Farther on is the tomb of the saint, with a silver lamp ever burning, the gift of Anne of Austria, in gratitude for the restored health of Louis XIV. after his illness at Metz, which the Queen attributes entirely to Saint Radigonde. In imitation of this royal credulity, multitudes of persons affected with various maladies have hung up at the shrine little effigies of the afflicted parts, modelled in wax: so that there are enough of waxen legs and arms to furnish the largest doll-shop in Europe. Passing through a low arch, we descended by a few steps to the sort of vault in which lies the stone coffin, supposed to contain the body of Saint Radigonde. This, the pious take care to adorn with large tapers, much to the gratification of the priests and the wax-chandlers.
THE BOTTLE OF SAUTERN.
Benedetto
Quel claretto
Che si spilla in Avignone.--Bacco in Toscana.
We were tired with our ramble, for besides the amphitheatre and Saint Radigonde, we had been to the cathedral and the promenades, and had walked for two or three miles along the road towards Paris, to see the beautiful rocky scenery which flanks the entrance to the town, and which we had passed the night before by moonlight. Finding that we could actually eat no dinner at the inn, (they were all so occupied with the people of the fair,)we strolled out to a restaurateur's in the neighbourhood, before the door of whose house a woman, with a voice like a Stentor, and a face like Baron G----, was singing the acts of our Saviour, in a sort of little booth covered all over with gospel pictures, which the man who played the accompaniment pointed out with his fiddlestick, one by one, as she came to them in her song.
We went into the restaurant, and notwithstanding the multitude of the fair, met with a very good dinner, composed of heaven knows what. There is no use of inquiring into these things.
After dinner we ordered a bottle of Sautern, which was marked in the carte at two francs ten sous. It was in a kind of despair that we did it, for the red wine was worth nothing. It came.--People may talk of Hocheim, and Burgundy, and Hermitage, and all the wines that ever the Rhone or the Rhine produced, but never was there wine like that one bottle of Sautern. It poured, out as clear as the stream of hope ere it has been muddied by disappointment, and it was as soft and generous as early joy ere youth finds out its fallacy. We drank it slowly, and lingered over the last glass, as if we had a presentiment that we should never meet with anything like it again. When it was done, quite done, we ordered another bottle. But no--it was not the same wine. We sent it away, and we had another--in vain--and another--there was no more of it to be had.
It was like one of those days of pure unsophisticated happiness, that sometimes break in upon life, and leave nothing to be desired; that comes unexpectedly--last their own brief space, like things apart--and are remembered for ever.
THE FIELD OF POITIERS.
"It is very strange," said I, "that no one can tell me where it lies."
But I forgot that the French, very wisely, never remember the battles they lose: and as here their kingdom was overthrown, and its king taken prisoner, they of course made the more haste to forget it. So I desired my guide to conduct me to the Pierre Levée, and resolved to seek the field of battle myself.