receive a charivari, but the town will hardly venture on so rash an act, though he is by no means popular; it is perhaps independently of his will that all precautionary measures are enforced so strictly, and only Piedmontese hold any employ. One of these prudential rules forbids all newspapers, saving the Gazette de France, to enter the territory. At the library many of the books we asked for were on the prohibited list. The fine theatre, the donation of General de Boigne, will be opened next month, but the repertory is exceedingly small, and the chance stars, who every year in the French provinces shine and make money, dislike acting here, where all pieces, ere they can be played, are submitted to the governor and the bishop, and none pass the ordeal unscathed.
On the wall of the dining room hang the list of Sardinian laws, and the permission granted to Mons. Friul to keep the hotel, which must be renewed at the end of each year, as the leave is only given for that period. Among the first are some bordering on the ludicrous; for instance, “whosoever shall make a noise in the streets at night, sans chandelle, will be punished.” “Whoever shall dance bear or monkey, or play the mountebank, without permission of the governor, &c.” We rode along the Montmeillan road after dinner; the judges and officers had gone long before, and we met the escort and its object about a mile from the town, but in clouds of dust, through which and the drawn up glasses we could scarcely see his thin withered face, and hers not at all. By the time we got back they had been received with discharges of artillery, and were ensconced in the castle, the music on the terrace, but no charivari; so we went home to change our dress, and issued forth once more to see the illumination, accompanied by the priest and officer. It was a beautiful, breathless night, and the town and boulevards, all lighted and thronged, looked well, though it was true that the urn made of coloured paper lamps, in the rue de Boigne, lost much of its beauty on close inspection, and the painted shield, placed under the castle terrace, (coats of arms and cyphers on a black ground,) resembled a hatchment, while a silly inscription began with “Happy those he governs,” which it seems is not the case, and ends by wishing long lives to bride and bridegroom, which the latter has already enjoyed, and seems unlikely to do over again.
As we stood watching, the Governor’s open carriage drove down the street at a foot’s pace. The ancient bridegroom was all smiles; the bride was dressed à la Parisienne, graceful, dark haired, and pretty, but pale, and I thought sad. The abbé was loud in his indignation at her self-sacrifice, and continued his murmurs until we arrived at the hotel.
June.
The three roads, to Les Échelles, whence we came, to Turin by the Mont Cenis, and to Geneva by Aix, meet at Chambéry. We took the Turin road a few evenings since, intending to ride but a short distance, and were lured on by its excessive beauty, mile after mile, till we reached Montmeillan, a road good as in England, winding among cultivated fields, under noble chestnut and walnut trees and acacias in blossom. The range of the Beauges on the left, with the vine growing high up its sides; and on the right, beyond the broader valley, the Granier, whose chain extends as far as Grenoble, which lies in the hollow. The nearest mountain facing Chambéry is strangely hollowed at its summit, in an immense semicircle, and the ground beneath, for nearly a league, a succession of dells and hillocks, now covered with vineyards, bears the name of Abymes de Myans, in memory of the catastrophe of 1248, when in the month of November the mighty mass, loosened as if by the grasp of an evil spirit, descended, a fall of five thousand feet on the small city of St. André and fifteen villages. The records of the time say, that the devastation ceased at the foot of an image of the Virgin, called the Ethiopian, because her face is black, to whose shrine the devout still flock, even from the near villages of France. Monsieur Friul told me that, in the midst of one of the vineyards which cover the buried houses, the top of a church steeple is still to be seen, the single tombstone of many victims.
Fording a bright stream instead of riding over its badly paved bridge, we were in sight of the castle of Chignin. The hill on which its four remaining towers still stand hangs over the village, and the road is henceforth close to the base of the mountains. These castles, which crowned rock and height the whole length of the valleys of the Arc and Isère, were the telegraphs of the middle ages; and in time of war, by fires lighted on their high turrets, gave and repeated signals from province to province. At Chignin, among the rubbish of its ruins, was found a heavy iron collar, now preserved in the museum of Chambéry; it fastened by a secret spring, and within was furnished with sharp points, which at every movement made would wound the neck of the captive, who taken in fight was detained till he paid his ransom. A little farther than Chignin, but a season or two ago, a large portion of rock fell between two cottages, providentially touching neither, and as it reached the ground splitting itself into a thousand fragments, which lie scattered among the vines, and are mostly too large to be moved. We rode down the green lane to look at it, and found an old man at work, who said nobody had been injured. An avenue of poplars brought us by sunset to Montmeillan. The hill stands alone on the plain, a miniature they tell me of the Righi. Of the strong fortress which once crowned it, we could distinguish scarce a vestige; seen from this side, it is not a very striking object; to be aware of its importance it must be viewed from the other, I mean that of Turin. The road thither extended to our right, through and over wooded hills, with the snowy mountains high above them, reaching to Mont Cenis. On the left, the Beauges which we had followed since Chambéry, and before us, as we stood below the rock of Montmeillan, the valley through which winds the Isère, seeming shut in by the white range of the Maurienne. As we stood admiring, a shower which had long threatened fell over the distant extremity of the valley; the setting sun was bright, and the rays crossed the rain which the wind blew in a contrary direction, and through sunbeams, and rain, and rainbow, shone the snow.
The fortress of Montmeillan was of extraordinary strength in 1535; it would have successfully resisted Francis the First but for the treachery of the Neapolitan governor. In the year 1600, besieged by Henry the Fourth, it was taken through Sully’s fair words and bribes, his wife being his ambassador to Madame de Brandis, wife of the commandant. Before its capitulation was agreed on, a battery had been with enormous labour posted on the rock which commands Montmeillan. Henry was standing there, in the midst of his generals, when their white plumes betraying them to the garrison, by a sudden discharge of artillery striking the rock above, they were covered with earth and splinters of stone. In the first moment of surprise, the king crossed himself, and Sully said with a smile, “Now I see your majesty is a good catholic.” During this time Madame de Sully, by her husband’s desire, had managed to become acquainted with Madame de Brandis, to whom she made various gifts, and passed much of her time in her society. At last, when intimacy had grown to friendship, she hinted at terms of surrender, to which De Brandis traitorously agreed, (though troops were at the time approaching to his aid by forced marches,) and bore his shame and his gold to France. Slighted there as a man marked by infamy, he repaired to Switzerland, where he carried off a nun from the convent of Bellon, whom he, nevertheless, soon deserted; and in sorrow and remorse wandered back to Italy, where he was imprisoned at Casale, and afterwards conducted to Turin. His end is unknown to me.
The Père Monod, confessor and favourite of Christina of Savoy, Henry the Fourth’s daughter, was prisoner in the fort of Montmeillan. Victor Amedée, duke of Savoy, and Christina’s husband, who had taken the title of Altesse Royale, despatched the jesuit to Louis the Thirteenth’s court, charged to enforce the rights of the house of Savoy on the throne of Cyprus; and in consequence to demand that at each audience granted to his envoy, the regiment of guards should be placed under arms as for one from royalty; and also, that through the king’s mediation, the same honours should be accorded by the pope to the ministers of Savoy, as to those of royal courts. Père Monod was, in the first instance, desired to come to an understanding with the Marquis of St. Maurice, Victor Amedée’s ambassador to France; but, neglecting to consult him, he acted alone; and, with his natural impetuosity, insisted on at once obtaining what might have been the result of time and persuasion. Richelieu opposed his demands, wearied by his importunity; and the angry jesuit strove in return to ruin him at court, intriguing for that purpose with Caussin, the king’s confessor, and Mademoiselle de la Fayette, one of the Queen’s ladies of honour. The cardinal, as usual, discovered and disconcerted the plot formed. Mademoiselle de la Fayette was enclosed in a monastery, Caussin exiled, and Monod obliged to retire from court, his conduct disavowed by Victor Amedée. After the latter’s decease, Richelieu determined, through Christina become regent, to be revenged on the rash jesuit; and Christina, who had refused to deliver him up, saw herself obliged to exile him to Coni. The Père Monod, irritated by her conduct, held secret communication with the Marquis of Leganez, governor of Milan for Spain. He agreed to carry him off by force and conduct him to Madrid, where his knowledge of the affairs of Savoy ensured him a cordial reception. The day before that on which their project would have been accomplished, it was discovered,—and Father Monod, the 8th January, 1639, imprisoned in the fort of Montmeillan. The jesuit intrigued once more, and was transferred to Miolans. Christina wrote to Richelieu, “That he had no longer reason to reproach her, for Father Monod’s tongue was tied and his person in custody.”
Pope Urban claimed him, through the bishop of Geneva, as one who could be judged by an ecclesiastical court only; but while this last dispute was in agitation, the priest died. He was a man of great talents and profound knowledge. It was said that Richelieu’s desire of revenge was most excited by his having written a Latin poem, satirizing the mighty cardinal, rendered by his self-love on all points vulnerable, who envied the cid, and was vain of being a dancer.
It was dark long before we reached Chambéry, where we arrived but just in time to escape an awful thunder-storm, having ridden twenty miles for our evening’s excursion.
Yesterday, turning off from the road to Turin, we rode to the Cascade du Bout du Monde; so is named the fall of the Doria into the river Leisse, where the latter rushes along its narrow bed, shut in by high mountains, which form the base of the Dent du Nivolet; and the crags, which enclose the clear stream, feathered to their feet. We passed on our way the old castle of Chaffardon, on a height to the right hand, and a picturesque village. The peasantry of this, almost the only fertile portion of Savoy, are fair and well-featured, and certainly more courteous than any we have met with as yet. We did not see the fall: for to do so it was necessary to pass through a paper-mill erected here, and up a dirty stair of broken planks, leaving our horses: not choosing to do so, we returned through the heat, which was tremendous, and swarms of wasps and flies, whose stings made the horses stream with blood.
This morning it was cooler, and we profited by the weather to visit the lake of Bourget,—mistaking, however, our road, and taking the steep stony one which continually mounts and descends the range of hills covered with chestnut-trees, which form a line from the town to the lake. Close to its shore are the ruins of the castle of Bourget, where Amedée the Fifth was born, and the village.
The lake itself, small and beautiful, lies buried between mountains, the Mont du Chat (the passage of Hannibal) on the left hand—a bare, stern mountain, except at its foot and at one spot, where a promontory, covered with old trees, advances as if to admire its solitary beauty in the clear water. The walls of the monastery of Hautecombe, founded in 1125, lie hidden among them. It can be approached only by the lake or by a steep path on the mountain side, dangerous except to the natives.
The church of Hautecombe, thus wrote an author in 1807, was destined for the sepulchre of the first counts and dukes of Savoy, who there raised two magnificent Gothic chapels. There were to be seen among its many monuments the white marble statue of Humbert the Third, who died in 1188; the bronze mausoleum of Boniface of Savoy, archbishop of Canterbury, and primate of England, who died in 1270; those of the fifth, sixth, and seventh Amedée, of whom the last, when he journeyed into France during the unhappy reign of Charles the Sixth, defied to single combat three English earls, and was each time conqueror; of the Earl of Huntingdon with the lance, the Earl of Arundel with the sword, the Earl of Pembroke with the battle-axe. All those curious to learn the history of Savoy visited this church, which was a chronicle in stone. In the times of devastation and delirium the abbey did not escape. A national agent came to open its tombs and rob them of whatever precious things had been interred with its skeletons: the bones were thrown back into the earth. A year or two after, weeds and ivy had already half concealed the shattered monuments and prostrate pillars, and drooped over the chapel’s broken arches. A porcelain manufactory was next raised on the very spot, to profit by the stream which rushes down the hill from the intermitting fountain to the lake, but the speculation proved a ruinous one; and this also went to decay, and the place was left desolate. It was at this time a popular story, that the men who, during the silent hours of night, guided their rafts laden with wood across the lake towards the Rhone, often saw, by the faint moonlight, colossal forms standing on the ruined roof of the abbey, holding shield and lance, and seeming to strike them in sign of vengeance. Since then all is changed once more. Carlo Felice, last sovereign of Piedmont and Savoy, has restored it to its primitive splendour—its walls rebuilt—its statues and mausoleums replaced in the taste of the old time. It was finished in 1826, and is now again one of the most interesting sights in Savoy. Issuing from the monastery, a narrow path leads through the vines to a forest of ancient chestnut trees; an ascent which conducts to a rock still under their shadow, from a cavern of which springs the fountain, called the Wonderful, because it intermits at uncertain times, and, at each period it flows, ejects the same quantity of water.