Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  It was built for a shrine in which to preserve relics; and Pierre de Montreuil, its able architect, appears to have sought rather to render it worthy by its richness and its grace to become the casket for those holy treasures, than to give it the dignity of a church. That beautiful miniature cathedral, St. George’s Chapel at Windsor, is an enormous edifice compared to this; but less light, less lofty in its proportions — in short, less enchanting in its general effect, than the lovely bijou of St. Louis.

  Of all the cruel profanations I have ever witnessed, that of turning this exquisite chef-d’oeuvre into a chest for old records is the most unpardonable: as if Paris could not furnish four walls and a roof for this purpose, without converting this precious châsse to it! It is indeed a pitiful economy; and were I the Archbishop of Paris, I would besiege the Tuileries with petitions that these hideous presses might be removed; and if it might not be restored to the use of the church, that we might at least say of it —

  — — “la Sainte Chapelle

  Conservait du vieux tems l’oisiveté fidèle.”

  This would at least be better than seeing it converted into a cupboard of ease to the overflowing records of the Palais de Justice. The length of this pretty reliquaire exactly equals its height, which is divided by a gallery into a lower and upper church, resembling in some degree as to its arrangement the much older structure at Aix-la-Chapelle, — the high minster there being represented by the Sainte Couronne here.

  As we stood in the midst of the floor of the church, M. J* * * pointed to a certain spot —

  “Et bientôt LE LUTRIN se fait voir à nos yeux.”

  He placed me to stand where that offensive mass of timber stood of yore; and I could not help thinking that if the poor chantre hated the sight of it as much as I did that of the ignoble cases containing the old parchments, he was exceedingly right in doing his utmost to make it disappear.

  Boileau lies buried here. The spot must have been chosen in consequence of the connexion he had established in the minds of all men between himself and its holy precincts. But it was surely the most lively and light-hearted connexion that ever was hallowed by so solemn a result. One might fairly steal or parody Vanburgh’s epitaph for him —

  “Rise graceful o’er him, roof! for he

  Raised many a graceful verse to thee.”

  The preservation of the beautiful painted glass of the windows through the two revolutions which (both of them) were so busy in labours of metamorphosis and destruction in the immediate neighbourhood, not to mention all the ordinary chances against the safety of so frail a treasure during so many years, is little short of miraculous; and, considering the extraordinary sanctity of the place, it is probably so interpreted by les fidèles.

  A remarkable proof of the reverence in which this little shrine was held, in consequence, I presume, of the relics it contained, may be found in the dignified style of its establishment. Kings and popes seem to have felt a holy rivalry as to which should most distinguish it by gifts and privileges. The wealth of its functionaries appears greatly to have exceeded the bounds of Christian moderation; and their pride of place was sustained, notwithstanding the petitesse of their dominions, by titles and prerogatives such as no chapelains ever had before. The chief dignitary of the establishment had the title of archichapelain; and, in 1379, Pope Clement VII. permitted him to wear a mitre, and to pronounce his benediction on the people when they were assembled during any of the processions which took place within the enclosure of the palace. Not only, indeed, did this arch-chaplain take the title of prelate, but in some public acts he is styled “Le Pape de la Sainte Chapelle.” In return for all these riches and honours, four out of the seven priests attached to the establishment were obliged to pass the night in the chapel, for the purpose of watching the relics. Nevertheless, it appears that, in the year 1575, a portion of the vraie croix was stolen in the night between the 19th and 20th of May. The thief, however, was strongly suspected to be no less a personage than King Henry III. himself; who, being sorely distressed for money, and knowing from old experience that a traffic in relics was a right royal traffic, bethought him of a means of extracting a little Venetian gold from this true cross, by leaving it in pawn with the Republic of Venice. At any rate, this much-esteemed fragment disappeared from the Sainte Chapelle, and a piece of the holy rood was left en gage with the Venetians by Henry III.

  I have transcribed, for your satisfaction, the list I find in Dulaure of the most sacred of the articles for the reception of which this chapel was erected: —

  Du sang de Notre Seigneur Jésus-Christ.

  Les drapeaux dont Notre Sauveur fut enveloppé en son

  enfance.

  Du sang qui miraculeusement a distillé d’une image de Notre

  Seigneur, ayant été frappé d’un infidèle.

  La chaîne et lien de fer, en manière d’anneau, dont Notre

  Seigneur fut lié.

  La sainte touaille, ou nappe, en un tableau.

  Du lait de la Vierge.

  Une partie du suaire dont il fut enseveli.

  La verge de Moïse.

  Les chefs des Saints Blaise, Clément, et Simon.

  Is it not wonderful that the Emperor of Constantinople could consent to part with such precious treasures for the lucre of gain? I should like to know what has become of them all.

  As late as the year 1770, the annual ceremony of turning out devils on Good Friday, from persons pretending to be possessed, was performed in this chapel. The form prescribed was very simple, and always found to answer perfectly. As soon as it was understood that all the demoniacs were assembled, le grand chantre appeared, carrying a cross, which, spite of King Henry’s supercherie, was declared to enclose in its inmost recesses a morsel of the vraie croix, and in an instant all the contortions and convulsions ceased, and the possessed became perfectly calm and tranquil, and relieved from every species of inconvenience.

  Having seen all that this lovely chapel had to show, and particularly examined the spot where the battle of the books took place, the passe-partout of M. J* * * caused a mysterious-looking little door in the Sainte Couronne to open for us; and, after a little climbing, we found ourselves just under the roof of the Palais de Justice. The enormous space of the grande salle below is here divided into three galleries, each having its entire length, and one-third of its width. The manner in which these galleries are constructed is extremely curious and ingenious, and well deserves a careful examination. I certainly never found myself in a spot of greater interest than this. The enormous collection of records which fill these galleries, arranged as they are in the most exquisite order, is one of the most marvellous spectacles I ever beheld.

  Amidst the archives of so many centuries, any document that may be wished for, however remote or however minute, is brought forward in an instant, with as little difficulty as Dr. Dibdin would find in putting his hand upon the best-known treasure in Lord Spencer’s library.

  Our kind friend obtained for us the sight of the volume containing all the original documents respecting the trial of poor Joan of Arc, that most ill-used of heroines. Vice never braved danger and met death with such steady, unwavering courage as she displayed. We saw, too, the fatal warrant which legalised the savage murder of this brave and innocent fanatic.

  Several other death-warrants of distinguished persons were also shown to us, some of them of great antiquity; but no royal hand had signed them. This painful duty is performed in France by one of the superior law-officers of the crown, but never by the hand of majesty.

  Another curious trial that was opened for our satisfaction, was that of the wretched Marquise de Brinvilliers, the famous empoisonneuse, who not only destroyed father, brother, husband, at the instigation of her lover, but appears to have used her power of compounding fatal drugs upon many other occasions. The murderous atrocities of this woman seem to surpass everything on record, except those of Marguérite de Bourgogne, the inconceivable heroine of the “Tour de Nesle.”
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  I was amused by an anecdote which M. J* * * told me of an Englishman to whom he, some years ago, showed these same curious papers — among which is the receipt used by Madame de Brinvilliers for the composition of the poison whose effects plunged Paris in terror.

  “Will you do me the favour to let me copy this receipt?” said the Englishman.

  “I think that my privilege does not reach quite so far as that,” was the discreet reply; and but for this, our countryman’s love for chemical science might by this time have spread the knowledge of the precious secret over the whole earth.

  LETTER LIII.

  French ideas of England. — Making love. — Precipitate retreat of a young Frenchman. — Different methods of arranging Marriages. — English Divorce. — English Restaurans.

  It now and then happens, by a lucky chance, that one finds oneself full gallop in a conversation the most perfectly unreserved, without having had the slightest idea or intention, when it began, of either giving or receiving confidence.

  This occurred to me a few days ago, while making a morning visit to a lady whom I had never seen but twice before, and then had not exchanged a dozen words with her. But, upon this occasion, we found ourselves very nearly tête-à-tête, and got, I know not how, into a most unrestrained discussion upon the peculiarities of our respective countries.

  Madame B* * * has never been in England, but she assured me that her curiosity to visit our country is quite as strong as the passion for investigation which drew Robinson Crusoe from his home to visit the....”

  “Savages,” said I, finishing the sentence for her.

  “No! no! no!... To visit all that is most curious in the world.”

  This phrase, “most curious,” seemed to me of doubtful meaning, and so I told her; asking whether it referred to the museums, or the natives.

  She seemed doubtful for a moment whether she should be frank or otherwise; and then, with so pretty and playful a manner as must, I think, have disarmed the angry nationality of the most thin-skinned patriot alive, she answered —

  “Well then — the natives.”

  “But we take such good care,” I replied, “that you should not want specimens of the race to examine and make experiments upon, that it would hardly be worth your while to cross the Channel for the sake of seeing the natives. We import ourselves in such prodigious quantities, that I can hardly conceive you should have any curiosity left about us.”

  “On the contrary,” she replied, “my curiosity is only the more piquée: I have seen so many delightful English persons here, that I die to see them at home, in the midst of all those singular customs, which they cannot bring with them, and which we only know by the imperfect accounts of travellers.”

  This sounded, I thought, very much as if she were talking of the good people of Mongo Creek, or Karakoo Bay; but being at least as curious to know what her notions were concerning the English in their remote homes, and in the midst of all their “singular customs,” as she could be to become better acquainted with them, I did my best to make her tell me all she had heard about us.

  “I will tell you,” she said, “what I want to see beyond everything else: I want to see the mode of making love tout-à-fait à l’Anglaise. You know that you are all so polite as to put on our fashions here in every respect; but a cousin of mine, who was some years ago attached to our Embassy at London, has described the style of managing love affairs as so ... so romantic, that it perfectly enchanted me, and I would give the world to see how it was done (comment cela se fait).”

  “Pray tell me how he described it,” said I, “and I promise faithfully to tell you if the picture be correct.”

  “Oh, that is so kind!... Well then,” she continued, colouring a little, from the idea, as I suppose, that she was going to say something terribly atrocious, “I will tell you exactly what happened to him. He had a letter of introduction to a gentleman of great estate — a member of the chamber of your parliament, who was living with his family at his chateau in one of the provinces, where my cousin forwarded the letter to him. A most polite reply was immediately returned, containing a pressing invitation to my cousin to come to the chateau without delay, and pass a month with them for the hunting season. Nothing could be more agreeable than this invitation, for it offered the best possible opportunity of studying the manners of the country. Every one can cross from Calais to Dover, and spend half their year’s income in walking or driving through the long wide streets of London for six weeks; but there are very few, you know, who obtain an entrée to the chateaux of the noblesse. In short, my cousin was enchanted, and set off immediately. He arrived just in time to arrange his toilet before dinner; and when he entered the salon, he was perfectly dazzled by the exceeding beauty of the three daughters of his host, who were all décolletées, and full-dressed, he says, exactly as if they were going to some very elegant bal paré. There was no other company, and he felt a little startled at being received in such a ceremonious style.

  The young ladies all performed on the piano-forte and harp, and my cousin, who is very musical, was in raptures. Had not his admiration been too equally drawn to each, he assures me that before the end of that evening he must inevitably have been the conquest of one. The next morning, the whole family met again at breakfast: the young ladies were as charming as ever, but still he felt in doubt as to which he admired most. Whilst he was exerting himself to be as agreeable as he could, and talking to them all with the timid respect with which demoiselles are always addressed by Frenchmen, the father of the family startled and certainly almost alarmed my cousin by suddenly saying,— “We cannot hunt to-day, mon ami, for I have business which will keep me at home; but you shall ride into the woods with Elizabeth: she will show you my pheasants. Get ready, Elizabeth, to attend Monsieur...!”

  Madame B* * * stopped short, and looked at me as if expecting that I should make some observation.

  “Well?” said I.

  “Well!” she repeated, laughing; “then you really find nothing extraordinary in this proceeding — nothing out of the common way?”

  “In what respect?” said I: “what is it that you suppose was out of the common way?”

  “That question,” said she, clasping her hands in an ecstasy at having made the discovery— “That question puts me more au fait than anything else you could say to me. It is the strongest possible proof that what happened to my cousin was in truth nothing more than what is of every-day occurrence in England.”

  “What did happen to him?”

  “Have I not told you?... The father of the young ladies whom he so greatly admired, selected one of them and desired my cousin to attend her on an excursion into the woods. My dear madame ... national manners vary so strangely.... I beseech you not to suppose that I imagine that everything may not be exceedingly well arranged notwithstanding. My cousin is a very distinguished young man — excellent character — good name — and will have his father’s estate ... only the manner is so different....”

  “Did your cousin accompany the young lady?” said I.

  “No, he did not — he returned to London immediately.”

  This was said so gravely — so more than gravely — with an air of so much more meaning than she thought it civil to express, that my gravity and politeness gave way together, and I laughed most heartily.

  My amiable companion, however, did not take it amiss — she only laughed with me; and when we had recovered our gravity, she said, “So you find my cousin very ridiculous for throwing up the party? — un peu timide, peut-être?”

  “Oh no!” I replied— “only a little hasty.”

  “Hasty!... Mais que voulez-vous? You do not seem to comprehend his embarrassment.”

  “Perhaps not fully; but I assure you his embarrassment would have ceased altogether, had he trusted himself with the young lady and her attendant groom: I doubt not that she would have led the way through one of our beautiful pheasant preserves, which are exceedingly well worth seeing; but most certa
inly she would have been greatly astonished, and much embarrassed in her turn, had your cousin taken it into his head to make love to her.”

  “You are in earnest?” said she, looking in my face with an air of great interest.

  “Indeed I am,” I replied; “I am very seriously in earnest; and though I know not the persons of whom we have been speaking, I can venture to assure you positively, that it was only because no gentleman so well recommended as your cousin could be suspected of abusing the confidence reposed in him, that this English father permitted him to accompany the young lady in her morning ride.”

  “C’est donc un trait sublime!” she exclaimed: “what noble confidence — what confiding honour! It is enough to remind one of the paladins of old.”

  “I suspect you are quizzing our confiding simplicity,” said I; “but, at any rate, do not suspect me of quizzing you — for I have told you nothing more than a very simple and certain fact.”

  “I doubt it not the least in the world,” she replied; “but you are indeed, as I observed at first, superiorly romantic.” She appeared to meditate for a moment, and then added, “Mais dites moi un peu ... is not this a little inconsistent with the stories we read in the ‘novels of fashionable life’ respecting the manner in which husbands are acquired for the young ladies of England?... You refuse yourselves, you know, the privilege of disposing of your daughters in marriage according to the mutual interests of the parties; and therefore, as young ladies must be married, it follows that some other means must be resorted to by the parents. All Frenchmen know this, and they may perhaps for that reason be sometimes too easily induced to imagine that it is intended to lead them into marriage by captivating their senses. This is so natural an inference, that you really must forgive it.”