THE CHÂTEAU.
A naked subject to the weeping clouds,
And waste for churlish Winter's tyranny.--King Henry IV. Second Part.
We intended to proceed on our journey the following morning, but our valet-de-place, who had a longing for more five-franc pieces, put in the claims of the old château of Arques, and we went to visit it next day.
I am fond of ruins and old buildings in general, not alone for their picturesque beauty, but for the various trains of thought they excite in the mind. Every ruin has its thousand histories; and could the walls but speak, what tales would they not tell of those antique times to which age has given an airy interest, like the misty softness with which distance robes every far object.
No one ought to pass by Dieppe, without visiting the old castle and town of Arques. It is but a short ride, and the road is far from uninteresting. The fields are rich, highly cultivated, and decked with a thousand flowers, and at some distance before reaching Arques, the ruin is seen on the height above, standing in the solitary pride of desolation.
A ruin ought always to be separate from other buildings. Its beauties are not those which gain by contrast. The proximity of human habitations takes from its grandeur. It seems as if it leant on them for support in its age. But when it stands by itself in silence and in solitude, there is a dignity in its loneliness, and a majesty even in its decay.
Passing through Arques, the château is at some distance, on the height which domineers the town. The hand of man has injured it more than that of time. Many of the peasants' houses are built of the stone which once formed its walls; and the government has, on more than one occasion, sanctioned this gradual sort of destruction.
What remains of it has, I believe, been either sold or granted to some one in the town: but, however, a gate has been placed, and some other precautions taken to prevent its further dilapidation.
A pale interesting boy, with large blue Norman eyes, brought the keys and admitted us within the outer walls; but a weak castellan for those gates which once resisted armies! for in truth he could scarcely push them open. A few more years, and the château d'Arques will be nothing. It, is, however, still an interesting sight, and so many remembrances hang by it, that one is forced to dream. Memory is like the ivy which clothes the old ruin with a verdure not its own.
The county of Talou, of which Arques was the capital, was given by William the Conqueror to his uncle, in order to attach him more sincerely to the crown, but the gift had not that effect. Revolt against his benefactor was the first project that entered into his head, and he built the castle of Arques, in order to fortify himself in his new possessions. There he for some time resisted the forces of the king, and yielded not until his troops were little better than skeletons with hunger and fatigue.
William revenged himself by clemency, and again loaded his ungrateful uncle with favours, wishing, as his historians say, rather to attach him by benefits, than to pursue him as a rebel.
It was here also that the faithful Helie de Saint Saen resisted the endeavours of Henry I. to carry off the young heir of Normandy, and from hence he fled with his protégé, demanding from the neighbouring powers assistance for the child of his dead benefactor.
During the various wars of England and France, sieges and battles innumerable passed by the château d'Arques, like waves beating against a rock. But the last most splendid deed it looked on before its ruin, was the defeat of the armies of the Ligue by Henry IV. of France, the last chevalier. In the life, in the words, in the actions, even in the faults of Henry IV., there is the grand generosity of a bright and ardent spirit, that mingling of great and amiable qualities which excites interest as well as admiration.
The Ligueurs were ten to one, but; as he said, he had God and his good right, and he conquered. The same free spirit that bore him through the battle dictated the manner in which he announced it to his friend in the well-known words: "Pends toi, brave Crillon, nous avons combattu à Arques; et tu n'y étais pas!" Had he written pages he could not have expressed half so much!
One of those same happy speeches of Henry IV. would appear to have been dexterously borrowed by an Italian poet. In those days of peril, when no regal distance could exist between the king and his subjects, Bassompierre's bed lay next to that of the monarch, and Aubigny's next to him--and both fancied that Henry slept. "Our master is ungrateful," said Bassompierre; "he casts all good things at the feet of the Ligueurs, and we, who have served him with our fortunes and our blood, are in absolute want."
"What say ye, there?" cried the king. "Do you not know that I am obliged to buy these Ligueurs? but you are my own."
"Pardon, pardon, Sire!" exclaimed Bassompierre, alarmed for the effects of his indiscretion.
"Parle donc! parle donc!" replied Henry. "Le roi dort, c'est un ami qui t'écoute."
Very nearly the same idea is expressed by Metastasio, in the Clemenza di Tito--
Tito-- Odimi! O Sesto!
Siam soli i. Il tuo Sovrano,
Non è presente. Apri il tuo core a Tito,
Confedati all' amico. Io ti prometto,
Che Augusto nol saprâ.
It is possible, however, that Metastasio never thought of Henry IV. when he made Titus speak thus; add, even if he did, the idea was well adapted, for both in the character of Henry and that of Sully, there is an antique simplicity which seems essential to grandeur of mind. I know not how it is, but one naturally looks upon Sully as a Roman. He too fought at Arques by the side of his master; and it is impossible to gaze over the plain without feeling that it is a place where great deeds might be well performed.
From the edge of the hill, about a hundred yards from the château, is seen the whole field of battle. It is a beautiful scene, with the wide plain, below, and the river meandering through it; the heights of St. Étienne, beyond, and the valley narrowing towards Dieppe. On the other hand rises a high woody hill, with a road winding down to the town, and the ruins of the castle standing solitary in the midst.
It was at a beautiful time, too, that I saw it. One of those bright autumn days when the clouds, and the sunshine, and the blue sky seem all interwoven together. A heavy black storm came sweeping upon the wind, and for a minute or two involved every thing in mist and in darkness, and then passed away, leaving behind a rich rainbow, and nature more beautiful for her tears, and the sun shining out on the gray ruin, seeming to smile at the decay of man's fabrics, while the works of Heaven remain unchanged and ever new.