The elder Scaliger was buried in the church of the Augustinian Friars, which being destroyed in 1792, his remains were removed by friendly hands for preservation. They have recently been placed at the disposition of the city authorities, who will probably erect some testimonial to one who has given additional celebrity to the place. The last descendant of the Scaligers—Mlle. Victoire de Lescale—died at Agen, January 25, 1853, at the age of seventy-six years.
Agen figures also in the religious troubles of the XVIth century, as it was part of the appanage of Margaret of Valois; but it generally remained true to its early traditions. Nérac, the seat of the Huguenot court at one time, was too near not to exert its influence. Then came Calvin himself, when he leaped from his window and fled from Paris. Theodore Beza too resided there for a time. They were protected by Margaret of Navarre, who gathered around her men jealous of the influence of the clergy and desirous themselves of ruling over the minds of others. They boldly ridiculed the religious orders, and censured the morals of the priesthood, though so many prelates of the time were distinguished for their holiness and ability. Nérac has lost all taste for religious controversy in these material days. It has turned miller, and is only noted for its past aberrations and the present superiority of its flour.
On the other side of the Garonne, towards the plain of Layrac, we come to the old Château of Estillac, associated with the memory of Blaise de Monluc, the terrible avenger of Huguenot atrocities in this section of France. He was an off-shoot of the noble family of Montesquiou, and served under Bayard, Lautrec, and Francis I.—a small, thin, bilious-looking man, with an eye as cold and hard as steel, and a face horribly disfigured in battle, before whom all parties quailed, Catholic as well as Protestant. He had the zeal of a Spaniard and the bravado of a true Gascon; was sober in his habits, uncompromising in his nature, and, living in his saddle, with rapier in hand, he was always ready for any emergency, to strike any blow; faithful to his motto: “Deo duce, ferro comite.”
We are far from justifying the relentless rigor of Monluc; but one cannot travel through this country, where at every step is some trace of the fury with which the Huguenots destroyed or desecrated everything Catholics regard as holy, without finding much to extenuate his course. We must not forget that the butchery which filled the trenches of the Château de Penne was preceded by the sack of Lauzerte, where, according to Protestant records, Duras slaughtered five hundred and sixty-seven Catholics, of whom one hundred and ninety-four were priests; and that the frightful massacre of Terraube was provoked by the treachery of Bremond, commander of the Huguenots at the siege of Lectoure.
Among the other remarkable men upon whose traces we here come is Sulpicius Severus, a native of Agen. His friend, S. Paulinus of Nola, tells us he had a brilliant position in the world, and was universally applauded for his eloquence; but converted in the very flower of his life, he severed all human ties and retired into solitude. He is said to have founded the first monastery in Aquitaine, supposed to be that of S. Sever-Rustan, where he gave himself up to literary labors that have perpetuated his name. The Huguenots burned down this interesting monument of the past in 1573, and massacred all the monks. It was from the cloister of Primulacium, as it was then called, that successively issued his Ecclesiastical History, which won for him the title of the Christian Sallust; the Life of S. Martin of Tours, written from personal recollections; and three interesting Dialogues on the Monastic Life, all of which were submitted to the indulgent criticism of S. Paulinus before they were given to the public. The intimacy of these two great men probably began when S. Paulinus lived in his villa Hebromagus, on the banks of the Baïse, and it was by no means broken off by their separation. The latter made every effort to induce his friend to join him at Nola; but we have no reason to complain he did not succeed, for this led to a delightful correspondence we should be sorry to have lost. We give one specimen of it, in which modesty is at swords’ points with friendship. Sulpicius had built a church at Primulacium, and called upon his poet-friend to supply him with inscriptions for the walls. The baptistery contained the portrait of S. Martin, and, wishing to add that of Paulinus, he ventured to ask him for it. Paulinus’ humility is alarmed, and he flatly refuses; but he soon learns his likeness has been painted from memory, and is hanging next that of the holy Bishop of Tours. He loudly protests, but that is all he can do, except avenge his outraged humility by sending the following inscription to be graven beneath the two portraits: “You, whose bodies and souls are purified in this salutary bath, cast your eyes on the two models set before you. Sinners, behold Paulinus; ye just, look at Martin. Martin is the model of saints; Paulinus only that of the guilty!”
Sometimes there is a dash of pleasantry in their correspondence, as when Paulinus sends for some good Gascon qualified to be a cook in his laura. Sulpicius despatches Brother Victor with a letter of recommendation which perhaps brought a smile to his friend’s face: “I have just learned that every cook has taken flight from your kitchen. I send you a young man trained in our school, sufficiently accomplished to serve up the humbler vegetables with sauce and vinegar, and concoct a modest stew that may tempt the palates of hungry cenobites; but I must confess he is entirely ignorant of the use of spices and all luxurious condiments, and it is only right I should warn you of one great fault: he is the mortal enemy of a garden. If you be not careful, he will make a frightful havoc among all the vegetables he can lay his hands on. He may seldom call on you for wood, but he will burn whatever comes within his reach. He will even lay hold of your rafters, and tear the old joists from your chimneys.”
Among other Agen literary celebrities is the poet Antoine de La Pujade, who was secretary of finances to Queen Margaret of Navarre—not the accomplished, fascinating sister of Francis I., but the wife of the Vert-Galant, “Du tige des Valois belle et royale fleur,” who encouraged and applauded the poet, and even addressed him flattering verses. His tender, caressing lines on the death of his little son of four years of age are well known:
“Petite âme mignonnelette,
Petite mignonne âmelette,
Hôtesse d’un si petit corps!