“O faithful Cross! O noblest tree!
In all our woods there’s none like thee.
No earthly groves, no shady bowers,
Produce such leaves, such fruit, such flowers;
Sweet are the nails, and sweet the wood,
That bear a weight so sweet and good.”
Fifteen minutes’ walk to the south of Lectoure brings you to the Chapel of S. Geny, on the banks of the Gers. Behind it rises the mount on whose summit this saint of the early times was wont to pray. Here he was when thirty soldiers, sent by the Roman governor in pursuit of him, appeared on the other side of the Gers. S. Geny lifted up his clean hands and pure heart to heaven. The hill trembled beneath his knees. The river rose so high that for two days the amazed soldiers were unable to cross, and then it was to throw themselves at the saint’s feet and acknowledge the power of the true God. They received baptism, and were soon after martyred in a place long known as the “Blood of the Innocents.” A new band being sent against S. Geny, he again ascends the mount, but this time to pray his soul may be received among those whose robes have just been washed white in the blood of the Lamb. And while he was praying with eyes uplifted the heavens opened, he saw the newly-crowned martyrs, encircled with rejoicing angels, chanting: Let those who have overcome the adversary and kept their garments undefiled have their names written in the Lamb’s book of life! At this sight the saint’s knees bend, his ravished soul breaks loose from its bonds and takes flight for heaven. This was on the 3d of May. His body remained on the top of the mount, giving out an odor of mysterious sweetness, till the Bishop of Lectoure brought it down to the foot of the hill, and buried it in the little church S. Geny had erected over his mother’s tomb. Not long after two persons, overtaken by darkness, sought refuge in this oratory, and found it filled with a great light and embalmed with lilies and roses—beautiful emblems of the supernatural love and purity that had distinguished the saint.
Not far from Lectoure was once another “devout chapel,” one of the most noted in the country around—Notre Dame de Protection, in the village of Tudet, a place of pilgrimage as far back as the XIIth century. The Madonna has a miraculous origin, like so many others in this “Land of Mary.” According to the old legend, it was discovered by shepherds in a fountain at which an ox had refused to drink. The statue was set up beside the spring, and became a special object of devotion to the neighborhood and a source of many supernatural favors. Vivian II., Vicomte de Lomagne, in gratitude for personal benefits received, built a chapel for the reception of the statue in 1178, but, as it proved too small for the numerous votaries, Henry II. of England, a few years after, erected a large church adjoining Vivian’s chapel, with a hospice, served by monks, for the accommodation of pilgrims. All over the neighboring hills rose little cells inhabited by hermits drawn to this favored spot from the remotest parts of southern France. Not only the common people, but the nobles and renowned warriors of the Middle Ages, and even the kings of France, came here to implore the protection of the Virgin. Every year, at spring-time, came the inhabitants of Lectoure, Fleurance, and all the neighboring parishes, often fourteen or fifteen at a time, accompanied by priests in their robes and magistrates in red official garments, chanting hymns in honor of Mary. Countless miracles were wrought at her altar. The walls were covered with crutches and ex votos. One of the fathers of Tudet writes thus at the close of last century: “Here Mary may be said to manifest her power and goodness in a special manner. How many times has she not caused the paralytic to walk, cured the epileptic, given sight to the blind, hearing to the deaf, and speech to the dumb! How often has she not healed the sick at the very gates of death, snatched people from destruction at the very moment of danger, and put an end to hail-storms, tempests, and the plague!”
Nothing enrages the impious so much as the evidences of a piety that is a constant reproach to their lives; and the Revolution of 1793 swept away, not only the ancient chapel of the Viscounts of Lomagne, but the church of Henry II., the hospice, and the hermits’ cells, leaving only a few broken arches where now and then a solitary pilgrim went to pray. The miraculous statue, however, was rescued from profanation, and for a long time buried in the ground. It is still honored in the village church of Gaudonville, but it is only a mutilated trunk, its head and most of the limbs being gone. So many holy recollections, however, are associated with it, that people still gather around it to pray, especially in harvest-time, to be spared the ravages of hail, often so destructive in this region.
Some of the old hymns in the expressive Gascon tongue, as sung at Notre Dame de Protection, are still extant, and nothing is more pathetic than to see a group of hard-working peasants around the altar of the chapel of Gaudonville singing: