A Book of the Riviera

by S. Baring-Gould

General Marceau’s ashes rested for some years at Nice. He fell near Coblenz in 1796, and his body was burnt and transported, as he had desired, to Nice, to lie beside the body of his sister Emma, when it should be her time to depart this life. She died at the age of eighty-one in 1834, and was laid beside the ashes of her brother. Marceau had never been shown the smallest token of love by his mother, and he had been brought up by his sister, to whom he was devotedly attached. His last words were: “Je ne regrette qu’elle. Je lui dois ce que je puis valoir.”

It is a pity that his wishes were so far disregarded that in 1889 his remains were disinterred and transferred to the Panthéon, at Paris.

Nice has produced a poet, the Jasmin of this part of Provence; his name is Rancher, and he was born in 1785, on July 20th, two months before due; he was so small that a bon-bon box was extemporised as his cradle. Indeed, it was supposed that he was dead, and he was to have been carried to burial in his bon-bon box, when his father, who was a surgeon, stooping over him, heard a faint sigh, and preparations for the funeral were stopped. He became secretary to the Count de Cessola, president of the Senate of Nice, and then under-secretary of the Tribunal of Commerce, an office he retained till his death in 1843. He wrote songs and composed music to them, also a little vaudeville, and a poem “La Nemaïda,” which was serio-comic, and turned on a local incident, a dispute between the beadles and sacristans of the church of Ste. Françoise de Paule. His little vaudeville led to his imprisonment. It had been composed for performance before King Charles Felix and his queen, Marie Christine, when they were at Nice at Christmas, 1829. He ventured without authorisation to introduce on the stage his nephew, aged nine, dressed as a peasant, and to set him to play a little piece on the violin. This had not been submitted to the proper authority and allowed; accordingly the Count de Faverger, Governor of Nice, ordered the incarceration of the audacious poet. But this bit of red-tapism was too much, and Rancher was released in a couple of hours. He revenged himself on the governor by a satirical and burlesque song, that ran like wildfire through the town. A street in Nice bears Rancher’s name.

Nice was the scene of the sacrilegious rascalities of a rogue, Collet, whose story, as he operated at Fréjus and at Draguignan as well as at Nice, may be told.

Collet was born at Belley, in the department of Aine, of worthy and pious parents. He entered the army after having gone through a course of studies, and became sub-lieutenant in 1796, and was at the siege of Brescia. But, disgusted with military service, he deserted and went to Rome. Whilst there he heard of the wreck of a merchant vessel off Civita Vecchia under a young captain named Tolosant, of Lyons, with the loss of all hands. At once he saw his chance. He forged papers, got a ring cut with the Tolosant arms, and passed himself off as the captain, who had escaped. By this means he deceived a worthy priest, who was steward to Cardinal Fesch; and as the Cardinal was acquainted with the family of Tolosant, he introduced the soi-disant captain to him. The Cardinal at once insisted on Collet taking up his abode with him, and he even presented him to the Pope, who gave the rascal his apostolic benediction. As a friend of Cardinal Fesch, Napoleon’s kinsman, and an inmate of his house, Collet made the round of the bankers of Rome, discussed with them schemes for making money, and drew loans from them to the amount of 60,000 francs. Then Collet was invested with a charge to perform some ecclesiastical commissions in Lombardy. He left—disappeared—just as suspicions began to be entertained that he was not what he pretended to be, and turned up at Mondovi. There he gave himself out to be a gentleman of means, and he speedily ingratiated himself into the society of the young bloods there. As Mondovi was a dull town, he proposed to brisk it up by the institution of a theatre and by amateur performances. This proposition was cordially accepted, a committee was appointed, and Collet was named costumier; he was to purchase a complete theatrical wardrobe. All who were to act were required to pay for their own costumes, and the money was put into Collet’s hands to furnish these.

All at once the costumier vanished, carrying off with him all the dresses, those of clergy, bishops, generals, civic authorities, with ribbons and crosses of various orders.

He next turned up at Sion, in the Vallais, now in the cassock of a priest, and furnished with fictitious letters of Orders. There he presented himself to the bishop, and so ingratiated himself into his favour that the bishop nominated him to one of his best cures, which happened to fall vacant. He was instituted, and for five months said mass, preached, married, baptized, catechised the children, and consoled the dying.

Now the church was in a dilapidated condition, and the late rector had begun a collection for its rebuilding. Collet called together the committee of the building project, and learned that the sum already collected was 30,000 francs. He at once volunteered to contribute 50,000 francs to the fund, if he were made treasurer, and suffered to build on to the new church a chapel in which his own mortal remains might repose after his death; for never, never, oh never, would he leave his dear parishioners! A ready consent was given, and the sum collected was put into his hands. An architect was engaged, designs for the new church were procured, the old building was pulled down, the material sold, and the sum produced by the sale was lodged in the hands of Collet. Then he suggested that the mayor and the architect should accompany him to Sion to buy the ornaments and paintings requisite for the new church. Accordingly they departed in a carriage. Chalice, tabernacle, three marble altars, candelabra, were bought, but not paid for. At the recommendation of Collet, the mayor returned to the village, carrying with him the purchases; and the architect departed to engage masons and carpenters.

No sooner was Collet left than he took post-horses and departed for Strasburg. There he vanished. His next appearance was in Italy, shifting his quarters and changing his costume repeatedly. At Savona, on the Riviera, he persuaded a banker to let him have 10,000 francs. Next he appeared at Nice, in a shovel hat, a purple cassock, and wearing a gold pectoral cross, as Dominic Pasqualini, Bishop of Manfredonia. He called on the Bishop of Nice, showed him the bull of his institution, forged by himself, and so completely deceived him, that the bishop offered him the most cordial welcome, showed him hospitality, took him into the seminary and asked him to examine the seminarists. Collet saw the risk he ran, and evaded it shrewdly. “Monseignore,” said he, “I can see by the look of their faces that they are a set of asses. I do not wish to hurt their feelings by exposing their ignorance—I being a stranger.”

“Well, then,” said the Bishop of Nice, “if you will not examine them, you shall ordain them; there are thirty-three to receive deacon’s and sub-deacon’s orders next Sunday.”