On July 31st, 1479, the king made his solemn entry into Dijon. "The mayor, the échevins, the procureurs, clothed in scarlet robes, walked before him, as they had formerly walked before the Dukes; the clergy in their chapes bore the holy relics. Louis proceeded first to the Abbey of St. Bénigne, where the Dijonnais swore fealty to him, as to their natural lord, and prayed him to hold them in his good grace; then, preceded by trumpets, tambourines, and minstrels, he went to lodge at the Ducal Palace. Everywhere they covered with lime the arms of Burgundy, broke the windows of the Chambre Des Comtes which bore that device, and replaced it by that of the King with the cord of St. Michael and the arms of the Dauphin."[175]
So ended the power of Burgundy. From the days of Philippe le Hardi, onwards, there had arisen in the minds of those proud dukes—who were more than dukes—a dream of a new kingdom that should exceed in extent and in dominion the old Burgundy of their fathers—a kingdom, an empire, perhaps, freed for ever from the hated rivalry of the Fleur-de-lys. But that dream was not to be realised. All the conditions, geographical, historical, psychological, were against them; nor had the dukes themselves, for all their abilities, the constructive minds necessary for the accomplishment of such a task. Louis, on the other hand, as we have seen, possessed such a mind; and destiny and death, as though consciously realizing the fact, worked for him. Burgundy was no more than the greatest of the fruits that fell into his lap.
STREET IN DIJON
Facing page 208
Nevertheless, we shall surely do well to remember these years, and these Dukes, that went to the making of France. Dijon, it appears, proud of her mustard, and of her wine-begotten prosperity, does not care to remember. She has pulled down the unworthy memento of subjection. Truly she has her reward. She has the best Post Office in the Duchy.
Now, after all this history, what of Dijon as it is to-day? Well, modern Dijon, despite the ever-to-be-deplored demolition of the Castle, remains one of the most individual and fascinating of French towns—a cheerful, lively, bustling little city, full of fine buildings, and unexpected architectural surprises of the Renaissance and earlier times. For its size, I know no town in France in which past and present have blended more happily. Wherever you walk, in the heart of the town, the next corner has something fascinating to show.
The building which first calls for attention is the Cathedral of St. Bénigne. Of the early, circular, Romanesque church, which dated from the eleventh century, and was probably imitated from the Holy Sepulchre, nothing now remains but the crypt. The primitive, carved pillars are the oldest of their kind in Burgundy, and mark the origin of an art of sculpture, that, as we have already seen, was to go far. In this rude church was buried St. Bénigne, the Christian martyr of the third century; here, too, the pious Alèthe, St. Bernard's mother, was laid, probably in the year 1110; and here, many a time, Bernard himself came down from his father's castle at Fontaine, to pray, in those early days when his spirit was torn between the claims of cloister and the world. The cathedral, above ground, though historically interesting, as the scene of the inaugural ceremonies of the great Dukes, and the solemn merger of the duchy into the kingdom of France, is not architecturally of first-rate interest. Gothic art was not always well inspired in Burgundy during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries; and St. Bénigne is no exception to the rule. The façade is very bold, for a church of cathedral rank; the west window is weak and shallow, and the parvis mean and uninteresting. Nor is the interior successful. The triforium, one of the feeblest I know, is suggestive of a cardboard model, and the simplicity of the nave has been broken by a series of restless yearning statues, that, poised upon the abaci of the capitals, grimace at one another across the nave. The thirteenth-century choir is better; though spoiled architecturally by bare spaces of wall between the triforium and the sills of the clerestory. The exterior, however, especially as seen from the east-end, is impressive, and the "Snake-skin" tiling, though rather trying at first, is rich and effective, when the eye has become accustomed to the shock.