A poor charcoal-burner, who lived in this forest close by the stream of Rieutort, had always been strictly devout to God and the blessed saints, but, on his deathbed, in a moment of despair at leaving his three motherless children without a groat to bless themselves with, invoked in their behalf the foul spirit usually supposed to hold dominion over the bowels of the earth, with its countless mines of silver and gold. He died, and his three sons buried him beside their mother in the graveyard of Pauillac; but the wooden cross they set up to mark the spot obstinately refused to remain in the ground. Terrified at this ominous circumstance, the poor children fled to their desolate cabin. The night was dark and cold, and wolves were howling in the forest. “Brothers,” said the oldest, “we shall die of hunger and cold. There is not a crumb of bread in the house, and the doctor carried off all our blankets yesterday for his services. The Abbey of Bouillas is only half a league off. I am sure the good monks will not refuse alms to my brother Juan. And little Pierréto shall watch the house while I go to the Castle of Goas.”
Both brothers set off, leaving Pierréto alone in the cabin. He trembled with fear and the cold, and at length the latter so far prevailed that he ventured to the door to see if he could not catch a glimpse of his brothers on their way home. It was now “the hour when spirits have power.” Not a hundred steps off he saw a group of men dressed in rich attire, silently—“all silent and all damned”—warming themselves around a good fire. The shivering child took courage, and, drawing near the band, begged for some coals to light his fire. They assented, and Pierréto hurriedly gathered up a few and went away. But no sooner had he re-entered the cabin than they instantly went out. He went the second time, and again they were extinguished. The third time the leader of the band frowned, but gave him a large brand, and threateningly told him not to come again. The brand went out like the coals; and the men and fire disappeared as suddenly. Pierréto remained half dead with fright. An hour after Juan returned from the Convent of Bouillas with bread enough to last a week, and Simoun soon arrived from the castle with three warm blankets.
When daylight appeared, Pierréto went to the fire-place to look at his coals, and found they had all turned to gold. The two oldest now had the means of making their way in the world. One became a brave soldier, and the other a prosperous merchant; but Pierro became a brother in the Abbey of Bouillas. Night after night, as he paced the dark cloisters praying for his father’s soul, he heard a strange rushing as of fierce wind through the arches, and a wailing sound as sad as the Miserere. Pierro shuddered and thought of the cross that refused to darken his father’s grave; but he only prayed the longer and the more earnestly.
Years passed away. Simoun and Juan, who had never married, weary of honors and gain, came to join their brother in his holy retreat. Their wealth, that had so mysterious an origin, was given to God in the person of the poor. Then only did the troubled soul of their father find rest, and the holy cross consent to throw its shadow across his humble grave.
Lectoure is surrounded by ramparts; but the most remarkable of its ancient defences is the old castle of the Counts of Armagnac, converted into a hospital by the Bishop of Lectoure in the XVIIIth century. This castle witnessed the shameless crimes of Count John IV. and their fearful retribution at the taking of Lectoure under Louis XI. The tragical history of this great lord affords a new proof of the salutary authority exercised by the church over brutal power and unrestrained passion during the Middle Ages.
There is no more striking example of the degradation of an illustrious race than that of John V., the last Count of Armagnac, who shocked the whole Christian world by an unheard-of scandal. Having solicited in vain a dispensation to marry his sister Isabella, who was famous for her beauty, he made use of a pretended license, fraudulently drawn up in the very shadow of the papal court, as some say, to allay Isabella’s scruples, and celebrated this monstrous union with the greatest pomp. He forgot, in the intoxication of power and the delirium of passion, there could be any restraint on his wishes, that there was a higher tribunal which watched vigilantly over the infractions of the unchangeable laws of morality and religion. The pope fulminated a terrible excommunication against them. King Charles VII., hoping to wipe out so fearful a stain by the sacred influences of family affection, sent the most influential members of the count’s family to exert their authority; but in vain. The king soon turned against him, because he favored the revolt of the Dauphin, and sent an army to invade his territory. Count John’s only fear was of losing Isabella; and rather than separate from her to fight for the defence of his domains, he fled with her to the valley of Aure, while the royal army ravaged his lands.
Condemned to perpetual banishment, deprived of his dominions, his power gone, under the ban of the church, his eyes were opened to the extent of his degradation, his soul was filled with remorse. He took the pilgrim’s staff and set out for Rome, begging his bread by the way, to seek absolution for himself and his sister. Isabella retired from the world to do penance for her sins in the Monastery of Mount Sion at Barcelona. The church, which never spurns the repentant sinner, however stained with crime, granted him absolution on very severe conditions. The learned Æneas Sylvius (Pius II.) occupied the chair of S. Peter at that time. His great heart was touched by the heroic penance of so great a lord. He received him kindly, dwelt on the enormity of the scandal he had given to the world, and reminded him that Pope Zachary had condemned a man, guilty of an offence of the same nature, to go on a round of pilgrimages for fourteen years, the first seven of which he was ordered to wear an iron chain attached to his neck or wrist, fast three times a week, and only drink wine on Sundays; but the last seven he was only required to fast on Fridays; after which he was admitted to Communion.
More merciful, Pius II. enjoined on Count John never to hold any communication with Isabella by word, letter, or message; to distribute three thousand gold crowns for the reparation of churches and monasteries; and to fast every Friday on bread and water till he could take up arms against the Turks; all of which the count solemnly promised to do. Nor do we read he ever violated his word. Affected by such an example of penitence, the pope addressed Charles VII. a touching brief to induce him to pardon the count.
When Louis XI. came to the throne, remembering the services he had received from Count John, he restored him to his rank. The count now married a daughter of the house of Foix. Everything seemed repaired. But divine justice is not satisfied. Louis XI., determined to destroy the almost sovereign power of the great vassals, took advantage of Count John’s offences against his government, and resolved on his destruction. He sent an army to besiege him at Lectoure. At this siege Isabella’s son made his first essay at arms, and displayed the valor of his race but the young hero finally perished in a rash sortie, and the count soon after capitulated. The royal forces, taking possession of the place, basely violated the terms of surrender. The city was sacked and nearly all the inhabitants massacred. Among the victims was Count John himself, who died invoking the Virgin. The walls of the city were partly demolished, and fire set to the four quarters. The dead were left unburied, and for two months the wolves that preyed thereon were the only occupants of the place. Never was there a more fearful retribution. It took the city nearly a century to recover in a measure from this horrible calamity.
Lectoure was in the hands of the Huguenots when Monluc laid siege to it in 1562. Bremond, the commander, offered to capitulate, and, proposing an exchange of hostages, he asked for Verduzan, La Chapelie, and a third. Monluc consented, and as they approached the gates of the city they were fired upon by thirty or forty arquebusiers, but without effect. Monluc cried out that was not the fidelity of an honest man, but of a Huguenot. Bremond protested his innocence of the deed, and, pretending to seize one of the guilty men, he hung an innocent Catholic on the walls in sight of Monluc. Unaware of the fraud, the hostages again approached, and again they were fired upon. A gentleman from Agen was killed and others wounded. Indignant at such treachery, and supposing his own life particularly aimed at, Monluc exclaimed that, since they held their promises so lightly, he would do the same with his, and he immediately sent Verduzan with a company of soldiers to Terraube to despatch the prisoners whose lives he had spared. This order was executed with as much exactness as barbarity, and the implacable Monluc declared he had made “a fine end of some very bad fellows.”