As a proof of the tenacity with which the Agenais have clung to past religious traditions and customs, we will cite the popular saying that arose from the unusual dispensations granted during Lent by Mgr. Hébert, the bishop of the diocese, in a time of great distress after an unproductive year:
“En milo sept centz nau L’abesque d’Agen debenguèt Higounau”—In 1709 the Bishop of Agen turned Huguenot!
Leaving Agen by the railway to Tarbes, we came in ten minutes to Notre Dame de Bon Encontre—a spot to which all the sorrows and fears and hopes of the whole region around are brought. This chapel is especially frequented during the month of May, when one parish after another comes here to invoke the protection of Mary. A continual incense of prayer seems to rise on the sacred air from this sweet woodland spire. A few houses cluster around the pretty church, which is surmounted by a colossal statue of the Virgin overlooking the whole valley and flooding it with peace, love, and boundless mercy. The image of her who is so interwoven with the great mysteries of the redemption can never be looked upon with indifference or without profit. The soul that finds Mary in the tangled grove of this sad world enters upon a “moonlit way of sweet security.”
We next pass Astaffort, a little village perched on a hill overlooking the river Gers, justifying its ancient device: Sta fortiter.[99] It played an important part in the civil wars of the country. The Prince de Condé occupied the place with four hundred men, and, attacked by the royalists, they were all slain but the prince and his valet, who made their escape. A cross marks the burial-place of the dead behind the church of Astaffort, still known as the field of the Huguenots.
Lectoure, like an eagle’s nest built on a cliff, is the next station, and merits a short tarry; for, though fallen from its ancient grandeur, it is a town full of historic interest, and contains many relics of the past. It is a place mentioned by Cæsar and Pliny, and yet so small that we wonder what it has been doing in the meantime. It was one of the nine cities of Novempopulania, and in the IXth century still boasted the Roman franchise, and was the centre of light and legislation to the country around, on which it imposed its customs and laws. It governed itself, lived its own individual life, unaffected by the changes of surrounding provinces, and proudly styled itself in its public documents “the Republic of Lectoure.” In the XIIth century it was the stronghold of the Vicomtes de Lomagne; and when Richard Cœur de Lion wished to bring Vivian II. of that house to terms, he laid siege to Lectoure, which, though stoutly defended for a time, was finally obliged to yield. In 1305 it belonged to the family of Bertrand de Got (Pope Clement V.), which accounts for a bull of his being dated at Lectoure. Count John of Armagnac married Reine de Got, the pope’s niece, in 1311, and thus the city fell into the hands of the haughty Armagnacs, who made it their capital. At this time they were the mightiest lords of the South of France, and seemed to have inherited the ancient glory of the Counts of Toulouse. For a time they held the destiny of France itself in their hands. For one hundred and fifty years they took a prominent part in all the French wars. Their banner, with its lion rampant, floated on every battle-field. Their war-cry—Armagnac!—resounded in the ears of the Derbys and Talbots. It was an Armagnac that sustained the courage of France after the surrender of King John at Poitiers; an Armagnac that united all the South against the English in the Etats-Généraux de Niort; and an Armagnac—Count Bernard VI.—who maintained the equilibrium of France when Jean-sans-Peur of Burgundy aimed at supremacy, and fell a victim to Burgundian vengeance at Paris.
Lectoure gives proofs of its antiquity and the changes it has passed through in the remains of its triple wall; its fountain of Diana; the bronzes, statuettes, jewels, and old Roman votive altars, that are now and then brought to light; its mediæval castle, and the interesting old church built by the English during their occupancy, with its massive square tower, whence we look off over the valley of the Gers, with its orchards and vineyards and verdant meadows shut in by wooded hills, and see stretching away to the south the majestic outline of the Pyrenees.
At the west of Lectoure is the forest of Ramier, in the midst of which once stood the Cistercian abbey of Bouillas—Bernardus valles—founded in 1125, but now entirely destroyed.
“Never was spot more sadly meet
For lonely prayer and hermit feet.”
There is a popular legend connected with these woods, the truth of which I do not vouch for—I tell the tale as ’twas told to me: