THE VALLEY OF THE AUDE
The Aude is a rambling, capricious river of ancient Languedoc that rises on the confines of Spain, among the oriental Pyrenees, five thousand feet above the level of the sea. At first, imprisoned and half-stifled among the narrow gorges of the mountains, its waters, clear and sparkling, rush noisily and impetuously along, struggling for room; but as soon as they find space in the sunny valleys they slacken their speed as if to enjoy the very verdure they create; they grow turbid, sometimes the current dwindles away to a mere thread among poor barren hills, and again at the first storm spreads wide its course through the rich vine-bordered plain. At Carcassonne it becomes languid, and, turned eastward by the Montagne Noire, passes along beneath the sombre line of the oaks, beeches, and chestnuts that cover the mountains, and when, after being fed by thirty-six tributaries, it falls wearily into the sea a little above Narbonne, it is no longer the limpid, dashing stream we met in the mountains, but troubled in its waters and indolent in flow.
We came first upon the Aude at Carcassonne, where it takes a bend towards the sea—the Ville-basse, a thriving town in the plain that dates from the time of St. Louis; the old fortified city on the height above, historic, legendary, and picturesque. And ancient too, for it was, according to some ambitious writers, founded by the fugitive Trojans, or, what is better still, by one of the grandsons of Noe, and prosperous in the time of the Pharaos. Be that as it may, it was in the possession of the Romans before the coming of Cæsar. In the fifth century after Christ it fell into the hands of the Visigoths, who are said to have brought hither from the sack
of Rome jewelled utensils that came from the palace of King Solomon and the vessels of gold that belonged to the Temple of Jerusalem, carried away by Titus and Vespasian. These treasures were long believed hidden in a deep well still to be seen in the upper city, but during a dry season a few years ago it was explored without any discovery to confirm the tradition. They were probably taken to Spain, or carried to Ravenna by Theodoric the Great, to whom several of the towers of Carcassonne are attributed. There are two walls around the old city: the inner ones, with their circular towers of the time of the Visigoths; the outer, with fortified gateways that date at least from the time of Louis IX. And then there is a venerable quadrangular castle, with five towers and a moat that bears the marks of many a hard assault, but now serves chiefly to give a picturesque look and a pleasing air of antiquity to the landscape. The square tower next the Aude, if not all five, is said to have bowed down before the great Emperor of the West. But we are anticipating.
After the Ostrogoths came the Saracens, flushed with victory, from Spain, and they had possession of Carcassonne when Charlemagne came into Gaule Narbonnaise and laid siege to the city, determined to drive them beyond the Pyrenees. The delightful old traditions of that day, which are so much better than history, say it then bore the name of Atax. According to them, the emperor remained beneath the walls five long years without the slightest success, notwithstanding the valor of his peerless knights. So astonishing a resistance was solely owing to Dame Carcas, a mere woman, and a Moor at that, who not only possessed remarkable courage,
but was shrewd to the last degree, as we are prepared to show. Of course, after a five years’ siege the provisions had dwindled away to a very low ebb, and the inhabitants had naturally diminished in proportion. In fact, everybody was at length dead in the city except stout Dame Carcas, who seemed to have lived on her wits. This wonderful woman was not discouraged. She acted on the principle of the inscription over the gates of Busyrane—“Be bold, be bold, and evermore be bold.” She garnished the walls with effigies in armor—mere scarecrows—and, making the round of the rampart, she kept up such a hail of arrows on the enemy, as if she had the arms of Briareus, that they marvelled, as well they might, at the resources of so well-supplied and vigilant a garrison. Wishing to convince Charlemagne that there was no possibility of his reducing the city by famine, she gorged her very last pig with her last bushel of wheat, and threw it over the ramparts. It was naturally dashed to pieces, and its internal economy fully displayed, as shrewd Dame Carcas intended. The besiegers, astonished to see the very lowest of animals fed on the purest of wheat, now supposed the supplies quite inexhaustible, and Charlemagne, as sensible as he was great, at once raised the siege. Not without regret, however, and, as he turned back to take a last look at the walls before which he had spent in vain so much time and labor, wondrous to relate, one of the mighty towers of the Goths bowed down before him in reverence, and never regained its perpendicular, as may be seen to this day by any one who goes to Carcassonne.
Dame Carcas, you may be sure, was on the lookout. Satisfied with
having got the better of the mighty emperor, she called him back, opened the ponderous gates, and acknowledged his sovereignty. Charlemagne, full of admiration at her courage and wit, determined the city should be called after her. Hence the name of Carcassonne. It is a pity any doubt should be cast over so pleasing a tradition, but some do say, let us hope without proof, that it bore this name in the time of the Romans. We do not feel obliged to believe it. People who are historically as well as religiously “convinced against their will, are of the same opinion still.” We stick to the Middle Ages, when the tradition was so fully credited that a bas-relief, a kind of emblazonry, of the bust of an Amazon was placed over the principal gate of the city, with the words below: Carcas sum—I am Carcas.
According to a popular legend, Charlemagne besieged Carcassonne twice. The second time it was defended by Anchises, King of the Saracens, who was aided by Satan himself and an efficient corps of African sorcerers. However, the demons were routed, and the pious emperor set up a fortress of the faith, known to us as the cathedral of St. Nazaire, which is in the southeast corner of the city, built into the very walls forming a part of the old fortifications. This church is still the jewel of the place. The crypt alone is of the Carlovingian age. The nave and aisles of the upper church are of the eleventh century, in the Roman style, grave and sombre, with small windows, massive pillars, and thick walls capable of resisting the enemy. These were blessed by Pope Urban II. in 1096. The present choir was built in St. Louis’ time, and
forms a striking contrast to the heavy gloomy nave, for it is of the pointed style, light and elegant, with seven stained glass windows of wonderful beauty, and so close together as to leave no wall. The arches seem to rest on the eight colonnettes that frame the windows. In one of them may be read the whole legend of SS. Nazarius and Celsus, celebrated in Italian art. Titian has painted them in armor in a beautiful altarpiece of the church that bears their name at Brescia. St. Saturnin, however, the apostle of Toulouse, first announced the faith in this region. St. Nazaire is reputed to have arrived soon after. His mother was a Roman matron converted by St. Peter, and he himself was baptized by the apostle, who commissioned him to preach the Gospel. At Milan he exhorted and comforted SS. Gervasius and Protasius in prison, and was beaten with staves by order of the governor. Celsus was his spiritual child and co-laborer. At Genoa they were cast into the sea, which refused to drown them, and they walked back over the angry billows to land. After their apostolic journey to Southern Gaul, they were beheaded at Milan just without the Porta Romana, where a beautiful church still stands to perpetuate their memory. But it is inferior to St. Nazaire of Carcassonne, which is at once antique and poetic. What deep shadows in its venerable aisles! What rainbow lights in its jewelled windows! The rose of the north transept is composed of twelve lobes, in six of which blue predominates; in the other six, green—very beautiful in the sunset light. In the window of the south transept the lobes are in two rows, so disposed that green is under cramoisie, and
cramoisie under green, producing quite a magical effect.
North of the cathedral, just beyond its ruined cloister, is a donjon of the thirteenth century, called the Tour de l’Evêque, which contains a well, an oven, and everything necessary to sustain a regular siege. Here, through the vines, figs, and almond-trees, is the best view of the church, with its time-stained turrets, its buttressed walls, and the fine tracery of its windows. The old city is before us with its towers and antique walls, on which every storm that has swept over Southern France has left its trace. Simon de Montfort scaled them early in the thirteenth century. In the fourteenth, they braved the Black Prince, who contented himself with feasting on the well-stocked larders of the Basse Ville and drinking its rich wines, and afterwards setting fire to the place. In the sixteenth century the city was invaded by the Huguenots, who tore a statue of the Blessed Virgin from its niche and dragged it through the streets, which so enraged the Catholics that they rose in their fury and slaughtered all the offenders on whom they could lay hands. Then they carried the statue back to its place in solemn procession. And, when a royal edict of 1562 assigned the Calvinists a meeting-house just out of the city, the people barred the gates against the returning assembly, and drove them into the very Aude.
But let us leave these historic details, and, turning back into the pleasanter paths of old romance, follow the Emperor Charlemagne along the valley of the Aude. A little south of the direct road from Carcassonne to Narbonne, we come to the village of La Grasse, of a
thousand souls, in a deep valley of the Orbieu, surrounded by the rocky heights of the Corbières. This village grew up around a celebrated Benedictine Abbey that flourished here for more than a thousand years—one of the most important in Occitania. Its foundation is so remote that it has become the theme of many popular traditions. These are embodied in an old romance, said to have been written by Philomène, secretary of Charlemagne, by the emperor’s order, and under his inspection, and translated in the thirteenth century by William of Padua, a monk of La Grasse.
Charlemagne had just taken Carcassonne, where five towers bowed down before him. He founded several churches, such as St. Nazaire and St. Saturnin, and appointed Roger, a clerk of noble family, bishop of the place. Then he marched towards Narbonne, which was in possession of the Saracens, intending to besiege it. He had with him Pope Leo III., most of the cardinals, the patriarch of Jerusalem, Turpin, archbishop of Reims, and an infinite number of other prelates, abbots, and priests, together with Roland, Oliver, Oger the Dane, Solomon of Britanny, and Count Florestan his brother, and other famous paladins, with dukes, counts, and barons too many to enumerate. While traversing the valley of the Orbieu, one of the principal tributaries of the Aude, Archbishop Turpin came across seven hermits, viz., Thomas of Rouen, Richard of Pavia, Robert Prince of Hungary, Germain of Scotland, Alayran of Flanders, Philip of Cologne, and Bartholomew, son of the King of Egypt, who, after completing their studies at Paris, left the world in search of Christ
and were led by angels to this solitary valley, where they built an oratory in honor of St. Mary the Virgin. Here they had lived for twenty years on herbs, roots, and wild fruit, and the people, in view of their thin, wasted aspect, as well as the arid country, called the place of their retreat the Vallée Maigre.
When Archbishop Turpin brought the emperor and Pope Leo III. to see these holy eremites, they shed an abundance of tears and rendered thanks unto God. Charlemagne resolved to erect a superb abbey in the place of their modest oratory, and so well did he endow it that the monks he established here were soon able to fertilize the wild valley to such a degree that its name, at the suggestion of Turpin and the Earl of Flanders, was appropriately changed to that of La Vallée Grasse.
During the erection of this monastery a series of combats took place between the Moors and the Christians, each one more marvellous than the other. First, Matrandus, King of Narbonne, suddenly came upon the encampment of the valley with a numerous army, but he was defeated by Charlemagne and pursued to the point where the Niel empties into the Orbieu. There he heard the sound of a mighty horn. It was the olifant of Roland, who was coming to his aid. He made the Saracens bite the dust by thousands, and Matrandus had barely time to take refuge in Narbonne and close the gates behind him.
Then an enemy far more redoubtable made his appearance. It was Marcilion, King of all Spain, accompanied by sixteen other kings, with seven hundred thousand men. Charlemagne had two hundred and forty thousand. The battle lasted five days. At length the Saracens
were vanquished. Five hundred thousand of their number were slain, together with the sixteen kings, whereas the Christians only lost thirty-seven thousand, among whom, however, were five bishops, fourteen abbots, seven counts, eight hundred barons, and the Abbot of St. Denis, who, as he was breathing his last, besought the emperor to complete the abbey and bury him in it. His wishes were not disregarded. The abbey was completed. A church was built. In the church were many chapels, and in each chapel Archbishop Turpin, accompanied by many bishops and abbots, solemnly deposited sacred relics. It was now time to consider the appointment of the abbot, and while they were discussing the subject Marcilion reappeared, this time with only three hundred thousand horsemen, but Roland drove them before him into Roussillon, where he slew more than one hundred and seventy thousand men.
Then took place a fresh battle with Matrandus, and Roland, in a hand-to-hand encounter with Tamise, brother of the King of Narbonne, clove him in two like an acorn with Durandal, his unerring sword. In vain did the kings of Catalonia league together to avenge the death of Tamise. They slaughtered, it is true, the seven holy hermits, who, weary of the tumult in the valley of the Orbieu, had imprudently betaken themselves to another solitude, but they were repulsed by the abbot of La Grasse and his sixty monks with considerable loss. And yet they would rather, they said, have demolished the abbey than taken ten cities.
Several battles ensued beneath the walls of Narbonne before Charlemagne took that city, and after, in the course of which Roland clove in
two Borrel de la Combe; Oliver clove in two Justeamundus, the brother-in-law of Matrandus; and Charlemagne himself performed the like exploit on Almanzor, King of Cordova. Durandal, Hauteclair, Joyeuse, and other famous swords mowed down the Saracens like ripe grain, cutting off heads and arms and legs, and causing such torrents of blood to flow that the infidels finally renounced all hostilities against the abbey of La Grasse.
During the night before the consecration of the abbatial church was to be made by the Pope, the Divine Redeemer, so runs the legend, himself vouchsafed to come down from heaven in person, accompanied by a multitude of angels, to consecrate the edifice. The following morning, when the Pope and Charlemagne and Archbishop Turpin saw the marks of divine consecration, they, as well as Roland and Oliver and the rest, shed tears of joy, and blessed God, and, while still weeping, took leave of the monks, begging to be remembered in their daily orisons.
Charlemagne now departed for Spain, to carry war in his turn into the country of the infidel, and with what prodigies of valor is known to all men. The memory of his passage through the valley of the Aude has never been effaced from the popular mind. The name of Roland, too, echoes all through this region, like the horn he won from the giant Jatmund. Not far from La Grasse is a cliff that still bears his name. It was here the great paladin, when weary of hewing in pieces the Saracens, used to come to take breath and whet his sword. The iron ring to which he fastened his steed Brigliadoro is still in its place, and no hand in these degenerate days is strong enough to
wrench it from the rock. The people of this region, great lovers of the marvellous, tell how he used to gallop over the Montagne Noire on so fiery a steed that its feet shook the very mountains beneath them and left their imprint on the rocks, as may be seen to this day on the old road between Ilhes and Lastours. And a little higher up is a dolmen that bears the marks of his sword and the print of his hands. This dolmen is on a slight eminence near a little stream. The table is in the form of a disc about seven feet in diameter and one foot thick. It must weigh several hundred tons, and would require a great number of men of ordinary strength to place it on its present supports. The people say Roland, by way of amusement in his moments of leisure, hewed out this rock with his sword, and then used it as a quoit, which he threw with careless ease from La Valdous to Narbonne, and from Narbonne back to La Valdous. The prints of his mighty fingers are still clearly perceptible. It was he who set this light plaything up on its huge pillars, and not the Druids, and to this day it is called the Palet de Roland. Near by is a mysterious hole called Roland’s tomb, where the people insist he was buried, according to his express wish that he might repose in the place of his innocent amusements.
There are many of these Celtic monuments in this vicinity, the object of great conjecture among archæologists. The popular imagination is not so embarrassed, as we have seen. A legend is generally attached to them, often picturesque and dramatic. At Carnac, every one knows, it was St. Corneille who changed his pagan pursuers into monumental rocks by the petrifying influence of his wrathful visage.
On the banks of the Lamouse, a little creek in this region, is a tall colossus of a rock called the peulvan, that stands quite solitary on a little hill. It is, or was, fifteen feet high, a yard and a half broad, and not more than half a yard thick. The people say it descends to an inaccessible depth in the earth. If we may believe them, forty years ago it was no taller than a man, but it has grown higher and higher every year from some magic subterranean influence.
People who live among lofty mountains and dark forests, by noisy streams and waterfalls, or even on the borders of peaceful, dormant lakes whose mists fill the valleys and shroud the neighboring hills, are apt to be imaginative and dreamy. Here fairies and Undines have their origin. Here White Ladies, such as Scott has described in the valley of Glendearg, come forth in floating vapory robes to flit about the melancholy vales and fade away with the dawn. Such is the legend of Lake Puivert, according to which Reine Blanche, a princess of Aragon, issues every evening from her ancestral towers, and descends into the valley to breathe the freshness of the air. This legendary queen was no fair young princess who had become an untimely victim to melancholy—“sweetest melancholy”—but a dethroned queen, so infirm and decrepit as to have lost the very use of her limbs, and had come to end her days in the old manor-house of Puivert, where she had been born. A crowd of servants surrounded her day and night, attentive to her slightest caprice. Every evening at set of sun a herald ascended to the battlements of the tower to proclaim the coming forth of Lady Blanche. No sooner had the echoes of his horn died
away than she appeared at the principal gate, borne on a litter by four stout men. If the weather was calm and the sky clear, she was taken to a huge block of marble that rose out of the edge of the lake, where she loved to breathe the freshness of the night air and the resinous odor of the old pines that grew on the mountain above. Two pages in purple waved great fans to keep off the insects. There was nothing to disturb the delicious solitude but the swallows that skimmed over the surface of the lake and the murmuring rivulets that came down from the hills, and here she would remain in silent reverie till the light faded completely away, when she was borne back to her tower by the light of torches. It frequently happened, however, that the lake was so swollen by storms that her marble throne was entirely submerged. Then she went to the chapel of Our Lady of Bon-Secours to pray the wrath of the threatening waters might be stayed. One day she conceived the idea of piercing an immense rock that closed the entrance to the valley, hoping by this means to let off the surplus waters and keep the lake always at the same level, but, alas! at the very moment when she thought her wishes were to be crowned with success, the pressure of the waters against the weakened base of the rock overthrew it, and, rushing through the narrow gorge, overwhelmed serfs, pages, and La Reine Blanche herself. Such is the legendary cause assigned for the rupture of Lake Puivert in 1279, which destroyed the neighboring town of Mirepoix. The feudal manor-house, so well known in the history of the country, escaped, being on an elevation. It is still haunted by the troubled
spirit of Queen Blanche, who, in misty white garments, may be seen at nightfall flitting about the low valley, wringing her pale hands over the ruin she caused.
Nor is this Queen of Aragon the only White Lady of the land. The old people of Limoux tell of women in white who once a year come forth by night from a crystal palace in the bowels of the neighboring hill of Taich, and go to the fountain of Las Encantados—the fairies—where with a golden spatula they beat their linen, after the fashion of the country, till the dawn of day. These ghostly laundresses are not confined to the valley of the Aude. In Brittany and Normandy they likewise haunt many regions, but they beat their linen with an iron hand, which they do not hesitate to apply to the ear of the curious intruder.
On the side of a steep hill that descends to the Rebenty, another branch of the Aude, are three narrow arches to the cave of Las Encantados—the grotto of the fairies—where, in the depths, the noise of the turbulent stream is repeated by subterranean echoes, and changed, now into a soft harmonious murmur and now into a solemn roar, giving the effect of an organ in a cathedral. Nothing could be more impressive by night than this mysterious music, which the people formerly ascribed to some weird influence.
But to return to the royal foundation of La Vallée Grasse. That this abbey was really founded under the patronage of Charlemagne is proved by a charter of the year 778, still preserved in the prefecture at Carcassonne, signed with his own imperial monogram. According to this, the name of the first abbot was Nimphridius; and the house appears
to have been so well endowed that it held lands and livings and seigneuries, not only throughout the province, but on the other side of the Pyrenees. Louis le Débonnaire took it under his special protection, together with three cells dependent thereon, to wit: St. Cucufat on the banks of the Aude, St. Pierre on the Clamoux, and La Palme on the seashore. In fact, favor towards it seemed hereditary in the Carlovingian race. Louis IX. kept up the tradition, and when in Palestine wrote to his mother and the sénéchal of Carcassonne, recommending the abbey of La Grasse to their protection. The kings of Aragon, too, respected its extensive domains in their realm.
The grateful abbey never forgot its illustrious founder. Every morning at the conventual Mass the bread and wine were offered by the lord abbot, or his representative, at the Offertory, for the repose of Charlemagne’s soul, till authorized to render him the cultus due to a saint, from which time the twenty-eighth of January was kept in his honor as a festival of the first class.
It is one of the traditions of this monastery that, when Pope Leo III. was about to dedicate the church, he received a supernatural warning that it had been miraculously consecrated, and on approaching the altar he discovered the marks of the divine hand, which remained visible till the end of the fourteenth century, when the greater part of the church was consumed by fire. It was then rebuilt in a style corresponding to the wealth of the abbey, with numerous chapels, a choir with rare carvings, and a silver retablo with twelve silver statues in the niches, all plated with pure gold. The monastic
buildings were surrounded by fortified walls of vast circuit. They were grouped around an immense cloister, the arcades of which were supported by marble columns. On the east side were the church, dormitories, infirmary, and rooms for visitors. At the north were the abbot’s spacious residence, the granary, bakery, stables, etc. South and west were the chapterhouse, the large refectory, and houses appropriated to the aged monks. A hospital, where the poor were fed and sick strangers received gratuitous care, was further off, near the principal gate. There was an extensive park, with avenues of chestnut-trees, watered by the Orbieu, which also turned the grist-mills, oil-mills, and cloth-mills. The water was also brought into the abbey. The library now forms part of the public library of Carcassonne.
The abbey of La Grasse was immediately dependent on the Holy See, in acknowledgment of which it paid an annual tribute of five gold florins. And the Bishop of Carcassonne, and the Archbishop of Narbonne, though the primate, were obliged to recognize its independence of their jurisdiction before they could obtain admittance to the abbey. The abbot from the time of Abbot Nicolas Roger, the uncle of Pope Clement VI., had the right of wearing pontifical vestments. He held legal jurisdiction over eighty-three towns, besides which, three other abbeys, three monasteries, twenty-four priories, and sixty-seven parish churches were dependent on the house of La Grasse.
This great abbey was suppressed in 1790, after existing over a thousand years, and before long was transformed into barracks and
manufactories. The church became a melancholy ruin, with its columns lying among the tall grass, the capitals covered with lichens, bushes growing in among the crumbling walls, and here and there scattered mutilated escutcheons of the old lords of the land and the very bones from their sepulchres.
But the town of La Grasse, that sprang up under the mild sway of the old abbots, is still queen of the lower Corbières by its population and historic interest. It is noted for its blanquette—a sparkling white wine, which rivals that of Limoux.
As to the battles in the valley of the Orbieu, it is more certain that the Saracens, on their way to attack Carcassonne, were met by William, Duke of Aquitaine, in this valley, where, though defeated, he performed prodigies of valor, and made the followers of Mahound buy their victory dearly. They soon withdrew into Spain, carrying with them rich spoils from Narbonne, among which were seven statues of silver, long famous in Andalusia, and many marble columns, still to be seen in the famous mosque of Cordova, on which they forced the vast number of prisoners they carried with them to labor.
Nor was the abbey of La Grasse the only famous monastery of this region. There was the Cistercian abbey of Fonfroide, founded in the twelfth century by Ermengarde, Vicomtesse of Narbonne, to whom Pierre Roger, the troubadour, gave the mystic name of Tort n’avez, and so well known from the permanent Court of Love she held in her gay capital. This abbey at one time contained two hundred monks, who were great agriculturists, and understood drainage and all the improvements we regard as modern. They
brought vast tracts of land under cultivation, and, by their industry and economy, became wealthy and powerful. In 1341, this abbey had nineteen thousand two hundred and thirty-four animals, including sheep, cattle, mules, swine, etc.
Among the celebrated monks of Fonfroide was Peter of Castelnau, whom the Holy See appointed one of the legates to suppress the heresy of the Albigenses, and who acquired so melancholy a celebrity by his conflicts with Count Raymond of Toulouse and his tragical end. Another member, eminent for his knowledge and piety, of this house was Arnaud de Novelli, uncle of Pope Benedict XII. He was made cardinal by Pope Clement V., and sent as one of the legates to England to make peace between Edward II. and his barons. He died in 1317, and lies buried under the high altar of the abbey church. Pope Benedict XII. himself was a monk at Fonfroide, and succeeded his uncle as abbot of the house. As pope, he is specially celebrated for the part he took among the theologians of the day in discussing the question of the immediate state of the righteous after death, and the decretal which he finally issued in 1355—Benedictus Dominus in sanctis suis—in which he declares that the souls of the justified, on leaving their bodies, are at once admitted to behold the Divine Essence face to face without intermediary; that by this vision they are rendered truly happy, and in enjoyment of everlasting repose; whereas those who die in the state of mortal sin descend immediately into hell.
The abbey of Fonfroide, after seven hundred years’ existence, was closed in 1790, but, more fortunate than La Grasse, it is now inhabited by Bernardins, who seem to have
inherited the virtues and spirit of the early Cistercians.
The tombs of the old vicomtes of Narbonne, who were mostly buried here, are no longer to be seen. William II., by an act of May 25, 1424, ordered his remains to be taken to Fonfroide, wherever he might die. He left two thousand livres for his tomb, which was to be of stone and magnificently adorned, and an annuity of twenty-five livres as a foundation for a daily Mass for the repose of his soul. He was killed by the English at the battle of Verneuil, the following August; his body was fastened to a gibbet, and had to be ransomed before it could be brought to Fonfroide.
Another noted abbey of the country was that of St. Hilaire, built over the tomb of its patron saint—not St. Hilary of Arles, who walked all the way to Rome in the dead of winter, but the first bishop of Carcassonne, who never walked anywhere, dead or alive—at least, out of his own diocese. This abbey was built in the good old days of Charlemagne, who seems to have never missed an opportunity of building a church or endowing a monastery—if we are to believe all the traditions of France—and of course endowed this one. However, Roger I., Count of Carcassonne, enriched it still more. He never went into battle without invoking St. Hilaire, and to him he ascribed the success of his arms. In his gratitude, he had the body of the saint exhumed and placed in a beautiful tomb of sculptured marble, and promised to furnish the twelve monks—all there were at that time—with suitable clothing during the remainder of his life, which says very little in favor of Charlemagne’s endowment. The abbey ultimately became very
prosperous, and, among other possessions, owned the most of Limoux. It lost its importance, however, in the sixteenth century, and was finally secularized. In one of the rooms may still be seen the names of its fifty abbots. The beautiful cloister of the fourteenth century is well preserved, and the tomb of St. Hilaire, with its sculptures of the tenth century, representing the legend of St. Saturnin, still serves as the altar of the church. The abbey stands in a bend of the Lauquet, that has escaped from the Aude, with its little village around it, among low hills covered with excellent vineyards. Here blow alternately the Cers and the Marin, the only two winds known in the valley of the Aude, shut in as it is between the Montagne Noire on the north and the Corbières on the south. These winds blow with alternate violence, like two great guns, the greater part of the year, and when one dies away the other generally takes up the blast. The very trees are planted with reference to them. People who would live according to the Delphic principle of “not too much of anything,” should not come to the valley of the Aude. The Cers increases in violence as it approaches the sea, where it seems to put on the very airs of the great planet Jupiter itself, noted for the violence of its winds; whereas the Marin waits till it gets away from the sound of “the jawing wave” before it ventures to come out in its full strength. However, as people often take pride in displaying their very infirmities, as if desirous of being noted for something, so the inhabitants of this valley boast of their winds. They did the same in the days of Seneca the philosopher, who says that though the Circius,
or Cers, overthrew the very buildings, the people of Gaul still praised it, and thought they were indebted to it for the salubrity of their climate. Perhaps they acted on the principle of Augustus Cæsar, who erected an altar to propitiate the Circius when he was in Gaul, so much did he dread it.
The canal of Languedoc passes through the valley of the Aude. Of course the grand idea of uniting the two seas could have originated with no less a person than Charlemagne himself. Francis the First also agitated the question. The principle on which canals are constructed was known in the Middle Ages. That universal genius, Leonardo da Vinci, was the first to make a practical application of it. In spite of this, the canal of Languedoc required a century and a half of profound study on the part of men of talent before it was decided on. The difficulty of its construction can hardly be realized in these days. It was not till the time of Louis XIV. the work was undertaken by M. de Riquet, who brought down waters from the Montagne Noire to feed the basins in the valley of the Aude. The whole canal was built in seventeen years, and cost about seventeen millions of livres. He did not live to see it opened. That satisfaction was reserved for his sons. The people awaited the day with impatience, and when it was opened, May 15, 1681, there was one great outburst of joy and admiration all the way from the Garonne to the Mediterranean. The intendant of the province, and all the capitouls of Toulouse, assembled in the morning in the cathedral of that city. The archbishop officiated. Nor was M. Riquet forgotten amid the thanksgiving. His sons were present. And
at the close of Mass, the archbishop turned and said: Brethren, let us pray for the repose of the soul of Pierre Paul de Riquet. Every head bent a few moments in silent prayer for the benefactor of the country.
A richly carpeted bark, from which floated the national colors, had been prepared. The Abbot of St. Jernin solemnly blessed the waters of the canal, and the dignitaries set out amid the applause of the multitude, followed by two other barks filled with musicians. At Castelnaudary, Cardinal de Bonzi, with several other prelates and lords, joined them in a magnificent galley, amid the noise of cannon and the peal of trumpets, followed by twenty barks full of merchandise. It was not till May 24 this flotilla arrived at Béziers, where it was hailed, as all along the way, with salutes and cries of joy. These demonstrations were warranted by the immense benefit of the canal to the country, and though now in a great measure superseded by the railway, it is still of the greatest utility.
Before the Aude reaches Carcassonne, it flows directly through the pretty, industrious town of Limoux, where the shores are connected by an old Roman bridge. Four hills enclose the charming valley, on the sides of which grow the vines that yield the blanquette of Limoux, which is famous in the wine market. On one of these hills stands a rural chapel held in great veneration by the people around—that of Notre Dame de Marceille, one of the most frequented places of pilgrimage in southern France, which has been sung by poets, studied by archæologists, and sketched by artists. Nothing could be lovelier than its situation. From the plateau
around the chapel you look down on the Flacian valley, watered by the Aude. To the west are the walls of Limoux in the midst of its vineyards and manufactories. Further off are bare cliffs and wooded hills, while on the very edge of the horizon rise, like an army of giants, the summits of the Pyrenees, almost always covered with snow or shrouded in mist. What a variety of temperature and products this landscape embraces—the cold mountain summit and the heat of the plain, verdant heights and naked rocks, the frowning hills and joyous valleys, gloomy forests of pines and frolicsome vines, fresh meadows and fields of golden grain! Through all this flows the Aude, past old legendary castles now in ruins, along marvellous grottoes a sibyl might envy, its current spanned by bridges with their tutelar Madonnas, but not disdaining to turn the wheels of the petty industries below us, though it has its source amid impassable gulfs among yonder peaks lost in the clouds.
A paved rampe leads up the hillside to Notre Dame de Marceille, more than six hundred feet long, which the pilgrims ascend on their knees, praying as they go. Half-way up, they stop to rest beside a trickling fountain and drink of the water that falls drop by drop. On the arch above is the inscription in letters of gold:
“Mille mali species Virgo levavit aqua.”[172]
The present church dates from 1488, but a sanctuary is known to have existed here as early as 1011. From age to age it has been the object of ever increasing veneration among the people. It belonged at one time to the abbey of St.
Hilaire, but in 1207 passed into the hands of the Dominicans of Prouilhe. You enter by a porch, which is supported by slender columns that give it an air of elegance. On the front is inscribed:
“Stay, traveller: adore God, invoke Mary.”
And on the sides:
“O Jesus, we have merited thy wrath. Efface from our hearts every stain of sin, that they may be rendered worthy to become thy dwelling-place!”
“Spotless Maid, Virgin Mother, on whom the Almighty lavishes the gifts of his love, with him, with thee, bring us by thy prayers to dwell for ever in the celestial abode.”
Another fountain near the porch bears also its inscription:
Hic putens fons signatus. Parit unda salutem.
Aeger junge fidem. Sic bibe, sarnus eris.
During the cholera of 1855 more than sixty thousand pilgrims flocked to this chapel in the space of three weeks. All the priests of the diocese come here annually to celebrate the mysteries of religion, especially
in the month of September when it is most frequented. Then the holy hill is covered by the ascending pilgrims, the chapel is illuminated, the bells are rung, and group after group from different villages enter to pray and sing their pious hymns, which have a certain wild flavor that is delightful. Their varied attitudes and costumes, the rude melody of their voices, the numerous bas-reliefs and paintings on the walls, the altar of the Virgin hung with ex-votos, and the robes of the Madonna herself, overloaded with ornaments of gold and silver which sparkle in the countless tapers, make up a picture one is never weary of studying.
It was on descending from this consecrated hill we stopped to look back at the sanctuary whence streamed still the soul-stirring hymns. A group was gathered about the archway of the fountain. The base was aflush with the vines. From Limoux came the sound of earthly cares. Harvests covered the plain. The heavens aglow crowned all. It was here we took leave of the Valley of the Aude.
[172] By this water the Virgin has cured a thousand ills.