Twixt France and Spain; Or, A Spring in the Pyrenees

by E. Ernest Bilbrough

CHAPTER XI.

ST. BERTRAND DE COMMINGES.

Keeping to old friends—Valley history—Entering the Garonne valley—The picturesque St. Béat—St. Béat to Viella—Memories of the lovely Thames—Baths of Ste. Marie—Loures—The cross-roads—Weak walls—Entering St. Bertrand—An ancient house—The inn—A charming garden—The cathedral—A national disgrace—"The Crocodile of St. Bertrand"—The tomb of Hugues de Chatillon—Travelling desecraters—St. Bertrand's rod—The ruined cloisters—Desolation—Swine feeding—Montrejeau—The buffet—No milk!—French railway officials—Trying experiences.

It was not many years ago that travellers with heavy luggage were forced to travel in the clumsy diligence between Luchon and Montrejeau; and, especially in the summer when the press for places was great, very little comfort could be enjoyed during the journey, except perhaps on a fine day, when for a short space the vehicle stopped at St. Bertrand de Comminges. Now, the railway in an hour performs the whole distance; but we preferred to keep to our old friends, a "landau and four horses," and with the weather still propitious, left the comfortable Hôtel Canton at our favourite time, and were soon bowling down the Allée d'Etigny. In a short time the Allée Barcugna and the station were left behind, and we entered the broader part of the valley of Luchon. This valley was originally—on dit—a huge lake, and afterwards —presumably when it had ceased to be such—became peopled by a Gallic race, whose "divinity," Ilixo, [Footnote: Ilixo has now become Luchon.] has given his name to the surroundings. We presume in this derivation "consonants are interchangeable and vowels don't count."

Cier de Luchon (four and a quarter miles), above which to the west stands the Pic d'Antenac (6470 ft), was soon passed through, as we crossed and recrossed the railway line, now following the River Pique, and now, for a short space, keeping along the line. Five miles further, and we left the Pique valley for that of the Garonne, passing through the village of Cierp, which lies to the right of Marignac, the station where passengers alight for St. Béat. This is a very picturesque village, about three miles east, perched above the Garonne in a narrow defile, possessing an ancient church and a good inn. The Pic de Gar (5860 ft.), which rears up to the north of the village, is very rich in flora; and the road passing through it (St Béat) afterwards leads by the villages of Arlos, Fos, and Lès to Bosost (twelve miles), whence it continues to Viella.

The valley at this point is particularly fertile and lovely, and as we progressed, frequently following the windings of the Garonne, memories of pleasant hours, both lively and dreamy, spent on some of the quiet reaches on the dear old Thames, seemed naturally to recall themselves; the similarity of the surroundings being in some parts so great.

At Saléchan (thirteen miles) the beautiful valleys of Siradan and Barousse branch off, and the scenery in the vicinity is deliciously bright and peaceful-looking. The bathing resort of Ste. Marie lies a mile northwards, and barely a mile to the west of it, on the road to Mauléon, the baths of Siradan are situated. Mauléon (1960 ft.) is three and a quarter miles west from Siradan by the village of Cazaril, standing at the head of the Barousse valley.

Still passing through charming country, we reached Loures (not to be confounded with Lourdes), at which place—being the railway station for St. Bertrand—carriages can be hired for the drive, a distance of six miles there and back. Traversing the village and crossing the bridge, we issued again on a vista of fields bright with trefoil and waving flowers, and backed up by finely-wooded hills. Away to the right, nestling among the trees, stands a pretty little village and castle, and as we passed on, St. Bertrand came in view over the crest of a wooded hill; and, arriving at the junction where the roads from Auch, Toulouse, and Ax join in, we ascended the hill on which this ancient town is situated.

Founded by Pompey the Great, B.C. 69, Lugdunum Convenarum, or Lyon, or—as it is now called—St. Bertrand de Comminges, though standing only 1690 ft. above the sea, seems from its isolated position, to be much higher; as the accompanying sketch by M. Doré testifies, though the latter exaggerates the proportions of the cathedral.

Though in a ruinous state, much of the old ramparts and fortifications remain, while in some parts many of the old stones seemed to us to have been used for ornamental walls, such as no one would consider fit to resist even a very modest cannon-ball.

Bearing to the left, we passed beneath the "Porte Cabirole," opposite to which stands a small kiosque, built, on account of the beauty of the view, at that point The road continues between high walls underneath another archway, past the ruins of a curious house, with a winding staircased tower of the 13th century, which alas! before this appears in print, will probably have disappeared altogether; then bending to the left, and again to the right after a few yards, we drew up at the Café (called by courtesy Hôtel) de Comminges, with the ancient cathedral in full view. Having sent a telegram early in the morning, we found lunch ready for us, and though we had fared better elsewhere, we did not consider that for a "primitive Roman town" the meal was to be found fault with while as to the garden belonging to the inn, it was indeed a charming little spot. Although in truth but little more than a "spot," the bright and varied hues of its stocks, columbines, pansies, and sweet peas, with here and there a particularly fine iris, contrasting so effectively with the dark green of the ivy leaves and the blackness of the berries clustering over the old wall, gave it a charm which we could not fail to feel; and the view from the creeper-grown arbour over the richly-wooded hills and brilliant fields, with the bright garden as a background, made a scene to remember and enjoy.

[Illustration: St. Bertrand De Comminges.]

Notre Dame, or Sainte Marie, as the cathedral is called, attracted our attention most, and though the front view is perfectly spoilt by the lofty scaffolding erected before it, the inside fully compensates for this defect, although it is impossible to view the ruinous state of some portions without great regret.

The English are supposed to be a very lucky people, and at any rate we have reason to be thankful that we are not a republic, nor as a rule neglectful of old historical buildings; and the sight of this magnificent old place, mouldering away with no apparent aid forthcoming—except such as the liberality of occasional visitors provides, and that, for such a work, is practically nil—did not provoke any wish to change our nationality. It is not as if the French said, "We are becoming a Protestant people, and therefore wish to destroy all signs of our having once followed the faith of Rome;" for in that case censure would be utterly misplaced; but surely if the national religion remains Roman Catholic, an ancient and wonderfully interesting old cathedral like this ought to be suitably preserved.

Having been built at two different periods (viz. the close of the 11th and the middle of the 14th centuries), the architecture presents two distinct styles, which in parts, are particularly incongruous. The organ and pulpit combined, which are on the left of the entrance, constitute a very handsome work of the "Renaissance" period, and are most unique. On the opposite side of the building a crocodile—or the remains of one—hangs from the wall, doubtless brought, as M. Joanne suggests, from some Egyptian crusade; but the "church" puts a very different complexion on the subject, as will be seen from the following, which—with all its faults—will be, we trust, pardoned, since it issues from the mouth of so badly-treated a reptile as

"THE CROCODILE OF ST. BERTRAND."

A crocodile truly, there's no one could doubt,
On taking a look at my skin:
It's as dry and as tough as a petrified clout,[1]
Though, alas! there is nothing within.

I've been here on this wall for a jolly long time,
And the "cronies" a legend will tell
Of the wonderful things, void of reason and rhyme,
That during my lifetime befell.

They'll tell you I lived in "this" beautiful vale,
And found in the river a home;
While even the bravest would start and turn pale,
If they chanced in my pathway to roam.

They'll tell how I swallow'd the babies and lambs,
And harassed the cows in the mead;
And such slander completely my character damns,
While I've no one to help me to plead.

And they'll whine how I met the great Bertrand himself,
The miracle-worker and saint.
But those women will tell any "walkers" for pelf,
And swear I'm all black—when I ain't.

Yes! they actually say that St. Bertrand came by,
And lifted his ivory stick,
Then dealt me a terrible blow in the eye,
Which levell'd me flat as a brick.

But it's false! Just as false as that "here" I was brought

On the back of that wonderful man.

But the crones just repeat what the "priesthood" have taught,

And it's part of a regular plan.

Why, believe me, they caught me afloat on the Nile

As my dinner I just had begun;

I was chased by a host of the picked "rank and file,"

And to them my destruction
seem'd fun.

And when I was dead they
anointed my bones,

And placed me up here
on the wall;

But that organ at first was
so loud in its tones,

Of rest I found nothing
at all.

A crocodile truly. You've
heard my sad tale,

And I say that such lies
are a sin;

While the protests I make, seeming nought to avail,

Are enough to make any one thin!

[Footnote 1: This is a Yorkshire word, meaning "cloth.">[

[Illustration: THE CROCODILE OF ST. BERTRAND.]

Turning away from this "priestly" monument to St. Bertrand's miraculous powers, we passed along the side of the remarkable choir stalls—which take up the greater part of the edifice—and turned inside at an opening, near the high altar. The latter, decorated with the ordinary display of 19th century tinsel, does not call for much comment, but in a passage close behind it stands the mausoleum of St. Bertrand, built in 1432. The stalls were erected in the 16th century, and are worthy of much attention.

The rood loft, which is nearest the entrance to the cathedral, is ornamented with figures of the Apostles and Saints, and the exterior panels running along both sides, and divided by small choicely-carved columns, represent a diversity of figures; none, however, seeming to bear much, if at all, on religion. In the interior, besides the throne, there is a remarkable "tree of Jesse "—near the first stall on the right hand—which we thought was well done; but what with the different figures above each stall, the arabesques uniting them, and the less minute work under each seat, there was no lack of carving to be seen; and even if it was not all of the highest order, the general effect was strikingly good. It is worth noting that the cathedral, owing to some great error, was built facing north instead of west, and that consequently the east side is on the left of the entrance. Half-way up this side is the small chapel of Notre Dame de Pitié, in which the fine marble tomb of Hugues de Chatillon lies. The sculpture is especially fine, though the beauty is somewhat marred by names scratched with a pin or written in pencil, wherever sufficient level space is afforded. Since English people as a rule are credited with being by far the most numerous of this class of travelling desecraters, it was at least a satisfaction to notice that most of the individuals, who had chosen this objectionable—though probably the only—method of handing their names down to posterity, were French. This tomb was only erected in the 15th century, although the good bishop died in 1352, the same year in which the edifice was finished.

Several relics may be seen in the sacristy, and amongst them is the wonderful ivory rod with which the great St. Bertrand is supposed to have slain the much-maligned crocodile.

Close to the entrance to the sacristy a door leads into the cloisters, where the scene of ruin and desolation is painfully evident. In the portion nearest the church, which is roofed over, several curious sarcophagi may be seen; the rest is a series of pillars and arches from which the roof has long vanished. In the photographs (which may be bought at the inn) there is some appearance of order even in the midst of the decay, but this was probably carefully effected prior to the artist's visit; for when we were there the whole space was overgrown completely with weeds, among which a rose-bush and a few other flowers struggled to bloom, untended and apparently unthought of.

Passing again through the cathedral, whose windows are well worthy of mention, we made a detour round the town, and then started for Montrejeau.

The road does not pass through such charming country as we had seen in the morning, but at times there are some pleasing little bits. At one spot, where a grove of trees skirted the way, we noticed a large herd of swine, watched over by a solitary and silent female, to whom they appeared to give no trouble, never seeming to stray far.

Going at a fairly fast pace, we only took forty-five minutes to reach the ancient town of Mons Regalis, now completely modernised into Montrejeau. The advancing years have not only altered it in name, for, with the exception of the ruins of a twelfth-century castle, there is nothing to indicate its mediaeval origin; and as to the old-world look that is so pleasant to meet with, but now so rare, this town of the "Royal Mount" has no trace of it. The "buffet" at the station, however, can be recommended, although the "lacteal fluid," either in its pure or watered form, is decidedly scarce there. The dinner and coffee are good, and, like most dinners at the stations (always excepting such places as Amiens and Tours), moderate, when taken at the table d'hôte.

We had plenty of time for a meal before the train destined to carry us on to Pau was due, but in spite of that, through the boorishness of the station porters and staff generally, we did not depart without a lively experience.

It is well known that ladies as a rule are wont to travel with numerous small parcels, and there was no exception in our party to this rule, while Mr. Sydney and myself were not without impedimenta as well. In all, there were about a dozen—to put a familiar figure—too small or too fragile to share the dangers of the luggage-van. These, three respective porters promised to bring to the train, but as every porter broke his word, they remained in statu quo. And we may here remark how noticeable it is, that whereas English porters are always on the alert to earn a few coppers, their French representatives will rarely if ever help with anything but the registered luggage (which of course is in the company's charge), while a higher official, such as you would never ask in England, will occasionally assist—if desired to do so with politeness—but only occasionally. It is evident that the French Government reduce the staff to the narrowest limits, and do not intend porters to help in transporting any luggage but that which has been paid for in registration; and on the same principle as armies are organised in South America, for every "porter" there will be two or three superintendents.

To resume.—This perfidy of the porters placed us in a very unenviable position; the train was due to start, the ladies were in the carriage, but the luggage was in a pile at the other side of the station, and Mr. Sydney, thinking all was well, had followed the ladies. I was requested to do likewise, as the train was off; but instead of so doing, launched such a tirade at the head of every official within reach, that they kept the train waiting to return it; at last, seeing I was obdurate, at least half a dozen rushed to the offending pile, collared the various items, and bore them towards our compartment. As the first instalment arrived I got up, and the train started. The rest of the laden officials were ranged a few yards apart, and as our carriage passed, the packages and cloaks were thrown in. The scene they presented when the door was first shut was unique, but very deplorable, and it required the whole of the journey of four and a half hours to Pau, to calm our troubled minds, cool our heated frames, and make us look with equanimity on our experience. It would require years to efface the opinion formed on "French railway station" management; so in that we followed a method often pursued by schoolboys in early life, over the "Pons asinorum," and gave it up.