University of Virginia Library
DC611.N848 G6 1927
ALD
The lure of Normandy,
AX 000 418 980

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LIBRARY OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA

UNIVERSITY
1819
OF
VIRGINIA
GIFT OF
ISAAC T. WALKE
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
1
!
THE LURE OF
NORMANDY
CHAPTER I
THE SEINE
It was a lovely day in early September, the sun
shining, the little crested wavelets dancing: all
nature, in fact, smiling a welcome to us as the
Hantonia steamed her stately way into the harbour
of Le Havre.
It is always a delightful moment, this arrival in
a foreign country. If the passage has been stormy,
the joy of finding it over is the greater; if, like our-
selves, you have passed a perfect night, lulled by
the gentle rocking of the waves, you wake refreshed
as you never do on shore, and hastening on deck,
watch with a child's delight the working of the
great cranes as they swing the piles of luggage
through the air.
I love this old "Haven," with its tall, dilapidated
houses, its wharves and crowded trams, its long
streets, and the funny little restaurant to which we
always make our way to eat our first French break-
11

ONE OF THE TOWERS OF ROUEN CATHEDRAL
THE LURE OF
NORMANDY
BY
FRANCES M. GOSTLING
OFFICIER D'ACADÉMIE FRANÇAISE
Author of "The Lure of French Châteaux," "The Lure of
English Cathedrals," "The Lure of the Riviera,” etc., etc.
ILLUSTRATED
A
NEW YORK
ROBERT M. MCBRIDE & COMPANY
1927
DC
611
.N848G6
1927
Copy 1
Published, May, 1927,
GIFT
Nov26%2
UV
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO
MY VERY DEAR AND FAITHFUL
FRIEND
MADEMOISELLE THÉRÈSE PARRE
WITH MY SINCERE AND
GRATEFUL AFFECTION
PREFACE
NORMANDY is a country of many Lures, and these
she employs to attract many different kinds of
people.
There is the Lure of her seaside resorts, almost
all of which are delightful and beautiful. Some of
these towns have been deliberately built as pleasure
centres, for example Deauville, constructed in a few
months in 1860 by the Duc de Morny, to provide
distractions for the Parisians. Others have taken
their origin from tiny fishing villages, to become
more or less important ports, each having its special
attractions, by no means the least of which is the
Casino, with its dancing-hall and gambling-tables.
Then there is the Lure of the open country, the
beautiful rolling chalk-downs, the apple orchards,
the quaint thatched villages, the ancient churches,
the wild forest and homely pastoral scenery, so
seductive to the walker, the cyclist, and the artist.
And the Lure of the old buildings. Ah, the old
buildings! The cathedrals, the churches, and castles
of Normandy are second to none, either in age or
beauty. And closely connected with this last
feature is the Historical Lure of Normandy, appeal-
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
ing especially to English-speaking people, because
for several centuries the stories of England and
Normandy were so closely interwoven.
The present little volume is chiefly concerned
with these last two aspects of Normandy. As we
wander from place to place, from castle to castle,
from cathedral to cathedral, we call to memory
some of the great events with which each has been
associated, the people who have walked the ancient
streets, the men and women whose bodies still lie
beneath the tombs of the churches, and particularly
shall we think of the great personages who have
made the Province of Normandy what it is to-day.
Here are Rollo and his Vikings, making their
way up the Seine in their quaintly shaped Scandi-
navian galleys. Here, at Caen, we shall find
Queen Matilda in the old castle, seated among her
ladies, stitching away at her famous embroidery.
We shall see King John of England stealing along
in his boat by night on that ghastly errand of his.
And as we walk up the Rue de la Grosse Horloge
at Rouen we meet Jeanne d'Arc riding to her fiery
death in the Market Place. . . .
But there is one character we shall encounter
everywhere in Normandy. There is no getting
away from him, for whether it is in the town or the
country we travel, this Normandy has remained
through the centuries the land of William surnamed
the Conqueror.
FRANCES M. GOSTLING.
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. THE SEINE
PAGE
11
II. CAUDEBEC
21
III. ROUEN.
53
IV. CHATEAU GAILLARD
95
V. EVREUX
102
VI. LISIEUX
VII. CAEN
VIII. FALAISE
IX. BAYEUX
111
120
·
149
·
169
ILLUSTRATIONS
One of the Towers of Rouen Cathedral .
The City of Rouen and the River Seine
The West Front of Caudebec Church
Rue de la Grosse Horlage
The Staircase to the Treasury, Rouen Cathedral
A Street near the Cathedral, Rouen
The Church of St. Maclou, Rouen
•
The Tour de Beurre, Notre Dame Cathedral,
Rouen
L'Aître de S. Maclou, Rouen
•
The Church of St. Stephen, Caen
The Abbaye of Ardennes
Frontis
Facing Page
44
45
60
61
92
93
·
108
109
•
•
124
125
A Farmyard in Old Normandy
140
A Typical Chateau in Normandy
140
The Castle of Falaise
156
·
Statue of William the Conqueror at Falaise
•
157
The Nave of the Cathedral at Bayeux
172
xi
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
3
THE LURE OF
NORMANDY
CHAPTER I
THE SEINE
It was a lovely day in early September, the sun
shining, the little crested wavelets dancing: all
nature, in fact, smiling a welcome to us as the
Hantonia steamed her stately way into the harbour
of Le Havre.
It is always a delightful moment, this arrival in
a foreign country. If the passage has been stormy,
the joy of finding it over is the greater; if, like our-
selves, you have passed a perfect night, lulled by
the gentle rocking of the waves, you wake refreshed
as you never do on shore, and hastening on deck,
watch with a child's delight the working of the
great cranes as they swing the piles of luggage
through the air.
I love this old "Haven," with its tall, dilapidated
houses, its wharves and crowded trams, its long
streets, and the funny little restaurant to which we
always make our way to eat our first French break-
11
12
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
fast. This little place was just beginning its daily
life when we arrived. The girl with the squint was
polishing the already spotless floor with petrol, the
landlady had just taken her seat upon the dais,
from which, sheltered by a hedge of aspidistras,
she could keep one eye on the room with its six
tables, and the other on the door leading to the
kitchen.
Since our last visit the landlord seemed to have
disappeared, but was replaced by a very busy little
fox-terrier, who rushed about seeing after every-
thing, and keeping the girls up to their work far
better than his late master had done.
After breakfast, having some hours to spare
before our boat started for Caudebec, we wandered
round to the public gardens which were even more
beautifully kept than we remembered, and no
wonder, for in the midst there is a great bronze
statue of a very imperious Francis I, the founder of
Le Havre, who stands looking out over a marvellous
carpet of begonias, while around are forests of
crimson and yellow cannas, fuchsias, roses, helio-
trope, and every other kind of flower which the
heart of a "Salamander" could desire.
I wonder what the great Francis would think
could he see his little port to-day. It was as a
shelter for vessels navigating the ocean that he
nominally established this haven; but there is no
doubt that it was actually intended as a war dépôt
to be used against England in time of need. We
strolled out to the Plage of the New Quay, where
1
THE SEINE
13
has been erected a very fine bronze statue given
by the Belgians to the city of Le Havre, in recog-
nition of the hospitality shown to the emigrants
during the Great War. Le Havre is quite a city
of statues. In front of the Hôtel de Ville, sitting
in a large bed of scarlet geraniums, we noticed one
of Bernardine de Saint Pierre, that æsthetic friend
and disciple of Rousseau, and author of the once
popular romance Paul and Virginia. He was born
at Le Havre in 1737.
The last time that we had travelled up the Seine
provisions had run short, and we had been obliged
to go without our lunch, so now we shopped before
embarking: a veal pie, some brioches, a basket of
ripe black figs, and thus provided took our places
among our bags and cameras on the bridge of the
Félix Faure. What a little thing she looked among
the great ships, and yet how Rollo the Northman
would have opened his handsome eyes could he
have seen us steaming out of the harbour. He
would certainly have thought it magic, and prayed
to Thor for aid. For a little while we sat comfort-
ably in our deck-chairs enjoying the scene, watching
the gulls wheel round in the sunlight, dipping now
and again to seize some tasty morsel floating on the
water. Then out we glided among the fishing-boats,
and the waves had grown white-capped, and we
thought how charming it all was, how much more
enjoyable than a stuffy railway carriage would have
been for hours and hours. Suddenly the scene
changed. I had just noticed that waves were
14
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
breaking over the harbour wall, when we found our
little steamer apparently battling for her very life
amid a tempest of wind and water. Our deck-
chairs slid from beneath us, and we were hurled
against the funnel, the bulwarks, anything which
projected. To add to the confusion, the luggage
which had been piled on deck was flung backwards
and forwards, so that we lay bruised and half-
buried beneath a sea of suit-cases and hat-boxes,
unable to extricate ourselves. It was really too
funny to be serious, and I think we were all able
to laugh. But how glad we were to find ourselves
a little later in smooth water, running up the
Seine.
It is very interesting this ancient waterway to
Rouen and Paris. We sat on deck in the sunshine,
trying to fancy ourselves those first "Northmanns"
who, more than a thousand years ago, made their
way by this selfsame route to the interior, leaving
death and desolation wherever they landed. There
was the celebrated Hasting, supposed to have been
a captive taken on some previous raid, but none
the less dreaded on that account. And there was
the great Rollo, of whom we shall have to speak
later.
But see, we are passing Tancarville with its
castle, set on the huge bare rock. Tancarville, once
the home of the chamberlains of the Dukes of
Normandy, the Montmorencys, the Harcourts, and
that Louis de la Tour d'Auvergne who, in the
early part of the eighteenth century, built the
THE SEINE
15
present château. Of the original fortress-dwelling
much remains. Ruined and ivy-grown as are the
ancient walls, it is not difficult for anyone to picture
it once more with its terrible donjons, occupied by
wretched prisoners, and the hearths of the upper
chambers, surrounded by lords and ladies and
laughing children. As to the gatehouse, with its
double portcullis and caged windows, its "Salle de
la Question," and other horror-haunted chambers,
one must still pass beneath that to reach the
modern château. The whole building stands,
as I have said, high above the river, on a great
cubical rock, which in Gaulish times was pro-
bably used as a fortress guarding the upper
waters of the Seine. It was on this rock that the
giant Gargantua used to sit while washing his feet
in the river!
A little beyond Tancarville, looking up a valley,
we shall catch a glimpse of the church tower of
Lillebonne, the successor of the Julia Bona of the
Romans. According to William of Malmesbury, it
was at the castle of Lillebonne, in a circular, vaulted
room of one of the ancient towers, that William,
then simple Duke of Normandy, arranged with his
barons for the invasion of England. The story has
been told once and for all by Master Wace in his
Chronicle of the Norman Conquest. He describes
William's speech, and the long council which en-
sued. As one stands there it is wonderful to think
that these very stones have echoed to the voice of
our first Norman king, as he described to his lords
16
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
how Edward the Confessor had made him his heir;
how Harold had sworn over a chest full of holy
relics to aid him in securing the kingdom of England;
of the breaking of this solemn oath; and how he
looked to them, his faithful knights, to help him in
punishing the perjurer, and taking possession of
the country. I remember that as I stood there for
the first time I could almost have sworn that I
heard the timid voices protesting, "Sire, but we
fear the sea, and we are not bound to serve be-
yond it!" But they had to give in, for William
was a Northman, and accustomed to get his own
way.
It was the wily FitzOsbern who was ordered to
quiet them. Having interviewed the malcontents,
and been appointed their spokesman, he led them
back into this room where William was waiting
for their answer. Listen, and you can hear Fitz-
Osbern's very words: "Sire, look around. There
is no people under heaven that so love their lord as
these people of yours. They tell me that, to ad-
vance you, they would swim through the sea, or
throw themselves into the raging fire. . . . He
who should bring twenty knights will cheerfully
bring forty; he who should serve with thirty will
now serve you with sixty!"
But at these words the murmuring begins again
louder than ever, until William, having ordered
them all to retire, has them in one by one, and
coaxes, flatters, promises vast honours and rewards,
till each says what he will do, and a scribe, sitting
THE SEINE
17
·
ready, immediately records it all on parchment.
There is Odo the Bishop, William's half-brother,
who promises forty ships; the Bishop of Mans who
offers thirty with their crews.
There used to
be a portrait of William, said to be contemporary,
on the wall of Saint Stephen's at Caen, but this has
disappeared. So I always fancy the great Pirate
Chief as he is represented in a fine modern picture,
hanging on the wall of the staircase leading to the
Public Library of that city. We shall have to say
so much about him in this visit to Normandy, that
we may as well try to recall him thus.
He stands fully armed, wearing his crown, a white
tunic, and a scarlet mantle lined with ermine. He
is tall, very broad and muscular, red-bearded,
and with the fierce blue eyes of the Vikings, his
ancestors. Behind him are grouped horses, one no
doubt being intended for that splendid charger,
given to him by the King of Spain, of which it was
said that "No better could be found, and which
feared neither armes nor throng." At his feet is
his shield, and altogether he looks such a warrior
that, if he really resembled this picture, it is not
surprising that the Viscount of Troaz exclaimed
when he saw him ready for the battle: "Never
have I seen a man so fairly armed, nor one who
rode so gallantly, or became his hauberk so
well."
But all this is ancient history, and the Castle of
Lillebonne as nearly demolished as the Roman
theatre itself. Yet as we stand looking down at
2
18
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
the great open hearth of the guard-room, or seat
ourselves in one of the deep window recesses, we
feel the old Normans very near to us, and the
thought comes into our minds how different things
might have been in England to-day, but for that
conference in the old Fortress of Lillebonne, nearly
a thousand years ago. For has not an old
chronicler of the period exclaimed: "Like the
brilliant sun at noonday, William the Conqueror
appeared on the earth. He placed England in the
rank she has ever since occupied."
Above Tancarville the Seine grows fairer and
fairer, the country alternating with the windings
of the stream, now the left being steep and wooded,
while the low banks on the right are fringed with
willows and alders, and further back little lost
farms can be seen nestling among orchards and
pastures. At the next broad curve all is reversed,
it is the left side which is pastoral, while on the right
are forest-covered cliffs. Sometimes a little Norman
church tower will be seen appearing above the trees,
and one's mind will turn to the long-forgotten lord
or lady who built it, possibly as an expiation for
sins committed in youth. It is these windings of
the river, these constant changes of scenery which
give to the Seine its peculiar feminine charm. For
just as the broad, masterful, unvarying Rhone has
always been regarded as masculine, inhabited by
that terrible Drac of whom Mistral tells, so Seine
with its coquettish wanderings, and coy meanderings,
has been accounted feminine, and as I sat watching
THE SEINE
19
the lovely banks flit past, the beautiful allegory
of Bernardine de Saint Pierre, whose statue we saw
at Le Havre, came into my mind, and I give it here,
for it evokes a picture of the river such as few poets
could give us:
"Seyne was the daughter of Bacchus, and had
followed the goddess Ceres on her sorrowful journey
as she travelled through the world looking for her
lost daughter, who had been stolen by the King of
the Underworld. They finished their wanderings
in the north of Gaul, and Ceres being about to
depart, Seyne prayed her to give in exchange for
her services the meadow lands which lie along this
valley up which we are travelling. This was
readily granted, and moreover the goddess promised
that, wherever the young nymph set her feet, corn
should spring up, and flowers and fruit; and so
she left her, giving her the nymph Heva as a com-
panion, to watch over and guard her, fearing lest
she might be carried away by the god of the sea,
just as Proserpine had been stolen by the god of
the underworld. However, one day Neptune saw
her, and, falling in love with her beauty, pursued
her with his great crested sea-horses. Already he
had nearly reached her, when she called upon
Bacchus her father, and on Ceres her mistress, for
aid. Then, just as Neptune stretched out his arms
to seize her, all her body dissolved into pure water.
But in spite of her transformation the sea god has
never ceased to love her. Twice each day he pur-
sues her with loud bellowings and roarings, and
20
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
each time Seyne escapes from him and flies away
up into the meadows, returning against the natural
habit of rivers toward her source. And all the time
she keeps her green waters pure and unsullied from
the blue waves of Neptune."
CHAPTER II
CAUDEBEC
We had decided to stay for a few days at Caudebec.
Everyone knows the quaint little town, especially
the English artist. One cannot visit a water-
colour exhibition without being struck with the
view of the cathedral spire soaring above the
ancient gabled roofs of the Place du Marché, or
recognising the grim old mansion of the Knights
Templars in the Rue de la Boucherie, and the
thought strikes one, what must Caudebec have
been when the walls were still standing with their
towers and heavy gateways. It was a very strong
place in those days, protected not only by military
skill, but by nature, for the hills close it in at the
back, and before it run the swift, broad waters
of the Seine, forming an almost impassable moat;
so that in the days before Big Berthas, Zeppelins,
and other modern war inventions, the little town
could lie behind her fortifications, and, if well
stocked with provisions, laugh at the enemy. And
laugh she did often, though not always. Moreover,
Caudebec was watered by the river Gertrude; and
21
22
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
this little stream, which may still be seen passing
through the midst of the town, assured the in-
habitants of a water-supply in time of siege. So
when in the fifteenth century the English, under
Lord Talbot and the Earl of Warwick, came against
it, they had hard work to capture this capital of
the country, key as it was to the doors of Rouen
and Paris. At the end of the Grande Rue you
may still see the remains of one of the great gate
towers, and just outside it a very ancient forge,
Maréchalerie E. Baron, still bearing its sign of a
horse sculptured on either side of the entrance,
and with window-fences made of horseshoes. Yes,
Caudebec must have been a very strong place in
those days.
In still more remote times, when it was a mere
fishing village (the town even to-day bears three
fish as its arms), there was a large island called
Belcinac lying between it and the opposite shore.
Upon it newly converted kings had built a monas-
tery, where they would, no doubt, combine religion
with comfort by putting up there when they came
to hunt in the vast forests of Brotonne, which still
lie on the opposite banks of the river. But Seyne
and Poseidon between them have long ago destroyed
the island with its monastery. For, like Quillebœuf,
this portion of the river is subject to the tidal wave,
the periodical return of which to-day forms one of
the chief attractions of Caudebec. People come
from all parts to see the great fight between the
sea and the river. The hotel is crowded. Notices
CAUDEBEC
23
are pinned up giving the time of the passing of
the sea god. Motors and vehicles of all kinds pour
in and block the pretty quay. Everyone has a
different opinion as to the best spot from which
to behold the struggle. For ourselves we wandered
up the towing-path, into the quiet country, where
we found the remains of a little wooden pier, and
there took up our stand.
It was low tide, and the river lay like a mirror,
green and lifeless, the reflections of the trees and
bushes clear and sharp as though painted on the
glassy surface of the water. Everything was so
still, so slumberous, that I had nearly fallen asleep,
when suddenly my husband grasped my arm.
"Wake up!" he cried; "look, there it is!" And
following the direction of his pointing finger, I
saw, far away, down beyond Villequier, a great
white, glistening bar, a huge bank of foaming water
rolling rapidly toward us. And still the river at
our feet lay sleeping, as though unconscious of the
rushing, struggling white horses, which were even
now bearing down upon it. It really was a most
wonderful sight. For, as the great wave came
nearer, it towered over the smooth, green water like
a crested cliff, and rushed with such force, such
volume, that it shook the pier on which we were
standing, flinging the foam up into our faces and
half blinding us. As soon as I could see again, the
whole aspect of the country had changed. The
sleeping river was awake, leaping, and dashing
against the banks, no longer torpid and green, but
24
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
irridescent like the feathers of a peacock, and
sparkling with foam-flecked wavelets, while, greatest
wonder of all, the stream, which has been lying a
moment before many feet below us, had risen to
a level with the planks on which we were standing.
Then, as we turned to look up-stream, we saw the
mighty bore disappearing, growing lower, losing
force as it vanished into the distance, and knew
that the sea god was giving up the chase beyond
Duclair, and that lovely Seine, having escaped, was
once more falling asleep, calm and untroubled,
between her banks.
In the ninth century Caudebec was but a tiny
fishing village, belonging to the great Benedictine
abbey of Saint Wandrille, the monks of which owned
all the fishing rights on this part of the river. We
will visit the ruins of this beautiful monastery later,
for it was by its influence that Caudebec became
the important place we find to-day. For the present
let us picture the town as a group of huts, lying
between the two forest-covered hills which still
shelter it to east and west.
One day, about the year 876, the fishers saw a
great procession of boats making their way up the
river, and knew by their curious build, and the
appearance of the chief who commanded them, that
the Men of the North were once more about to
ravage their country. These Northmanns, as they
were then called, believed themselves to be de-
scended from Noah, and claimed the God of War as
one of their early kings, appeasing him with sacri-
CAUDEBEC
25
fices of human blood. They increased at a very
great pace, for wherever they went they took to
themselves wives, and as soon as their sons grew
up they were turned out to fend for themselves, the
father reserving only one who became his heir.
The stories of these sea-robbers are endless and full
of horrors, as the peasants on the banks of the Seine
well knew, for this northern part of France had
suffered many times at the hands of such chiefs
as Bier the Invulnerable, and his commander-in-
chief Hasting.
This time, however, the expedition was led by
a new chief, a certain Rollo or Roll, who, having
been driven from his home in Denmark in the usual
manner, was on his way to seek a new country in
which to settle, and it is the story of this man and
his doings which form the beginning of the real
history of Normandy. It is said that the young
chief had already learned some rudiments of Christi-
anity from an early Scandinavian missionary, and
though the tale of his conquests is horrible enough
to make our hair stand up on our modern heads,
he was a trifle less savage and bloodthirsty than
his predecessors. Besides, while Hasting and his
fellows had been merely pirates, Rollo was an
emigrant desirous of founding a family and a duke-
dom. We shall hear of him again when we reach
Rouen. For the present, as we sit by the river,
we will only fancy we see his fleet disappearing
round one of the many bends, and mark the long
wake left by the boats and their heavy oars grow
26
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
broader and fainter till it fades in the glassy surface
of the river.
It is a quiet place, Caudebec. In the middle of
the day, to be sure, it wakes into noisy life, for the
road to Paris crosses the quay, and many motorists
stop for lunch in the flower-hung balcony of the
hotel. But they soon leave again, and the little
town grows quieter and quieter, till, if you go and
sit under the trees by the War Memorial, you can
almost fancy yourself back in the ninth century,
when King Charles the Bald gave the rights of
fishing here to the monks of the new Abbey of
Saint Wandrille hard by; or those later days when
Caudebec, already a little town, was given its first
church by that great builder of churches, Duke
William.
This first church, which was dedicated to Saint
Peter, stood on the same site as the present beautiful
building, but was in the massive Norman style of
the period. To it would flock the country-folk for
miles around, for churches were not so plentiful in
those days as they became later, though devotion
was stronger. It was probably served from the more
ancient Abbey of Saint Wandrille, or Fontanelles,
and, as it is the dominating and most beautiful
feature of Caudebec, let us go there as soon as
possible after our arrival.
If it be a Saturday we shall pass through the
market, and the market of Caudebec is a wonderful
sight, for the town is so small and the houses so
crowded together, surrounded as they were, until
CAUDEBEC
27
comparatively lately, with fortifications, that the
whole place seems full of market. Even the quay
in front of the hotel is covered by stalls and farmers'
carts. Very early they begin to arrive, and the
shopkeepers add to the confusion and crush by
bringing out their wares to the side-walk in front
of their houses, so that the roads are blocked not
only by stalls, but by farm implements, machinery,
huge red cider-presses, baskets, piles of felt slippers,
hats, boots, umbrellas, while yards of gorgeous
cretonnes lie in heaps or hang from the windows.
And there are sweet-stalls, fish-stalls, while tomatoes,
grapes, vegetables, and golden melons add to the
dazzling orgy of colour.
"How much?" I ask a woman, pointing to a
great, luscious, golden canteloupe.
"Madame, to you two francs," and I find myself
walking away with the awkward parcel. Another
woman wants me to buy a huge jar of oil, another
a wretched duck tied by the legs. And pots, pans,
brushes, shirts, boots, laces, shoes are thrust upon
me, till suddenly, upon turning a corner to avoid
the poultry-stalls which always upset me, the noise
It is as if I had been suddenly struck deaf.
In the distance I can still hear the faint babble
of voices, the penny whistles of the children, the
street cries, the footsteps: then, passing beneath
an ancient doorway with hangings of frozen lace,
from which peep the remains of many a tiny,
mediæval figure, I find myself in the silence of the
nave. I suppose the church of Caudebec would be
ceases.
28
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
called Florid, or Flamboyant: and I have heard
people criticise it in various ways. To me it is a
church apart, not to be compared with any other.
Its walls appear like carven ivory, stained here and
there by time, and the sunlight streaming in through
the jewelled glass of ancient windows. In the
morning the western end is coloured by the re-
flection of the Red Sea in which Pharaoh and his
horsemen are plunging madly; while above, in
another picture, large, round, white cakes of manna
are falling upon starving Israelites. The north aisle
is dark, mysterious, with remnants of the frescoes
with which the whole interior was no doubt once
covered. But the nave with its huge, cylindrical
columns, each crowned with a wreath of delicate
foliage, is full of light. There is no break between
it and the choir, save an old wooden screen, sur-
mounted by a formidable row of iron spikes. At
its door, during Mass on Sunday, the beadle stands
majestic in gorgeous uniform, armed with his hal-
bert, and girt with an antique sword, ready to guard
the clergy and choir from profane interruption.
The high altar stands against a central pillar from
either side of which springs an arch; and above the
altar, leaning against the pillar, is a great gilded
statue of the Virgin with her Son in her arms.
Behind, separated by the ambulatory, is the Lady
Chapel, all blue, ruby, and gold, a dream of painted
glass and delicate groined roofing, the ribs of which,
meeting in the centre, form the beautiful hanging
keystone of the vaulting-a graceful pendant four-
CAUDEBEC
29
teen feet in length, a wonder, a prodigy of archi-
tectural skill.
Here, before the sculptured altar, lies the founder,
and let into the wall to the south is a slab giving
the name of the architect-builder. The little old
fifteenth-century house where he was born still
stands in the Grande Rue, and on it is a tablet
bearing the words: "Ici était la maison de Guil-
laume Letellier, maître des œuvres de maçonnerie
de l'Église de Caudebec."
In a small booklet by Madame Julie la Verge
there is a charming story told of the building of the
spire of this church of Caudebec. It shows us the
master builder, Letellier, unable to conceive a worthy
design for a spire to his masterpiece. It tells of
a visit he paid, with his young daughter and a
favourite pupil, to the chapel of Barre-y-Var,
which still dominates the river half way between
Villequier and Caudebec. The girl has been gathering
flowers-clematis, wild roses, harebells, and the like
-which she has woven into light, fragile garlands.
"For whom are those crowns?" asks her father,
and she answers: "For Our Lady of Barre-y-Var."
"But She cannot wear three, my child," says
Letellier; at which the girl answers, nodding sagely,
that he will see!
Arrived at the chapel, the old and beloved statue,
to which even to-day pilgrims are in the habit of
resorting, is crowned with the smallest wreath, a
second serves as a necklace, the third as a girdle.
The child has solved the riddle, for Letellier, drawing
30
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
out the pencil, without which he never stirs abroad,
makes a sketch of a spire, so light that it looks as
though a breath might blow it away, and around
it, to strengthen it, he sets three delicate crowns, so
light and yet so strong that after centuries of wind
and rain the spire of Caudebec is as perfect as on
the day it was first erected.
In 1419 Caudebec was besieged by the English,
who already held Rouen and a great part of the
country of Caux. Both Talbot and Warwick were
set apart for the task of capturing this key to the
upper waters of the Seine; but, in spite of the fright-
ful bombardment which ensued, during which many
houses were wrecked, and the church itself damaged
by the great stone missiles of the period, Caudebec
managed to hold out for six months. Then, indeed,
the inhabitants were obliged to give in, and the
town became English under the command of the
great Talbot. Sixteen years later, the peasants,
encouraged by their many successes in turning the
enemy out of most of the surrounding country,
determined to recapture Caudebec. It was a
Sunday, and some of the French captains expostu-
lated, saying that they had already done extremely
well during the week, and that Sunday ought to
be devoted to thanking God for their victories.
But Le Carnier, chief of the peasant army, remained
inflexible.
"Ye are traitors!" cried he, and bade his men
drive on with the waggons. It was as they were
entering the village of Saint Gertrude, which lies in
CAUDEBEC
31
the valley above Caudebec, that they encountered
the English; and being no match for the archers,
who were celebrated all over Europe, were either
shot down, or cut to pieces, so that, as an old writer
says, "A curse being upon them, the country of
Caux was left without inhabitants."
Some of these tall buildings around the church
have looked down on Charles the Seventh and the
great Dunois making their royal progress through
the streets after the capture of Rouen. Most of
the nobles in the procession wore, no doubt, the
fine, soft, kid gloves for which the town of Caudebec
was celebrated, and the fashionable hats long known
as Caudebecs.
I have not time to speak of the days when the
Huguenots took possession and wrecked the church,
which was then in the full exuberance of its beauty.
Fortunately, they were not able to reach the match-
less spire, or the balustrade where, in huge letters
of stone, once gilded, can still be read the words,
“Tota pulchra es amica mea et macula non est
in te... &c." But they vented their spite upon the
beautiful west door and the interior of the north
aisle! Built into the wall is a plaque which tells,
in the spelling of the period, of that black day of
destruction: "La désolation de ceste egle fut le
12 de May 1562." And after it was done, when
the town was still mourning over its mutilated
treasure, came the Duke of Palma, Alexander
Farnese, and besieged and took Caudebec, which
cost him his life. For he was wounded in the arm,
32
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
but continued to fight on till he had captured the
town. Even then, when Henry of Navarre had cut
off his provisions, the dying man still led his troops
from a litter, and it was only after he had got them
all into safety to the other side of the river that he
died. That was the end of the story of Caudebec.
Since those days the little town has lain sleeping
beside her river, watching the ships go up and down
with the tide, and the laden barges pass slowly by
on their way to Rouen or Paris. After dinner, one
sits at the open window, beyond which, like a thick,
black, velvet curtain, hangs the night, and the
silence is hardly broken by the soft ripple of the
tide washing against the quay. Then far off sounds
a horn, and our eyes try to pierce the darkness for
the ship which is calling for a pilot to conduct her
on the next stage of her journey seawards . . .
a pause... and presently in the darkness we
shall see three lights gliding past, ghostly lights,
telling of a phantom ship starting out upon her
voyage into the unknown.
Before we leave this adorable little riverside
Caudebec, let us see something of the country in
which it nestles, that Pays de Caux of which so
much has been written.
There is Saint Wandrille, the great abbey of which
Caudebec was the dependency. This beautiful ruin,
now so silent and deserted, was one of the most
celebrated Benedictine houses in Europe. The
story of its foundation in the seventh century is
very interesting; and as, after leaving the river
CAUDEBEC
33
valley we walk over the hill by the ancient track
trodden for so many centuries by the monks, and
drop down into the little village which still bears
the name of its founder, we will think over the story
of this young Saint who is said to have originated
the monastery.
Wandrille was a favourite kinsman of King
Dagobert of Merovingian fame, who made him
Count of the palace, and, being a much married man
himself, with almost as many wives as King Solomon,
was naturally anxious for this young favourite
relation of his to follow in his steps and found a
family. So the King selected a charming young
girl, and the match was arranged. But Wandrille,
like many of the more serious-minded young men
of the court, had no mind to marry, his thoughts
being all set on religion, and yet he was afraid to
disappoint his all-powerful and somewhat irascible
relation: so the marriage was celebrated. But no
sooner did Wandrille find himself alone with his
bride, still lovely in her rich wedding attire, than
he began describing to her the excellence and
virtue of a single life devoted to the service of
God.
"Ah!" cried she, "but why did you not speak of
this sooner? I also had resolved to consecrate
myself to God." So I suppose they talked it over,
for the young couple left the palace that night,
she to enter a convent, he to travel from monastery
to monastery, till one day a relation called Erchin-
bald, who had just purchased this beautiful valley
3
34
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
into which we are descending, from a Frankish lord
named Rothmar, made a present of it to Wandrille.
Now the place was already renowned for a sacred
fountain dedicated to some pagan deity. To it
people for many miles used to resort on account of
its marvellous curative waters. Around this well
ancient buildings had gathered where Druidical
rites were still practised. Altogether it must have
been a very weird and mysterious place, and the
ardent young Christian convert was not long in
begging to be allowed by his superior to "chase
away the false gods," and replace the worship of
Teutates by that of the White Christ.
It was after this fountain that the monastery
which Wandrille built was first called. You will see
the name still figuring over the entrance gate,
Fontanella. As for the fountain itself, which lay
at about half a mile from the new monastery, it
became known as the Fountain of Callouville, and
beside it was erected a chapel dedicated to Our
Lady. To this place many pilgrims resorted in
hope of a cure, for it was good for all ills. Even
King Louis XI visited it, but whether with success
I do not know. Statues representing various com-
plaints were once to be seen around the fountain,
and into the sacred waters sick persons and newly-
born children were plunged, while the gospel for
the day was read; and as late as 1888 there was held
on the first Friday of May a great pilgrimage to the
fountain. But these practices have passed away,
and it is in the parish church of Saint Wandrille
CAUDEBEC
35
that we shall find most of the ancient statues-Saint
Méen, specialist for skin complaints; Saint Mamers,
for pains in the stomach; St Lawrence, for burns and
toothache; Saint Alexis, for terrors. But, if you
wish to seek relief from paralysis or migraine, you will
have to visit a certain old statue of Saint Saturnin,
climbing up into the woods which lie beyond the
monastery wall to the north, and find your way to
a tiny eleventh-century chapel. There you will see
a large archaic-looking figure to which pilgrims
still resort, I believe. I was very anxious to visit
this chapel, and asked a girl in the valley if she
knew the way. "Yes," she said, "but it is difficult
to find. Would madame like me to accompany
her?" Certainly madame would, and, after re-
freshing ourselves with a cup of coffee, off we set
for the forest chapel, which has replaced the original
hermitage of Saint Wandrille. On the way we passed
the entrance to the abbey, and soon after began our
climb; and, as we went, the girl told me the story
of the statue, which she always referred to as
"Saint Retourné."
“But," said I at last, “I thought it was a statue
of Saint Saturnin?"
"Perhaps," she replied, "but we always call him
Saint Retourné, because of his returning to his old
place."
It appears that when the first church of Saint
Wandrille was built it was dedicated to all the Saints,
the master builder undertaking to place in it statues
of all then in the calendar. "You may have noticed
36
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
how many there are in our church. However, Saint
Saturnin, or as we call him Retourné, would not
remain. Evidently he preferred to be by himself in
his chapel in the wood. He refused to stay with
the others, and, however safely he was shut in at
night, in the morning he was back in his old place.
They even fixed him with nails, and locked and
bolted the doors of the church; but he would steal
away during the night, and in the morning there
he was, comfortably placed in his chapel. It is
said that the mason was so vexed that he applied
for help to Monsieur Satan; but even he was no
match for Saint Saturnin, and so they built him an
altar in his chapel in the wood."
It was a wonderful little place this chapel, so dark
that it was impossible to photograph the rude
Norman apse or the old statue of the Saint. The
forest reached to its very door, and roofed it over-
head, so that it was wrapped in a perpetual twilight,
like the story of the strange old Saint it sheltered.
There was no breeze, not a leaf stirred, time itself
seemed to stand still, and we fancied ourselves
back in the days of the pious youth Wandrille,
who, no doubt, often and often worshipped on this
very spot.
On our return we visited the abbey itself. It is
a quiet and beautiful place, but how melancholy,
how ghostly! For a long while we wandered about
among the ruins, admiring the remains of the splen-
did cloisters, and especially that gem of mediæval
sculpture, the lavabo, where the monks used to
CAUDEBEC
37
There we shall
wash before entering the refectory.
notice, as no doubt they did, the scene of the
baptism of our Lord, and remark how an angel is
standing by with a towel. Part of the abbey
belongs, or did until lately, to Maurice Maeterlinck,
who, I have been told, gave first productions of
many of his wonderful plays here. How weird
they must have seemed among these haunted
surroundings!
"Do you ever see any ghosts?" I asked of the
pleasant-faced young woman who showed us round.
She laughed and shook her head. But I am sure
that if I walked these cloisters by moonlight I
should feel the old monks all around me; and some
of them, in spite of their sacred calling were, I am
afraid, not very pleasant people to meet. I have
an old book in which strange and terrifying stories
are told of those who offended the monks of Saint
Wandrille. There was the dishonest bell-founder,
who, having received metal from the abbot to cast
a bell for the parish church, was tempted by its
quality to change it for some of less value. It is
said that, whenever the bell sounded, the wretched
man went mad, and howled like a dog.
And there was the wicked sacristan who stole the
great golden cross and chalice which had been given
to the abbey by Saint Wulfran. It was by this
beautiful door leading out of the cloister that he
entered the church with his accomplice. When the
theft was discovered, the actual robber was hanged;
but the monk, shunned by all, was allowed to live
38
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
out his days. He was buried in front of this very
door; and from his grave, poisoned by his sacri-
legious crime, continued to issue for many years
multitudes of loathsome toads.
As we walk up the nave of the ruined church,
and reach the site of the high altar, we shall be
reminded of a beautiful story told in the Chronicon
Fontanellense. The buildings had been lying in
ruins ever since they were wrecked by Hasting and
his savage crew; even the altar had disappeared.
One day a great lord named Tostig, who was hunting
in the forest, saw the stag, closely pursued by the
hounds, make its way into the abbey grounds.
Gaining the spot where once the church had stood,
it ran to the site of the altar and, turning, faced the
dogs. A moment later Tostig entered, to see his
hounds gathered in a circle, with glaring eyes and
bristling backs, not daring to advance, and in his
eagerness spurred his horse forward. But the pious
beast, like the dogs, was able to see further into the
unknown than the man, and, recognising the sanctity
of the place, refused to move. So Tostig, dismount-
ing, offered his humble prayer to God, to whom the
sacred place was dedicated, and thereafter made
it his business to publish far and wide the astound-
ing miracle.
A few miles east of Saint Wandrille, lying in a
beautiful valley surrounded on three sides by the
Seine, we shall find another great abbey, that of
Jumièges. The story of its foundation takes us
once more to the Court of Dagobert, for Philibert,
CAUDEBEC
39
the founder, was one of the little band of saintly
young men to which Wandrille belonged. They
were looked upon with some contempt as mystics.
But their names have come down to us as saints-
Saint Eloi, Saint Didier, Saint Ouen, Saint Arnault,
and many others. They formed a little society of
their own at the brilliant but scandalous Merovingian
court, the great king of which, as someone has said,
was distinguished equally by his strict adminis-
tration of justice and the number and variety of
his wives."
66
Gradually the young men, having completed
their studies, drifted away, and became powers for
good in different parts of the country. Philibert,
after having travelled through Italy and elsewhere,
studying the rules of different religious houses,
returned to Normandy and begged his friend Ouen
to allow him to found a monastery somewhere in
his diocese of Rouen. But where could he obtain
the land on which to build? The much married
Dagobert was dead; we can still find his tomb in
the royal mausoleum at Saint Denis. Clovis, his
son, was reigning in his stead, and he had married
a beautiful and pious Breton girl named Bathilde.
She it was who persuaded her husband to give the
monk the site of an old Roman castrum which lay
on the banks of the Seine. Here were quickly
raised three churches and the necessary accom-
modation for seventy monks. They followed the
rule of Saint Colomban, their time being partly
spent in prayer and contemplation, partly in
40
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
clearing the forests, and partly in evangelising
the people.
These early religious communities must have been
a great blessing to the wretched peasants of Nor-
mandy, broken and pillaged as they were by con-
stant war, famine, and pestilence. The monks were
their only doctors, teachers, and friends, almost as
poor and hard working as themselves, but better
educated, and with a knowledge of agriculture,
which was the foundation of the prosperity of the
Norman peasantry. Unfortunately, when riches
came to be heaped upon them by kings and princes,
some of these great communities became self-
indulgent, and lost their first fervour. It was so
with Jumièges under certain of the later abbots.
As we follow our guide through the ruins, looking
up at the mighty Norman towers and arches, we
pause to think of some of the events which have
taken place within these walls or in the more humble
building which preceded the present church. It is
thus that we recall those two unfortunate sons of
Clovis and Bathilde, who, having rebelled against
their father, were sentenced by the Queen to have
their sinews cut, and to be set afloat on the Seine,
to drift where Providence should take them.
There is a great sculptured funeral slab in the
little museum, which the good woman who accom-
panies us will tell us once covered the princes. For
it was to Jumièges they drifted, to be taken in and
tended by the monks for the rest of their melan-
choly lives. It is a charming story, only I am afraid
CAUDEBEC
41
it is not true, for even in Merovingian days boys of
four and six did not rebel against their fathers, and
that was the age of these young princes when Clovis
the Second died. However, there are plenty of
other interesting people connected with the abbey.
These ancient walls and arches have looked down
on Edward the Confessor, who, while spending a
week at Caudebec, visited Jumièges; on Harold,
who, according to one tradition, swore his kingdom
away at this same abbey; it was up the nave of
this great church of Saint Mary that the long proces-
sion marched when the Archbishop of Rouen con-
secrated the building in the presence of William the
Conqueror and his court; later came Richard
Cœur de Lion, to return thanks to God after his
captivity. But perhaps the most romantic figure
we shall evoke at Jumièges is that of the beautiful
Agnes Sorel-la Belle des Belles, as her lover
Charles VII named her. He built a house for her
near the abbey, and used often to be seen there
with her. You can see the place to-day at Mesnil-
sous-Jumièges. As for Agnes, whatever were her
relations with the King, she was, according to
the tradition which has survived at Jumièges, a
gentle, religious person, and very charitable to the
poor, who loved her. What remains of her house
is now a peasant's cottage, but her spirit seems still
to linger in the apple orchards and country lanes
which lie around her former home.
One day we went by an old motor bus up to
42
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
Yvetot, a most amusing expedition. The route
leads up a steep valley to the north, passing on the
left the road to Saint Gertrude, whose ancient church
is well worth a visit, had we time. After climbing
for some distance we emerge on to the high plateau
which lies above the Seine, and from the southern
fringe of which Henry of Navarre bombarded
Caudebec. It is a strange contrast after the valley
of the Seine, for we find ourselves in a rolling country
of chalk downs, not wild, like those of Sussex, for
every foot is cultivated; and even the cows, source
of so much wealth to Normandy, are carefully
tethered and obliged to finish the pasture in one
place before beginning the next. Here and there
we pause at a solitary farm or cottage, to throw out
some empty vegetable baskets, or a milk can or
two, and so get a peep into the clean kitchen with
its brass pans and coppers, and the great clock
with its shining pendulum moving slowly to and
fro. William the Conqueror and his troops have
passed this way. It was thick forest-land in those
days, and oh! the weary miles and miles of road
they had to traverse before reaching Yvetot. But
the autobus makes nothing of it, and we soon
arrive at the little town which belonged in the
sixth century to a certain Gaultier, chamberlain of
Clotaire the First.
There is a romantic story told of the great affec-
tion which the King bore this Gaultier, and of the
jealousy of the courtiers, who made such mischief
that Clotaire, convinced at last that his favourite
CAUDEBEC
43
had planned to murder him, killed him as he knelt
before him in the church. But it is a dim, uncertain
story, lost in the mists which overshadow those
wild Merovingian days; and I should scarcely men-
tion it, save that the legend goes on to say that the
King, mad with grief when he learned how he had
been deceived by his wicked lords, sought to make
amends to the shade of his friend, by creating Yvetot
and the district into a little tributary kingdom, to
be ruled by the descendants of the unfortunate
Gaultier, thus giving rise to the title Le Roi d'Yvetot.
But probably most of us associate the expression
with a little song of Bérenger, which we learned in
our youth, and which runs:
"Il était un Roi d'Yvetot
Peu connu dans l'histoire,
Se levant tard, se couchant tôt,
Dormant fort bien sans gloire
Et couronné par Jeanneton
D'un simple bonnet de coton."
I think that Bérenger must have been familiar
with sleepy little Yvetot, for it only wakes up once
a week, on market day, and for the rest of the time
certainly appears to sleep "fort bien et sans gloire!"
One grows idle at Caudebec, for indeed I think
that the mere fact of living beside a river like the
Seine makes one lazy. The pottering little walk
to Villequier, to drink one's afternoon coffee, and
watch the pilots start off to board the vessels
coming up and down the river, how charming that
44
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
is! I have always thought that I should like to
spend a springtide at Villequier, when the gardens
which run down to the river are glowing with tulips,
and the woods overflowing with primroses and
violets, while the orchards on the further shore
are white with apple-blossom. For it is a quiet,
peaceful spot, where one can live for the merest
trifle, and fish, or gossip with the pilots, or ramble
in the woods, or, crossing by the ferry, explore the
country on the other side of the river.
On Sunday we might sometimes go to the parish
church, passing in the cemetery the grave of Madame
Victor Hugo, who was drowned here in a boat
accident: sometimes, through the dim tunnel of
beech trees we would make our way to the ancient
pilgrimage chapel of Barre-y-Var, where the walls
are covered with the ex voto tablets of pilgrims.
But life is so short, and there are so many places
to visit in this interesting world of ours, that Ville-
quier usually has to be crowded into an afternoon
between lunch and dinner.
Our room at Caudebec was high up, looking out
over the Seine to the broad, fertile country beyond;
and for a long time we contented ourselves with
wondering what it was like over there, or at most
would cross by the ferry, and wander about among
the orchards, watching the calves and lambs frisking,
or talking to the old men and women who inhabit
the ruinous, thatched cottages, so priceless to paint,
so hopelessly uncomfortable to dwell in. Then
one afternoon we ventured a little further, and

THE CITY OF ROUEN AND THE RIVER SEINE

THE WEST FRONT OF CAUDFBEC CHURCH
CAUDEBEC
45
came upon the café of Madame Roland. Madame
herself was looking out of the window, though I
really could not see that there was anything to
look at. She brought us some black coffee in
tumblers, and we fell into conversation, while the
scent of black-currant bushes filled the air, and the
bees hummed drowsily among the flowers.
"The people of this side of the river seem quite
different from those of Caudebec," said I.
"But yes," she replied proudly. "On this shore
we are Gauls; on the other, at Caudebec for instance,
they are Normans."
I do not know how much truth there may be in
this statement, nor in what someone else told me,
namely, that the two peoples rarely intermarry.
Certainly the inhabitants of the south bank of the
Seine are even now far more isolated than their
neighbours of the north, and, before the steam ferry
arrived, the country of Vatteville and the Forest of
Brotonne must have been a foreign land to those
of the northern shore. Perhaps that is why it is
still so haunted by legends of phantoms, witches,
and all kinds of horrors.
We motored through this forest one afternoon,
crossing by the new ferry (the old one having been
run down by a heavy barge some week or two
earlier), and proceeding due south. The road at
first led through orchards, and past little ancient
half-timber farms, roofed with ruinous thatch, in
which purple iris and other flowers had taken root,
till presently we saw before us a great forest of
46
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
pines, rising like a vast black level wall against
the deep blue of the sky. In these days the trees
are cultivated, made to grow in regular rows and
plantations, now oak, now pine, beech, silver birch.
But if we had traversed this district in ancient
times we should have found a very different forest.
We might have come upon magic fountains, great
Druidical stones, and mysterious tumuli, beneath
which, according to popular belief, lay hidden
treasures, guarded by phantoms and strange savage
antediluvian beasts; for this Forest of Brotonne
was a ghostly place indeed, when the Merovingian
kings, and even the later Norman dukes, used to
hunt there. To-day there is little game to tempt
anyone; though indeed once, at a spot where the
road broke into five diverging rides, we saw in the
distance a stag with a couple of does. But it was
so unusual a sight in that silent forest that I half
believed it was a vision.
After some miles the woodland ceased, the road
mounted through open cultivated fields, we crossed
a wild common scattered with stunted pines, and
came upon the little town of Routot. Here we had
been told to inquire for some marvellous yews, sole
survivors of a prehistoric sacred grove in whose
depths Druids once offered sacrifices. We were
directed to this spot, known as La Haye de Routot,
by a charming-looking old woman, who told us
that if we went by the Grande Rue we could not
fail to find these "Ifs remarkables." The Grande
Rue turned out to have degenerated into a narrow
1
CAUDEBEC
47
country lane full of ruts and holes which our motor
much resented, but led us at last through orchards
to the village—a tiny, remote place of four or five
thatched cottages, and isolated from the world by
miles and miles of forest land. And there, indeed,
we found the sacred trees.
They stand in the churchyard, or rather the
village church stands within the sacred precincts
which from time immemorial have surrounded the
yews. Once, I suppose, they formed part of a
Druidical grove, and at their roots may have been
buried the bodies of sacrificed victims; who shall
say? We found them still shadowing the graves
of descendants of those early men and women.
We had not expected to find anything larger or
more ancient than the yews of Kingly Vale in our
own Sussex, the trunks of which average about
seventeen or eighteen feet in circumference. But
they are mere striplings compared with these two
ancestors. The trunk of the larger is said to measure
thirty-nine feet; it is hollow, and has within it a
chapel, dedicated to Saint Anne, capable of holding
forty persons. True, the foliage of these ancient
trees is not so luxuriant as that of our own still
beautiful giants. But that of itself, like the scanty
hair of an old man, seems an additional proof of
their great age.
Within the church, old and musty, we found a
strange "bénitier," once the foot of a calvary, and
carved with the instruments of the Passion; and
fixed to a rough carrying frame a little fir-tree
48
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
decorated with paper roses; and I thought, as I
looked at the weird, archaic building, its beams
supported by dragons' heads, how more than likely
it was that the first Christian missionary who
penetrated the forest had raised his little sanctuary
on the very site of the Druidical altar of sacrifice.
Those chapels in the very hearts of the yews! That
little tree evidently still carried in procession!
The mere fact of the Christian sanctuary having
been built under the shadow and, as it were, pro-
tection of the yews, shows how sacred they were
held. They were old when Rollo came this way;
old when Saint Denis preached in Paris; old when
the Romans built the theatre at Lillebonne; old even
when Druidism was first introduced into Normandy.
"How old do you think they are?" I asked the
haughty "priestess" who showed us the little chapel.
She stared through me with her lizard-like eyes till
I felt like shrinking into the earth from very youth.
"How should I know?" said she. "My grand-
mother used to say that 'les Ifs' were here when
Seigneur Dieu planted the apple-tree in Eden."
And, as I looked at the gnarled and twisted trunks,
I could almost believe the story! What scenes
have not they witnessed! They have a strange
reddish tint as though stained with blood, and
what blood? Even in the church itself the thought
haunted me, and I wondered whether the first altar
had been built on the site of the sacrificial altar of
the Sacred Grove of Routot.
From La Haye de Routot we passed to Pont
CAUDEBEC
49
Audemar, a winding road lined with acacias, and
found the little town lying picturesquely on the
banks of the Risle, surprising one with its broad,
stately Place and extraordinary church dedicated
to Saint Ouen. Such a church I had never seen, for
the Norman chancel is very low, very dark, very,
very ancient, while the Gothic nave is immensely
lofty, very ornate, and of the fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries. It gives one the idea that some well-
intentioned person having made a vow to rebuild
the whole church died before the work was ac-
complished, having mercifully left the beautiful, old
choir to the last, in order that the services might
not be discontinued during the period of recon-
struction.
Poor little Pont Audemar has had her share of
troubles, especially in the fifteenth century, when
the English and French struggled for possession of
the town. And no wonder, for it really is a charm-
ing place, and lies in the midst of most interesting
and beautiful country. It is said to derive its name
from a certain lord called Aumer, or Omer, who
built the first bridge over the Risle. It was here
that the great Roman road, leading from Lillebonne
to Lisieux, crossed the river, and the toll-house
which Aumer set up soon constituted the chief part
of his income. When later Rollo the Northman
divided this land among his chiefs, he gave Pont
Audemar to Bernard the Dane, who was an ances-
tor of the Harcourt (Héricourt) family. His de-
scendants continued to dwell on the banks of the
4
50
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
Risle-the Torfs, the Turolfs, and the rest of the rude
Scandinavian men, always ready for pillage and
slaughter-till in the reign of Duke Henry I the
savage Waleran dared to plot and revolt against
his overlord. His castle was besieged and destroyed,
and terrible was the vengeance of Waleran. For
no sooner had the Duke's soldiers departed than
the order was given to cut off the feet of all the
dwellers in the Forest of Brotonne as a punishment
for their remaining faithful to their lord the Duke.
Awful days those were for Pont Audemar, for the
castle soon rose again from its ruins to be the terror
of the neighbourhood.
To-day Pont Audemar is a quiet country town,
very proud of its past history and of its picturesque
and interesting surroundings. They call it the
Norman Venice; and, indeed, the many branches
of the Risle, which find their way through the town,
give it a certain resemblance to the Italian city, and
as to the surrounding country it is certainly delight-
ful. There is Aizier, with its memories of the
ancient Gauls, who once peopled Normandy, and
possessing a very early Norman church, with a five-
storied tower surmounted by an oblong, stone
pyramid. Apville, too, whose castle was the home
of Admiral Claud Annabault and his daughter
Madeline. But most interesting and wonderful of
all to me is Bec Hellouin, the great abbey, founded
in the eleventh century by the saintly Sieur de
Bonneville, Hellouin. To-day it is a ruin, but
what a ruin! The huge and splendid tower of the
CAUDEBEC
51
church remains, and ruined refectories and dormi-
tories, and the gateway of the Abbot's house,
through which most of the great people of ancient
times have passed. Henry V of England stayed for
some time at this abbey, and Francis I spent a
week there. But we think most of all of the great
Lanfranc, afterwards friend and protégé of William
the Conqueror, arriving at the abbey, robbed and
humbled on his journey to Rouen. And how his
genius quickly raised the House to the height it
later occupied. And we think of the good Anselm,
saintly Archbishop of Canterbury, who was educated.
here, and prayed and taught among these surround-
ings. For Bec Hellouin quickly became the greatest
school in Europe for the training of ecclesiastics;
and as we wander through the beautiful ruins, and
gaze up at the lofty tower, we shall think of many
a saint who has left his mark on the history of his
country, and of his religion.
We had a long climb out of Pont Audemar, and
when we reached the plateau we found the road
bordered by apple-trees and the country dotted
with prosperous farms. And I wondered what the
old rulers of Pont Audemar would say if they knew of
the present condition of the peasants of Normandy,
and saw their comfortable cottages, and the gold
and silver coin packed away in their mattresses!
It was a lovely drive home, sometimes spinning
over the plateau, then dropping down to find the
river. I remember a village called Saint Opportune,
and an old solitary gateway of rose-red brick, set
52
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
with the arms of some forgotten family, all lighted
by the afternoon sunshine, and everywhere cows
were feeding. Then came a great descent, and
Vieux Port, Aizier, and so we found ourselves down
beside the river, which lay gleaming like a silver
lance, and continued on till the forests closed in
upon us again, untamed forests, with huge trunks
mottled with gold and grey, as though draped
with the richest of velvet. How wonderful these
giant beech woods are! Planted close, their stems
rise high without a branch till at last they break
into a roof that not a ray can pierce.
·
Later, as we crossed the river by the ferry, the
sun was sinking behind a great purple cloud, the
edge of which continued to glitter long after the
fiery ball had disappeared. And the wooded
heights behind Villequier grew black as ink, and
the white houses of Caudebec ghostly and un-
substantial; while above them, distinct and glisten-
ing, pointing ever upward, rose the great spire of
frozen lace, surrounded by its triple crown.
CHAPTER III
ROUEN
WE had been for a last look at the church, and so
had missed our train to Rouen. When we reached
the hotel Madame rushed out to tell us so. "But
surely there is another train?" I asked. No, it
appeared that there was not; but a motor-car had
come over from Rouen with two gentlemen, friends
of her husband, and if we liked to share the cost of
the return journey. . . . Well, of course, we did!
It was a large, comfortable car, which took us
and our belongings into its capacious depths and
still left room for the original occupants—a boy who
sat with the chauffeur, and his father, who seemed
much exercised in his mind about the young women
of his country. "Nothing but pleasure!" he ex-
claimed. "No comfortable homes for the men to
look forward to when they return in the evening.
Dinner at a restaurant par exemple! Does a man
want that when he is tired? He can go to a res-
taurant by himself, and for less money. It is a
home he wants, such as his mother gave him. And,
believe me, it is the same in your colonies. I have
53
54
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
just returned from South Africa. Young girls
come flocking out to be married. Can they cook?
can they sew? can they make a home? Ah!
Madame, I despair of my country and of yours
when I think of them!"
To this depressing accompaniment we sped
through Duclair and the beautiful country beyond;
and finally, as the sun was sinking, leaving the great
church of Bosherville to the right, began climbing
up and up through forest land, till I thought the zig-
zags would never cease. However, at last we
gained the summit, and what a view greeted us, for
we looked right down over the valley of Rouen.
There lay the snakelike curves of the river, and on
either bank spread the city with its bridges and
boulevards, its splendid streets, and in the midst,
rising high above the surrounding roofs, the towers
and spire of the cathedral of Notre-Dame.
To understand something of Rouen and its
development we must go back to the days when
the land on which the city new stands had but
lately emerged from the mud.of the Seine. In those
early ages the river spread far and wide over the
valley, reaching up to where the cathedral now
stands, and in the shallow water was a large, low
island which in later centuries came to be known as
L'Isle de Notre-Dame. It was on this island, pro-
tected as it was by the Seine, the Rothbec, and the
Renelle, that a wandering tribe of Gauls, called the
Velocassi, came and settled, thus giving birth to a
village. As they grew and multiplied, other tribes
ROUEN
55
came and took up their abode in what had become
the partially reclaimed river valley. But it was
Roth, as the first settlement was called, which
remained the chief town. Here the market was
held, and here was established the worship of that
mysterious goddess Roth or Rotha, after whom, some
people assert, the city of Rouen is named. There
are all kinds of legends told of those remote days.
We hear of a Gaulish king called Magus, who built
the temple for this mythical goddess; of Druid
missionaries, who, without dispossessing the ancient
Roth, raised a sanctuary over the site of her temple.
We hear of the town being fortified by Julius
Cæsar, who cut down the forest sanctuaries and
built temples to Roman gods and goddesses, re-
naming the city Rothomagus; and because no self-
respecting Roman could live without baths, he
established them along the little stream of the
Robec, which you may still find running before the
houses in the Rue Eau de Robec, where in mediæval
times dyers took up their abode.
About two hundred and sixty years after the
birth of our Lord there appeared one day before
the gate of Rothomagus a certain missionary named
Mellin. He was a young Welshman, who, having
been sent by his father, the lord of Cardiff, to carry
the tribute to Rome, had there been converted and
baptised by Pope Saint Stephen. For a while he
lingered in Italy, but, having been warned by an
angel to preach the gospel in Neustria, the Pope
consecrated him bishop, and sent him forth on his
56
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
journey with his blessing. It was to Rouen that
he made his way, and there, partly by his preaching
and partly by his wonderful miracles, quickly con-
verted many of the inhabitants. He it was who
built the first Christian church on the very site
where later was raised the cathedral of Notre-Dame
-a somewhat different building from his humble
oratory of clay and mud! How astonished the
good bishop would be at the fruition of his humble
efforts! Even in Rome he had seen no such building
as this, with its sculptured galleries and soaring
arches and the glory of its painted windows. We
shall find Saint Mellin's tomb when we visit the
ancient crypt of the church of Saint Gervais, but
alas! not his bones, which were finally lost in the
days of the French Revolution.
It was in the first cathedral of Rouen that the
good old bishop Prétextat was murdered by order
of Fredegonda, the fiendish slave and later the
queen of King Chilperic. Her story has been told
by that romantic historian Augustin Thierry. He
speaks of the King's divorce from his slave-wife,
and his marriage, for political reasons, with Galis-
wintha, daughter of the King of the Goths. It is
a sad but charming story. It tells of the poor
young girl's parting from her mother, and of her
long journey over the mountains and through
France, till she reaches Rouen, where the King
meets her. We have even an account of her pro-
gress, and can see her descending from her travelling-
litter before the gates of the town, and mounting
ROUEN
57
into a state chariot, "formed like a silver tower,"
in which, preceded and followed by gorgeously
robed attendants and wagon loads of treasure, she
makes her entry into the city. No sooner had
Chilperic married her than he began to regret the
serving-maid Fredegonda, whom he had put away
for her sake, and, a few weeks after her marriage,
Galiswintha was found strangled in her bed.
these streets of Rouen are haunted indeed!
there are good ghosts as well as bad!
Oh!
But
There is Saint Romain, the Patron of the city, who
cast out the demons Roth and Adonis with all their
iniquitous rites, or, as one might say, completed the
conversion of the city to Christianity, and on the
site of the heathen temples raised churches. He
was celebrated for his wonderful miracles, was
Romain; but it was to his destruction of the Gar-
gouille, a terrible malarial monster which infested
the marshy land around the city, that the Saint
owed his greatest renown. In paintings he is usually
represented leading the terrible beast to its destruc-
tion, having passed his stole around its neck in the
orthodox manner. It was in memory of this
deliverance that the King of the Franks gave to
the bishops of Rouen the right of delivering each
year a prisoner who was lying under sentence of
death. An old French author has given a very fine
account of this ceremony which took place annually
on Ascension Day.
"It is the 14th of April 1485. The young King,
Charles the Eighth, has just made his state entry
58
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
into Rouen, together with all the first nobility of
France, and, it being Ascension Day, expresses a
wish to be present at the 'Fierte de Saint Romain,'
as the ceremony was called. For three days the
keys of all prisons have been handed over to the
Archbishop, in order that his clergy may visit the
prisoners, hear their confessions, and select that one
from among the condemned who is considered most
worthy of a free pardon. On this 'Jour du Prison-
nier' such crowds have flocked in from the country
that the narrow streets of the city are packed, and
it is only with extreme difficulty that one can move
at all. Once caught in the crowd one is carried
hither and thither as the human tide rises or falls.
And while this sea of humanity is breaking on its
shores, the five hundred bells of the city, the
cathedral, the churches, the monasteries, break out
into volleys, announcing the departure of the pro-
cession. The thirty-eight parishes of Rouen, with
their banners, their crosses, their reliquaries, in the
midst of which figured the Fierte or Chasse of Saint
Romain, made their way from the cathedral to the
Place de la Haute Vieille Tour. Arrived there, the
fortunate prisoner who had been selected was led
to the platform which stood in front of the chapel
of Saint Romain, and three times raised the great
Chasse containing the bones of him who had restored
him to liberty, to his family, and to the world."
The quaint old ceremony was discontinued in
1790; but if we find our way to the old Place, now
the vegetable market, we shall notice a building
ROUEN
59
of the earlier sixteenth century, and in front a
terrace approached from either side by a lateral
staircase. It was here that the ceremony took
place, the released prisoner standing on the terrace,
as he raised the Chasse on high.
One of the great names we shall remember at
Rouen is that of Ouen, Keeper of the Royal Seal
under King Dagobert, and friend of Saint Wandrille,
and the other holy and ascetic young men of whom
we heard during our stay at Caudebec. It was over
the grave of this great bishop that there arose later
the splendid church which is called by his name,
that miracle of painted glass which in all our
wanderings we have never seen equalled. For the
stone walls of Saint Ouen are apparently mere fragile
columns, and the windows so vast that the whole
structure looks as though built of glass, and when
the sun is shining the effect is magical in its soaring,
delicate beauty. The last time I had visited Saint
Ouen was immediately after the end of the Great
War, when the vast window openings were filled
with plain glass, the originals being still packed
safely away in wooden cases. Now we beheld it
in all the splendour of colour, and the sight was
dazzling.
In an angle at the back of the choir is part of the
apse of the far older church of Saint Ouen, the
Norman building which was standing when these
beautiful grounds were the gardens of the monastery;
and the building, where now stands the Hôtel de
Ville, formed part of a great Benedictine Abbey,
60
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
where the Kings of France were entertained when
visiting Rouen.
In the garden, once the cemetery of Saint Ouen,
we shall find a statue of Rollo the Northman, real
founder of this Duchy of Normandy. He stands
there pointing to the earth, and saying, "We will
remain lords and masters of it!" A little behind
him, on a mound, is a copy of the huge Runic Stone
of Jellinge, erected in Jutland by King Harold of
the Blue Tooth, and bearing the following in-
scription: "King Harold caused this monument to
be erected to the memory of Gorm his Father, and
of Thyre his Mother. It is that Harold the King
who subdued all Denmark and Norway and con-
verted the Danes to Christianity."
We had taken up our abode at a house in the
Rue Thiers, the Hôtel Solferino. It was a quiet,
comfortable place, and there we slept and break-
fasted, lunching and dining wherever we happened
to find ourselves when we felt hungry. It was a
charming, vagabond existence, for the weather was
perfect, and we were free to go and come as we
pleased, untrammelled by fixed hours.
So we
wandered here and there as the fancy took us,
and it led us very often to the cathedral of Notre-
Dame, where we would sit, or wander, dreaming
of all kinds of things: Of the years when the city
was pillaged and burned by the Danes, Hasting,
Biorn, Lodbrog, and the rest of the wild crew of
Scandinavian pirates; till we saw the old church,
which then stood on this spot, full of terrified women

RUE DE LA GROSSE HORLOGE
DAMES

THE STAIRCASE TO THE TREASURY, ROUEN CATHEDRAL
ROUEN
61
and children, listening to the cries and tumult
without, as the savage Northmen forced their way
further and further into the city, murdering and
burning as they advanced. The chroniclers have
given a terrible picture of those times. Only a
quarter of the population survived, for the in-
vaders slew the old, and carried the young men and
women into a slavery which was worse than death.
So when, in 876, news arrived that the pirates
were once more making their way up the river, with
a fleet of a hundred boats, all the chief men of the
city of Rouen sought their Archbishop and prayed
him to hasten to Jumièges, where their enemies
were resting, and do his best to make terms with
them.
The good man, John was his name, departed, and
found the handsome young chief Rollo, and his
followers, established at the abbey, from which all
the monks had fled with their treasures and the
relics of the Saints. Rollo appeared quite ready
to listen to the proposal of the Archbishop, which
was nothing less than that, if the Northern Chief
would grant his protection to the city of Rouen,
the people would willingly submit to his rule. So,
after talking it over for a day or two, they set off
once more up the river.
The Seine, though narrower and consequently
deeper and more easily navigable than in pre-
historic days, still reached some little distance up
what to-day is called the Rue du Grand Pont.
From the lower end of this great thoroughfare there
62
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
opens the narrow entrance to the Cour Saint Martin,
where is a charming little restaurant, clean and
homely, where we used often to take our lunch.
When the weather was fine the tables were set out
on the pavement under a white awning, and there,
sheltered from inquisitive eyes by bushes in square
green tubs, we would eat "Bouchées à la Reine," and
"Omelette au Rhum," and the other delicious un-
English things one does eat at little, unfashionable
restaurants in France. The more respectable clients
would pass through to the restaurant proper, to
eat in private, hidden behind little white lace
curtains; but we vagabonds preferred the pave-
ment, and the awning, the fresh air, the softened
rumble of traffic, and the society of two cats who
used to sit in the sunshine washing their glossy
tortoiseshell coats.
All sorts of people lunch at the Cour Saint Martin
-sailors, commis voyageurs, farmers, and other
people in from the country. It is not a fashionable
place, but then neither are we, especially when we
are taking a holiday. Then we are just vagabonds,
wandering about as fancy takes us. And where
does not the great fairy godmother lead us?
We are
This Cour Saint Martin, for instance.
told that in the ninth century the site of this
quiet restaurant formed a side of the inner basin
of the Port of Rouen, and that it was probably
just here that Rollo, afterwards known as the first
Duke of Normandy, landed. As we sit sipping our
Benedictine, and dreaming about those far-away
ROUEN
63
days, we picture the Archbishop in his cope and
mitre, surrounded by his clergy, and followed by
the citizens, standing on the quay ready to welcome
their new lord. And presently we follow in their
wake as Rollo proceeds to visit the city, noticing
the ruin his predecessors have wrought, the broken
walls, the wrecked churches, the starved and miser-
able remnant of the people.
Later we shall meet the great chief at other places,
for it took him many years to conquer his duchy.
Some thirty years later it is when we hear of his
entry into Rouen as the acknowledged ruler of the
Province. He had just been present at the signing
of the Treaty of Saint Clare sur Epte, and was now
visiting Rouen to fulfil the obligations he had under-
taken. It had been a stormy meeting, for the
proud Norman had been called upon to kiss the
foot of his overlord, King Charles the Simple, in
token of fealty for the Duchy of Normandy, which
was about to be ceded to him. The officer appointed
to perform the duty for him refused to kneel, and
lifted the foot so high, that the King fell backwards,
causing shouts of laughter from the Normans and
black looks from the Franks. However, things had
quieted down, and now Rollo was on his way to
Rouen to receive Christian instruction and baptism
at the hands of Archbishop Francon, and later to
marry the King's daughter Gisla.
"Who are the greatest Saints in this my duchy?"
inquired Rollo as he left the font of the cathedral,
clad in his white baptismal robes.
64
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
"The blessed Virgin Mary, Saint Michael, and
Saint Peter," replied the Archbishop. "And as our
special protector have we not Saint Denis?"
"Then," replied Rollo, "I give a part of this
new land of mine to those great Saints, and an
estate to each of the seven churches of Rouen.
99
And Rollo was married to the Princess Gisla in
the old church which stood upon the spot now
occupied by the great cathedral of Notre-Dame.
He rebuilt the churches and fortifications which
Hasting and his pirate chiefs had destroyed; and
so greatly was he respected and feared that having
caused his gold bracelets to be hung upon a tree
in a forest near Rouen, they remained untouched
for three years. Many were the farmers and work-
men who came from other less well-governed dis-
tricts of France to settle under his protection.
Then, finding himself growing weary and old, he
made over the duchy to his son William, and so
presently died in his castle down by the river, and
was buried before the high altar in the church he
had so richly endowed. In a chapel at the eastern
end of the south aisle you may see his effigy lying
on a thirteenth-century tomb. But, indeed, what
shall we not see in this vast and ancient building?
In the choir was buried the heart of Richard Cœur
de Lion, his great effigy, six and a half feet long,
robed and crowned, lies in the south choir aisle,
while that of his elder brother Henry is in the
north. And there is the marvellous tomb of
Cardinal d'Amboise, the good Archbishop of Rouen,
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65
Prime Minister to Louis the Twelfth. He kneels
facing the altar, as he so often knelt in life, thank-
ing God, no doubt, for the love and gratitude of the
thousands of poor people whom he had relieved from
the taxes usually levied at a king's coronation. And
opposite lies Louis de Brezé, Count of Maulevrier,
the husband of Diane de Poitiers.
Sometimes of an afternoon we would find our
way up the exquisite sculptured staircase to the
treasury, and wander about among the relics of
those we have met below. For here is the leaden
box which contained the heart of Richard, and
beside it the little coffin in which it was enclosed,
resting on four small stone lions. And there are
ancient missals in superb tooled bindings, and
reliquaries containing fragments of third- and
fourth-century bishops, and every kind of treasure
which managed to escape the French Revolution.
And there are others, more nearly connected with
England, of whom we think as we dream our dreams
in the great cathedral. There is the familiar figure
of William, afterwards surnamed the Conqueror,
whose consecration as Duke of Normandy took
place here. On this sacred spot Robert, his son,
on his accession to the duchy, swore upon the
Holy Gospels to respect the rights of the Church,
and to govern justly and mercifully rich and poor
alike. Here he girded on his Sword of State, the
Archbishop placing the Ring of Office upon his
finger. Here, too, comes William's granddaughter
Matilda, to be married to Geoffrey Plantagenet.
5
66
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
She it was who built the first stone bridge across
the Seine, a wondrous achievement in those days.
In the castle down beside the river, her father,
Henry Beauclerc, died of eating too many lampreys,
which, considering the very insanitary condition of
the Seine in those days, could scarcely have been a
wholesome supper for an old man.
As for Richard Coeur de Lion, although he be-
queathed his heart to Rouen, he seems to have had
little further connection with the place. But John,
his brother and successor, was often in residence
there, and it was in the old fortress prison down
beside the river that he had his nephew Arthur
murdered, or, as William the Breton, Chaplain to
King Philip Augustus, declares, murdered him him-
self. According to this writer, it appears that John,
having vainly endeavoured to bribe his servants to
commit the crime, quitted Rouen suddenly, and
went to stay in a castle which had been built by
Duke Robert, the father of William the Conqueror,
a little lower down the Seine, at Moulineaux. From
Rouen we may easily visit the village, with its
thirteenth-century church, and even climb the hill
to the ruins of the castle itself. For three days the
King lurked there: and then, one night, creeping
down to the river, loosed a boat and made his
way alone upstream to Rouen.
Halting at the river gate of the donjon keep,
and standing in his boat, he gave orders that his
nephew should be brought to him. As soon as he
had him seated he pushed off into the darkness,
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67
and I suppose it was the page who heard the cry:
"My uncle, have pity on your young nephew!
Uncle, my good uncle, spare your nephew! Spare
the son of your brother!" "Vain lamentations!"
says the chronicler. The tyrant seized the boy by
the hair, plunged his sword into his stomach, and,
drawing it out all dripping with blood, forced it
into his head from temple to temple. Then, moving
a little further away, he cast the lifeless body into
the stream. That is the story of the old castle of
Rouen as told by William the Breton. Nothing
remains of the building to-day, save perhaps an
ancient gateway, above which are three old dusty
windows, and within the arch what is still known
as the Place de la Basse Vieille Tour. It is a gloomy-
looking place, even though the tower itself, scene of
so many tragedies, has disappeared. In the tiled
roof is a dormer window, shuttered as though
to keep in the ghosts which haunt the uncanny
place; and as we enter through the arch we shall
be standing on the spot once occupied by the ancient
Norman castle of the earlier Viking Dukes, later the
Palace of the Plantagenets, and somewhere here-
abouts was that watergate, through which the boy
Arthur went to his death; for above is the inscrip-
tion: "Sur cet emplacement s'élevait la fortresse
dite Tour de Rouen, batie au milieu du Xme siècle
par Richard I duc de Normandie et detruite par
Philippe Augustus en 1204."
One morning we set off by way of the ramparts
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
to search for the ancient church of Saint Gervais,
near which William the Conqueror had a house and
in which he died. Our route took us up through
squalid streets with names reminiscent of past
history, till finally, high up, just outside what was
once the city wall, we came upon a church, com-
pletely restored, but bearing above the south door
a plaque on which, below an olive branch, were
inscribed the words: "Dieu aiex! La justice!
Le droit! La paix de Dieu!" The last words of
our first Norman King.
As we entered and glanced around, it seemed to
us that the only sign of age (and Saint Gervais is
said to have been the oldest Christian foundation
in Rouen) was to be found at the east end, which
is Norman in character, and where there are some
ancient sculptured columns. We wandered round
disappointed, peering here and there, hoping to
find an entrance to the crypt of which we had
heard, but apparently it no longer existed.
Presently two little boys in red cassocks appeared
and began ringing a bell, for a wedding as I dis-
covered later, and upon my inquiring of them
concerning the lower church, one of them hastened
off to fetch the priest. We were standing on the
south side of the choir when he entered, just behind
the new oak screen which forms a backing to the
stalls. Lifting a length of the moulding, the priest
pushed in a panel, and lighting a candle invited us
to enter. Next moment we were groping our way
by a much worn, steep, and winding stair that
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69
led down and down into the darkness below the
modern choir. And there we found the original
church of Saint Gervais, a veritable catacomb.
It was not quite dark, for behind the altar, which
was raised a step above the rest of the soil, was a
splayed opening closed by a grille, leading by a
long, slanting tunnel up into the outer light, so
that a faint grey twilight pervaded the ghostly
place. Having brought us down, and explained
that this was the original chapel of the Priory of
Saint Gervais, ancient even in the days when
William the Conqueror used to come and stay at
the monastery, Monsieur le Recteur had left us to
attend to his duties in the church above, and we
stole about in the awful place, peering here and there
into the twilight, trying to call back to mind the
early history of this earliest of Rouen's churches.
Oh, if they
In a niche to the north of the altar are four skulls,
ancient skulls discovered among the debris with
which the crypt was at one time filled. They
seemed to watch us entreatingly as we moved
about, as though trying to explain to us who they
were, and to beg a prayer from us. Wherever we
went their looks seemed to follow us.
could only have spoken, what stories might we not
have heard! And yet how frightened we should
have been! I should have imagined them the
remains of some of the earliest bishops, Saint
Mellin, Saint Avitien, whose original graves lie
in the low, arched recesses at the western end of
the crypt. But the priest had told us that, at the
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
coming of the Northmen, these bodies had been
removed for safety to Pontoise, and had been de-
stroyed during the Revolution. And yet it is of
Saint Mellin that we think as we steal about among
the shadows. For they say that it was on this
very spot that the good Welshman built his little
hermitage, to which he retired when he felt his
end approaching, and that in it he was buried, a
church being raised over him.
In any case, it was no doubt here that the terrified
monks of Saint Gervais took refuge during the
murderous raids of the savage pagan chief Hasting.
Now it is silent as the dead who lie beneath the
ancient soil. Not even the faintest echo of the
wedding service reached us. So presently, taking
one last look at the "Four Bishops," as we named
the skulls, we stumbled up the stairs and emerged,
half-blinded with the light, into the modern church
of Saint Gervais.
Of the monastery of Saint Gervais not a sign
remains, so far as we were able to discover; for we
Iwould like to have seen even a few stones of the
building from which the great William's soul passed
out to judgment. We shall remember that it was
as a result of his savagery that he met his death at
Mantes. To revenge himself for some foolish and
offensive words spoken by the King of France,
William, having sworn by the Splendour and Birth
of God, his greatest oath, to revenge himself, began
by firing the French town of Mantes. He was gallop-
ing about the streets, enjoying the sight of the havoc
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71
horse trod on a hot
He had grown enor-
he had wrought, when his
cinder, and he was thrown.
mously stout, and the wound he had received from
his fall became dangerous. So, as I have said above,
he was taken to Rouen, to the quiet monastery
which lay on the height above the city. For six
weeks he lay there, tended by the monks, and
trying, for indeed he was more passionate than
evil, to repair some of the wrongs he had com-
mitted, ordering the houses and churches in Mantes
to be rebuilt, and his enemies to be set at liberty.
And he made his will, leaving Normandy to the
wretched Robert, who had given him so much
trouble, England to William, whom he loved, and
to Henry his money.
And now it is the 10th of September, and the sun
is rising. The bells are ringing for Prime, and
awaken the King, who has been dozing. "What is
that sound of bells?" he asks, thinking perhaps it
is his delirium returning; and when he is told, “I
leave my soul to Mary the Mother of God," he says,
and so passes away as uncared for as the lowliest
beggar in his duchy. For no sooner was the
breath out of his body than all left him, the servants
carrying off everything of value, and leaving his
body on the ground almost as naked as when he
came into the world. Presently, hearing the news,
the monks arrived, and the Archbishop sent a mess-
age, ordering that the corpse should be taken to
Caen to be buried in the church of Saint Stephen,
which William had himself built in earlier and
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
happier days. But who would take it, and who
pay the expenses of the journey and funeral?
Even his very sons had left him to see after their
new possessions. It was a poor knight named
Herluin who at last offered, for the love of God, to
take the body to Caen, and defray the cost of the
burial. So the last scene we see, as we stand upon
the spot once covered by the monastery, is a hearse
and a handful of poor men, headed by Herluin,
making their way down through the ancient fortifi-
cations, and through the narrow streets of the city,
toward the river. There a boat is waiting, in which
they place the body, and so down the Seine they
make their way, till they disappear round a curve
of the river, and we shall not see them again till
we ourselves arrive at Caen.
One morning we had been visiting the beautiful
old church of Saint Maclou, "Eldest daughter of
the Archbishops of Rouen," as it was once called,
and having admired the exquisite sculptured stair-
case to the organ loft, and the other curious and
beautiful treasures of the interior, strolled up the
street on the northern side to study the fine carved
doors of Jean Goujon. Then, continuing our way
along the narrow and ancient Rue Martinville,
happening to glance up an alley, our attention was
caught by a mighty beam spanning it from side to
side, on which was painted the inscription, "L'Aître
Saint Maclou." Now we had been hearing about
this curious cemetery from a young priest we had
met at the cathedral, and had intended to visit it
ROUEN
73
before, so we entered the dusky gateway, and,
turning through another to the right, found our-
selves in a square garden, or rather a gravelled
yard, with a tree in the centre, and surrounded on all
sides by cloisters. It was a strange place to find
in the midst of the busy modern city; but, as we
began walking round and studying the buildings,
we found it stranger still, and even rather horrible
and gruesome. For all the woodwork, and as it
was a half-timber building there was plenty of it
-pillars, cornices, beams, outside stairways, every-
thing wooden-had been sculptured into emblems
of death. There were skeletons, leg bones, ribs,
scythes, spades, grinning skulls. Sometimes l'Ankou,
as the Bretons call the King of Terrors, would be
seen stalking someone round a tree or a column;
or he was appearing to a bride or a child. In fact,
as someone has said, speaking of this grisly place:
"Death is everywhere present, in the ground among
the ashes of the dead, along the walls which are
decorated with his fantastic dances, in the old
church of Saint Maclou hard by, where prayers are
still offered for those who have been and for those
who are to come."
For me it was unspeakably horrible, and none the
less because now it is used as some kind of school. I
pictured to myself how terrified I should have been,
as a young girl, to climb that stairway in the moon-
light, and creep along the corridors where once
were stored the bones taken from the central yard,
when it became more than usually overcrowded.
74
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
For above the lower cloisters are other galleries,
once used as charnel houses, but which, glazed in,
now form dormitories for the children. Do they
dream, I wonder? Do the ghosts come flitting in
at the windows, or phantom monks pace the cor-
ridors? I had no opportunity for asking, the only
person I saw being the superintendent, who, from her
appearance and manner, was not of an imaginative
turn of mind. But girls! It is all very well to visit
L'Aître de Saint Maclou on a fine day in September;
but what might not one see, and still worse feel,
before daybreak on the morning of All Souls?
In former years this part of the city must have
been a most pestilential district. Between the Rue
Martinville and the Seine stretched a fever-haunted
swamp, the stagnant water of which was only
changed when the river was in full flood. Here
were cesspools and all manner of filth, and it was
haunted by armies of rats, which lived and bred
among the foundations of the old wooden houses.
So it was not surprising that every spring the plague
should break out in the doomed district, and officials
in long gowns, bearing white wands, be seen walking
the streets and visiting the houses suspected of the
sickness. When a house was found to be infected,
the Marqueurs, having moved the sick person to the
Hôtel Dieu, closed all the openings, barred up the
doors, and set a cross of white linen upon the
house. For six weeks quicklime was kept burning
in all the rooms and the street, and yet the plague
continued, coming back season by season.
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75
It was the Jews of Rouen who at last called at-
tention to the fact that an outbreak of what was
called La Maladie des Rats always preceded the
plague. Then at last the people began to realise
the cause of the trouble, and to take precautions,
but not before a third of the population of Rouen
had perished. At that time the city had eighty
cemeteries, those which were grouped around a
church being called "aîtres," a word meaning
hearths or sheltered places, because they were
under the shelter of the church itself. The only
one now left is that of Saint Maclou. It had in-
creased in size little by little, a garden being added
here, a field there. It was the last donor, a certain
John the Carpenter, who gave the great doorway
through which we enter the cemetery.
One Sunday afternoon we found our way to another
cemetery, climbing, by electric tram, to the village
of Boisguillaume, which lies high up on the hills that
border Rouen to the north. It was here that the
English established one of their large camps and
hospitals during the late War; and though we
believed that we should find no traces of it left, I
thought that I should like to feel myself among the
same surroundings which had been familiar to so
many of my vanished friends. It is rather an un-
interesting country, this around Boisguillaume. I
suppose once it may have been covered with forest,
like the high lands we passed on our way to Yvetot;
now it is bare and empty, though not uncultivated,
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
and we were preparing to return by the next tram
when a notice caught my eye: "To the English
cemetery. . . ."
We had to walk some little distance over the
level tableland before we came to it, and even then
we thought we had mistaken our way, for the great
gates led into one of those melancholy communal
cemeteries one always associates with the French
dead. The graves were crowded together in dis-
orderly profusion, a chaos of mortuary chapels,
wreaths of horrible artificial or bead flowers, even
the paths were not kept, and there was not a blade
of fresh grass anywhere.
"Oh!" said I, "surely it cannot be here that they
have laid them, our dead?"
My husband had gone on in front, and was stand-
ing very still, looking down at something I could
not see for the tangle of wreaths and crosses.
66
“Come here,” he called quietly, and next moment
I stood at his side.
In the very same enclosure, and yet not of it, a
vast, square space had been set apart, and fenced
round by a low hedge of clipped cypress. Within
were long, narrow lawns, perfect lawns, along
either side of which they had laid them, two by two,
the little headstones like the backs of sleeping cots,
the grass drawn up closely over them like a green
velvet quilt. And for the rest it was an orderly
English garden, no memorial wreaths, no signs of
death, just a riot of pink polyanthus roses. And
they lie there, our dear boys, as they lay in the
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77
great hospital wards of Boisguillaume, only now
they are at peace. We walked slowly down the
long, long rows of little stones, seven or eight
hundred there must have been at least, and read the
names, "Private Millar, Bedfordshire; J. W. Gallant,
Canadian Infantry; J. W. Pugh, Australian In-
fantry." From all parts of the Empire they had
come to fight against the barbarism which threatened
to overwhelm their Motherland. And they were
so young, these boys, they had so much to leave.
There was J. Burns, "ever remembered by wife
and child"; and "Jackie," a lance-corporal, "always
thinking of you, darling-from your sorrowing Dad
and Mum"; and Private Smith, over whom had been
placed those words which always come to our minds
as we think of these dear men: "Greater love hath
no man than this, that he lay down his life for his
friends."
The twilight had begun to gather before we had
visited the half of them, and as I turned for a last
look down the long, long rows of little stones I
caught sight of the words graven on the central
monument: "Their name liveth for evermore!"
And so leaving them to their slumbers we made our
way down again into the city.
There are many places which one visits just
outside Rouen, and such charming places. Mont
Saint Catherine, for instance, with the remains of
fortifications dating back to prehistoric times, and
rebuilt and utilised by almost every besieger of
78
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
Rouen. We climbed up one morning when the
sun was shining gaily and the breeze blowing gently
from the south. What a splendid view! There
below winds the Seine, twisting and coiling like a
huge silver snake. And on its banks lies the city,
sheltered to the north by its horse-shoe of hills,
protected on every side. And these shapeless and
grass-grown mounds? I suppose they represent the
fortress occupied by the soldiers of the league during
the siege of 1591, and have seen King Henry of
Navarre ride in at the head of his troops, ordering
its destruction, and saying, in his grandiloquent
way, that for himself he required no fortress save
the hearts of his people!
Since those days a modern industrial town has
sprung up on the further side of the river, differing
from the old mother city in that the towers and
spires are represented by giant steam cranes and
factory chimneys that poison the air with smoke.
It floats over the ancient city, dimming the glories
of Saint Ouen, and blotting out the Tower of Jeanne
d'Arc. And as I watch I think of the age which
has given birth to this new suburb, an age that is
becoming every day more and more engrossed with
the things of this world, and leaving to oblivion and
decay those of the world to come.
And perhaps even more wonderful than Mont
Saint Catherine is the companion height, on which
stands the great new pilgrimage church of Notre-
Dame de Bon Secours. We ascend by an electric
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79
tram, and it seems a strange anomaly, after leaving
the busy quay and being drawn up the mountain
side by a contrivance which would certainly a few
hundred years ago have been set down as Black
Magic, to find ourselves at the entrance to a broad
pilgrimage road, on either side of which are booths
and little shops for the sale of sacred images, rosaries,
pictures, postcards, candles. It really seems as
though during the short ascent we had gone back
through the centuries to those days when everyone,
rich and poor alike, went on pilgrimage. We had
visited many such shrines in Brittany, where the
people, being Celtic, still cling to their ancient Faith.
But in this modern Normandy one scarcely expects
to find so largely frequented a shrine as this of
Notre-Dame de Bon Secours.
As we walk along the road the beggars come for-
ward with outstretched hand. A blind man calls
after us: "Do not forget me, sir and madame!
Here is a poor blind man who will bring you good
luck."
Around the entrance to the church the booths
gather yet more thickly, but we pass on to visit first
the great memorial to Saint Joan, which, both from
its position and its character, is most beautiful and
affecting. There she stands, the Martyr Saint of
Rouen, bareheaded, but in armour, leaning upon
the sword given her by Saint Michael, whose golden
statue keeps guard on the canopy which shelters
her. Below, on either hand are her friends Saint
Catherine and Saint Marguerite, and on the broad
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
stone balustrade, which bounds the terrace, are
four shorn sheep, meek emblems of the martyr
girl herself. Far below lies the great city, just
where the old walled Rouen lay five centuries ago,
when the flames rose to heaven at her burning;
only then she was among the smoke and the shadows,
reviled, despised, and now she is on high in the sun-
shine, renowned and glorified.
It is a bold thing to raise a new church in a city
like Rouen, but this shrine of Notre-Dame de Bon
Secours is quite beautiful and satisfying in its
gorgeous modern fashion. The walls are already
covered with ex-voto plaques, and the colour scheme
is exquisite, for walls, pillars, arches, even the
framing of the windows, all are painted, and glowing
with soft harmonious blues, greens, red, dull gold.
When the sun shines through the richly tinted
windows the effect is marvellous, for the walls
gleam as though transparent, and lit from without
by hidden fire. As I sit there writing, the light is
falling on my page so that I can scarcely see for
the glory of the shifting rainbow tints.
We managed to miss our return tram, and so,
as the air had made us hungry and it was lunch
time, we found a little garden restaurant, and there,
beneath the green shade of a delicate, spreading
solanum, availed ourselves of what the proprietor
described as a Collation Champêtre, and ended
with a "Tommysette"-a lamentable substitute
for the Benedictine with which we usually finished
lunch at the Cour Saint Martin.
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81'
Everyone who has visited Rouen will remember
the so-called Tour Jeanne d'Arc, the only vestige
now remaining of the great castle which Philip
Augustus built in 1204, on the hill of Bouvreuil, at
the northern side of the city. He had just com-
pleted the conquest of Normandy, and being above
all a soldier, thought, I suppose, that the old fortress
down by the river, reared by the ancient vikings,
afforded inadequate protection to the city. So he
constructed this new citadel, which at that time
must have been considered a very marvel of strategic
strength. It covered an immense space of ground,
and, as it was raised on the foundations of the old
Roman amphitheatre, was elliptical in shape. It
consisted of several towers connected by high walls,
and was intended to overawe the citizens of Rouen
and the neighbourhood. The only portion remain-
ing of this great building is the donjon keep, which
to-day is known as the Tour Jeanne d'Arc. It has,
of course, been very much restored, or, like its
fellow-towers, it would long ago have disappeared
with the castle of which it formed a part. But
even in its present form it is very impressive and
interesting, for it has witnessed many exciting
scenes, of which three especially stand out in my
memory.
In the spring of 1356 John the Good was reigning
in France, and his son Charles the Dauphin was at
Rouen with a large following, in order that he might
be crowned Duke of Normandy in the cathedral.
The prince was lodged in the castle, and there was
6
82
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
much feasting and gaiety. But among the courtiers
assembled there were some who were not altogether
loyal to King John, and the King was warned that
the occasion was to be used as an opportunity for
secret plotting. Filled with fury, John, accom-
panied by certain lords and an armed band, set off
immediately, travelling by lanes and unfrequented
roads, and so reached the castle. Now the tower
in which we are standing had, besides the chief
entrance from the courtyard, a little door which
opened to the country outside the walls. Through
this the King entered, and burst in upon the guests
in the midst of their merrymaking. The old
chronicler tells the story almost as though he had
been present. "Suddenly," says he, "the door was
flung open, and the King, all dishevelled with his
journey, stood upon the threshold. 'Let no one
stir!' cries the Marshal, 'unless he wishes to be
struck down by my sword!' and he waved his naked
blade fiercely. Then John, walking up to the King
of Navarre, who was one of the chief guests, called
him a traitor, and therefore a fit friend for the
Dauphin. Altogether, it was a tremendous
scene, for John became so mad with fury that he
could scarcely speak, and, seizing a mace from one
of the sergeants, beat Lord Harcourt between the
shoulders, crying: 'Forward, proud traitor! To the
prison! To the prison! By the soul of my father
you will have had time to learn to sing better before
you escape from my hands!""
...
Meanwhile the Dauphin had fallen on his knees
ROUEN
83
begging mercy for his friends. "Leave me alone,
Charles," cried the King; "they are evil traitors"
and they were hurried away, and locked up in this
donjon until the King had dined. After he had
finished, two wagons were brought into which the
miserable men were huddled, and taken to the
place of execution, where they were beheaded.
It is about sixty-three years later. Henry the
Fifth of England is ravaging Normandy, and has
now laid siege to Rouen. On the 29th of July
1418 he sat down before the city, planting his
standard in front of the castle wall. It was a
horrible six months which followed. Henry was
determined to capture the city, and the citizens
were equally determined not to give it up. It must
have been a wonderful and terrible sight for anyone
looking down from the upper windows of the
donjon. In those days the city was for the most
part crowded within its walls, and the country
beyond was filled by the tents of the enemy. Day
after day, month after month, the struggle con-
tinued. Provisions began to fail, for the English
had gained complete control of the river, and no
supplies could reach the besieged. Every living
animal was killed and eaten, even the rats and mice.
Winter was drawing near, and thinking, perhaps,
that the sight of their sufferings might move the
English to compassion, the gate was one day opened,
and out poured a crowd of old men, women, little
children, all the non-combatants of the city, that,
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with fewer mouths to feed, the besieged might be
able to hold out a little longer. In the picture-
gallery at the Beaux Arts there is a very fine
painting representing this awful incident in the
history of Rouen. War is a terrible thing, as we
have seen even in this twentieth century; and
Henry V was, before all things, a warrior. What
ought he to have done? Had he fed the twelve
thousand poor starving creatures, and allowed them
to pass through his lines, it would but have pro-
longed the agony by encouraging their friends in the
city to continue their resistance, or so he thought.
So he kept them there for three long winter months,
crowded together the living and the dead, in the
damp trenches, with no food, no shelter, no hope.
Only once did he relent and send food to the few
survivors. That was on Christmas Day. But the
feast over, starvation reigned once more in the
trenches; and when, on the 20th of January, the
English King made his entry into the city and re-
turned thanks for his victory in the cathedral of
Notre-Dame, there were only twelve hundred out
of the twelve thousand left to return to their ruined
homes.
The third scene we shall recall as we stand in
this last remaining tower of the castle of Rouen
is connected with Jeanne d'Arc. For it was in a
prison of this castle of Philip Augustus that she
spent the long months of her captivity. Some say
confined in an iron cage, where the people used to
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85
come and jeer at her. Others tell us that at night
she was fastened to her bed by padlocks, and that
three rough English soldiers slept in her room,
while two others kept guard without. Each of her
three judges had a key to her prison, that they
might visit her at any moment, and torture her with
questions. In the walls of her dungeon holes had
been bored between the stones, that she might be
spied upon by day and by night. I wonder if that
dungeon is still lying buried beneath one of the
modern houses which have been built on the site
of the castle? If so, how interesting it would be
to see it.
As she lay in that awful place did the Maid dream
of the quiet, happy days in the old farmhouse at
Domremy, when her mother taught her and her
sister Catherine the Lord's Prayer and the Creed,
instead of the A and B which she never knew?
Did she picture the church close by her home, in
which she used to spend so many hours praying,
and watching before the Blessed Sacrament, or
placing flowers on the altars of her friends Saint
Catherine and Saint Margaret? Perhaps in the dark
night, when her rough guards had fallen asleep,
Saint Michael would appear to her, and they would
talk of the great day, when, after surmounting her
first difficulties, she had arrived at Chinon, and
found Charles in the midst of his courtiers, recog-
nising him at once as the "True Vassal of God, the
Supreme Sovereign of France." Surely, surely, the
mere fact that she distinguished him among all that
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
brilliant company was in itself a sign that her voices
were from heaven? Then in the darkness she would
see herself setting forth on her mission, clothed in
armour, as white and shining as that worn by the old
statue of Saint Michael in the church of Domremy,
girt with her sacred sword, and bearing a white
standard on which was pictured God the Father
blessing the lilies of France. What a day that was!
How the people had shouted, and blessed her as
their deliverer, as she rode through the streets with
La Hire and her "gentil" Duke of Alençon! And
there would follow visions of great days, wonderful
days, days as it then seemed to all full of miracles,
though, for that matter, was not her whole life a
miracle? There was the raising of the siege of
Orleans, and her triumphant entry into the city.
Ah! her Saints had not deceived her! And then
that great and glorious day when her "Gentil
Dauphin" was crowned and anointed King of France
in the great cathedral of Rheims, and she had been
there beside him, she the peasant girl of Domremy,
she had knelt before him, embracing his knees, and
kissing his feet, shedding hot tears, crying: "Gentle
King, now is accomplished the pleasure of God,
who willed that you should arrive at Rheims to
receive your Holy Annointing, proving that you
are indeed the true King and that France belongs
to you." 1
Alas, poor Maid! Had your King been worthy
1 Old French Chronicler's account of the coronation
of Charles VII.
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87
of your heroism you would not be lying here in a
dark dungeon of this castle of Philip Augustus, in
the power of your enemies. No wonder that, as
the old writer says, "Many could not refrain from
weeping at the sight." Even in that day of his
coronation and triumph I suppose that there were
few who did not realise what a poor creature this
Charles was, how unfit to rule the great kingdom
which to the Maid was so sacred. Oh why, why
had they not allowed her to return to her old humble
life at Domremy, as she had begged? Instead, they
had written verses about her, painted pictures of
her, set up statues crowned with a nimbus as though
she had been a Saint. And then, then the scene had
begun to change. There came the truce with the
Burgundians; the cutting short of the War with
England; idle, wearisome days spent at Chinon.
And yet she knew that the people had confidence in
her, that the English feared her, that the country
could yet be saved. If only she had had the King
and the army at her back, she could soon have
cleared France of the enemy.
And then
Compiègne, the fatal sortie, and the terrible moment
when she found herself alone outside the walls, in
the power of her bitter foes, helpless as one of her
father's shorn sheep at Domremy. That was on
23rd May 1430, and now she was lying here in the
dark, waiting for she knew not what.
No one seems to have put up a finger to save her.
Charles was once more living his depraved and care-
less life at Chinon. He could easily have bought
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
her from John of Luxembourg, her captor. But
he preferred to squander his money on his favourites.
And so she was sold to the English for ten thousand
livres Tournois !
It was at the little village of Le Crotoy that the
sale took place. In recent years a statue has been
raised there to the Maid; but the old castle where
she was imprisoned has disappeared. We can
follow her, however, to Saint Valery-sur-Somme,
that quaint old Norman port whence Duke William
set sail for the conquest of England. From Saint
Valery she was brought to Eu, and so by way of
Dieppe, travelling along the old Roman road, to
Rouen, which she reached on a cold December
evening in the year 1430, as dusk was falling.
She entered the city by the Porte Beauvoisine,
which was situated in the upper part of Rouen,
slightly to the south-east of the site of the present
railway station. From thence she could look down
over the great city, darkening with the mists of
evening. There were the narrow, winding streets,
many of them as we see them to-day; there were
the clock towers, the many churches, the convents,
and in the midst, soaring toward heaven, the
beautiful thirteenth-century stone spire of the
cathedral of Notre-Dame. And all this was, like
herself, in the hands of the enemy.
Of the weary months which followed there is no
need to tell. Day after day, week after week, she
lay in her dark dungeon; while her judges, who were
all chosen from her bitterest enemies, "sought
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89
accusation against her to put her to death." There
was that arch-fiend, Pierre Cauchon, Bishop of
Beauvais, and his creatures Loiseleur and Jean
d'Estivet, together with many others, and of the
English the Earl of Warwick and Cardinal Beaufort.
As we turn aside to the left, shortly after leaving
the station, and enter the dim old donjon keep,
we fancy we see the sinister faces and shadowy
forms of these her judges, seated and awaiting the
coming of their victim. On the great hearth,
sheltered by its heavy canopy, still lie instruments
of torture such as those with which Jeanne was
threatened, if she did not confess her crime of
heresy. And the stone walls seem to echo her
reply: "If you should tear me limb from limb until
my soul part company from my body, I can say
no more than I have said. And even if forced by
pain I should say something else, afterwards I
should always declare that you made me say it by
force.'
99
That is the great scene we picture as we stand
in the old circular stone chamber to-day. It is the
first of many which haunt us as we make our way
through the streets of Rouen. For the city is
permeated with memories of the Maid. Wherever
we go we cannot escape her. It is by the Rue
Jeanne d'Arc that we pass down into the city. In
the cemetery of Saint Ouen, now a public garden,
we shall find her again in the presence of her
accusers. We shall see the raised platform where
her judges are seated, the pulpit from which William
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
Erard addresses her, browbeats her, terrifies her,
and all this under the very shadow of the dwelling
of that merciful God whom they, like their victim,
profess to serve and follow. It is a wonderful
thought that these very walls once looked down
upon the pale, terrified girl, as, when at last face
to face with the executioner waiting to lead her to
the stake, she gave way, crying out that all she had
said about her voices and saints was false, and
promising that she would never again dress as a
man; that she would say what they wished, if only
they would not give her over to the English to be
buried, as though she had been a witch. Then
back to her prison she goes, where her woman's
clothes are taken from her, and she is forced once
more to put on her armour, and so break her word.
And thus we come to the dark, ancient Rue Saint
Romain, and the Archbishop's palace with its old
chapel, in which, as a tablet on the outer wall
informs us, the final trial took place, when Jeanne
carried out to the letter the assurance she had made
six months earlier when threatened with the
instruments of torture. It was under a torture
worse than that with which she had been threatened
that she had made her recantation; now she with-
drew it, was solemnly excommunicated, and given
over to the mercy of her bitter foes.
We had been dining as usual at the Restaurant
de Paris. Everyone knows the quaint little place,
nestling up against the archway of the Grosse
Horloge. Lying as it does under the very shadow
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91
of the ancient belfry of the city, this eating-house
may, for all I know, be the successor of some far
more ancient hostel, for here was situated the Porte
Massacre, one of the original gates of Rouen. If
so, what guests have not put up at this house! I
think I felt this, for, in spite of the brilliant electric
lights and the gay young students who thronged
the low-ceiled rooms, I used to find myself con-
stantly dreaming of the past. Once, in a top window
of the high house which has grown up over the
archway of the Grosse Horloge, I saw a face looking
down, a white ghostly face, and for a moment
wondered if it was some watcher who had taken
up her position there to view the passing of the
Maid. Perhaps it was the sound of many footsteps
in the crowded street below which brought back
so vividly the remembrance of that May morning,
when Joan was led forth to meet her fate. It was
by this ancient road that she came, for it led through
the city gate straight to the place of execution.
She had wept and torn her hair when they came
in the early morning and told her that she was to
be burned that day; she had even cried out that
her voices had deceived her. But very soon she
had become calmer. Strangely enough, her arch
enemy, Pierre Cauchon, had given permission for
this so-called witch and heretic to receive Holy
Communion before being led to the stake. And
though the order had been accompanied by the in-
junction that It was to be taken to the prison.
secretly, It was carried by many of the clergy,
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
walking in procession with lighted torches, and
singing litanies. This concession had been a great
comfort to the poor girl, as was also the presence
and help of the Dominican monk Martin Ladvenu;
and when, dressed once more in women's clothes,
she mounted the cart which was to bear her to
her dreadful death, she had appeared calm and
resigned.
On this last evening of our stay in Rouen, having
made our way down into the crowded street, we
followed the route by which that cart took its way
to the place of execution. As we passed beneath
the belfry the bell Cache Ribaud tolled the curfew,
and, had it not been that it was nine o'clock of the
evening instead of morning, I should have fancied
it was sounding the death-knell for the passing of
the Maid. When we reached the market-square,
which in 1431 was the place of so much suffering,
and groping, had found the slab that marks the site
of the scaffold, looking off to the east out of the
darkness emerges a ghostly procession. As it nears
us we see that it is the death-cart drawn by four
horses. In it stands Jeanne, in a rough, sulphur-
coloured gown, and crowned with a parchment mitre
on which are the words: "Heretic. Relapsed
Apostate. Idolater." But, instead of shouts of
execration, there are sobs and exclamations of pity.
For the dark square seems once more crowded with
forms gathered to see the burning of this Maid of
Orleans, whose only crime is that she saved their
France from the English invaders, and crowned

CAFE
DEBIT
A STREET NEAR THE CATHEDRAL, ROUEN

THE CHURCH OF ST. MACLOU, ROUEN
ROUEN
93
their King at Rheims. Presently, as she reaches the
place and sees the crowd, the judges on their gor-
geous stage, the scaffold, the executioner, we hear
her pitiful cry: "Ah, Rouen, Rouen, and is it here
that I must die?" There follows a sermon from one
of her judges, a speech from Cauchon, the reading
of the sentence, and her voice begging for the
prayers and pity of all present, and that so sweetly,
so humbly, that even Cauchon weeps; and when she
begins to mount the high stone scaffold on which
the wood has been piled the soldiers have much
ado to keep back the crowd.
After that it is all horror and tears. We see her
bound to the stake, asking meekly for a cross, and
a soldier binding two sticks together, which she
places in her bosom. And the fire is lighted, and
the monk Ladvenu stands beside her, consoling her,
holding up a crucifix he has fetched from the
neighbouring church of Saint Sauveur, till she bids
him descend, or he too will be burned. Then the
flames close in upon her, the darkness falls around
us once more, and we find ourselves alone in the
haunted market-place of Rouen.
But this took place five centuries ago. For all
that time the memory of Jeanne d'Arc has clung
about the streets of the city. Histories, stories,
poems, plays have been written about her. And
now in these latter days she has received her final
tribute of honour. Even on the day of her death,
Jean Tressart, the secretary of the King of England,
cried aloud, when all was over: "We are lost, we
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
are lost, for a Saint has been burned to death this
day!" And it is this Saint Jeanne d'Arc that we
shall find in the beautiful chapel lately dedicated to
her in the cathedral of Notre-Dame hard by the
place of her martyrdom.
CHAPTER IV
CHÂTEAU GAILLARD
EVERYONE who has made his way up the Seine will
have noticed a great ruined castle frowning down
from the precipitous rock which dominates the little
village of Le Petit Andely. I well remember how
it startled me when, for the first time, I rounded
the corner and saw the ghastly skeleton of feudal
times, with its empty sockets and riven flanks,
glaring down upon me. We were on our way to
Saint Germain, and it was growing late, so we
fled past without stopping; but ever since I have
wished to visit Château Gaillard, and more than
ever since I have learned the story of the siege.
A few months ago we were staying at Rouen, and
had driven out with some friends, threading our
way through narrow, winding lanes, bordered by
apple orchards, and past thatched white-walled
cottages, with here and there the old stone spire of
a Norman church showing above the trees. We
had noticed a lonely-looking château called, I think,
Pont Saint Pierre, and had already left it some
distance behind, when we came upon Les Andelys.
95
96
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
Here we stopped for a cup of coffee as an excuse
to visit the wonderful old inn, once the country
residence of François de Harley, Archbishop of
Rouen. We were fortunate enough to arrive at a
quiet time, and to find the landlord at home. He
was naturally extremely proud of his splendid inn,
and invited us to see the interior, showing us a huge
old bedroom in which we might find our fill of
ghosts; for it was in this House of the Stag that
the father of Henry of Navarre breathed his last;
that Sir Walter Scott stayed; and Victor Hugo,
and many other persons we should like to have met.
And there is the fine Gothic church, built in the
thirteenth century, on the site of a much older
worshipping place. For Le Grand Andely is a very
ancient town, and if we want to see the origin of
it we must find our way to the Fountain of Saint
Clothilde.
I am sure that we shall all remember the beautiful
story of the marriage of this princess with Clovis,
the pagan King of the Franks: and as Les Andelys
was once her favourite home, and indeed owes its
very existence to her, I may perhaps be excused for
recalling the ancient story. She was the niece of
the Burgundian King Gondebaud; and Clovis, then
a young man, full of ambition, and on the lookout
for a wife, hearing that she was as wise and good
as she was beautiful and rich, asked her of her uncle.
It turned out a most happy marriage, and it was
in this beautiful spot we are visiting that the young
couple had their favourite home-one of those huge
CHÂTEAU GAILLARD
97
wooden farmhouses that the Merovingian kings
called their palaces. It was most likely here that
their first little son was born. The Queen, being a
Christian, naturally wished him to be baptised; but
Clovis, afraid of offending his gods, for a time
resisted, and when, having given way, the baby
died shortly after the ceremony, the King, over-
whelmed with grief, attributed his loss to the wrath
of his pagan deities. However, a second son was
born, and baptised and lived, "owing to the prayers
of his mother": and shortly afterwards Clovis
became a Christian. It happened in this wise:-
During a battle in the Rhine valley this great
warrior actually found himself being worsted, and
in his despair, raising his hands to heaven, cried
aloud: "Jesus Christ, whom Clothilde declares to
be the Son of the Living God, You who they say
succour those that are in danger, and bring victory
to those who trust in You, help me to triumph over
these my enemies, and I will make trial of your
power, I will believe in You, I will be baptised in
your Name." Scarcely had he spoken when the
tide of battle turned, the danger was past, and the
King and his followers prepared to fulfil the vow he
had made. There follows the splendid story of the
baptism at Reims, the old cathedral hung with rich
tapestries, the candles, the clouds of incense, the
chanting of the monks. And in the midst Clovis
is kneeling with his warriors; and Remi, the saintly
Archbishop, is telling them how for the future they
"must adore what they had burned, and burn
7
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
what they had adored!" After this we may
be sure that the home at Grand Andely became
happier than ever; husband and wife being of
one faith.
There was a fountain close to their house to which
no doubt even in pagan days people had come in
hope of a cure. It may have been the beloved
Archbishop of Reims himself who exorcised and
blessed the little spring, as it was certainly Clothilde
who built the chapel above, and gave it her name,
which it still bears after more than a thousand
years. It is shadowed by a lime-tree, and every
2nd of June pilgrims come, as of old, to drink from
and bathe in the Fountain of Saint Clothilde, and
to offer up their prayers or thanksgivings in the
church hard by.
I love to think of the royal couple dwelling in
their beautiful home beside the Seine, and building
the abbey to which, as Bede tells us, the great
families of England and France sent their daughters
to be educated. The convent was provided with a
little port on the river, called Petit Andely, to which
the barges came laden with food and where pil-
grims landed. It was a quiet and beautiful little
spot this home of Clovis and his good Queen, and
so remained, till the early Norman pirates came
and destroyed it, wrecking the convent, and no
doubt murdering the nuns. But the Dukes of
Normandy, after their conversion, took the place
under their protection, built up the church, and
restored to the clergy the surrounding villages,
CHÂTEAU GAILLARD
99*
6
placing over the district the Archbishop of Rouen,
as Lord of Les Andelys.
At Petit Andely, charming little riverside village,
we left the motor and climbed the steep hillside to
the ruined fortress, the Saucy Castle, as Richard
Cœur de Lion called it, as for the first time he looked
down from his window upon the helpless town and
open country lying at his mercy below, and defied
his enemy the King of France, the great Philip
Augustus. It was during a truce, which had been
arranged between the two kings, that Richard had
built this amazing fortress on an isolated rock at
a sharp angle of the river Seine. A wondrous place
it must have seemed, with its enormous ditches cut
in the living rock, its triple fortifications, its thick
walls, and mighty donjon keep. Even to-day we
might well wonder how it could ever have been
captured did we not know the story of the siege.
Realising that with this gate to Rouen in the hands
of the English, Paris itself, and indeed all his king-
dom, would be at the mercy of his enemies, Philip
resolved to lay siege to Château Gaillard. The first
step was to gain possession of Boutavant, the
fortified island lying in the Seine, the next to capture
Le Petit Andely, and so cut off communication with
the river and all outside help. The fortress was
defended by Sir Roger de Lacy and a little band
of picked knights for eight terrible winter months.
They might have held out even longer, had not the
poor country folk, at the approach of the French
army, taken refuge within the walls. When the
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
food was all but gone, they had to be expelled, five
hundred of them, old men, women, and helpless
children, whom the French soldiers shot down with
arrows, till King Philip gave the order for the
remnant to pass.
After that, little by little, the French mounted
the hill, and surrounded the castle. Then the
miners got to work, a tower fell, the huge fortress
itself with its walls and inner walls was entered,
and Sir Roger, with the few soldiers left to him,
was taken and shot. To-day, how still it is! how
deserted!
We clamber up to the ruin, and enter through
the Sally port to find ourselves in the innermost
recesses of Richard's Saucy Castle . . . and yet
not quite! For, wandering over the broken ground,
we reach an opening and descend into the vaults
below the tower. What gruesome scenes has not
this gloomy prison witnessed? I wondered whether
it could have been here that the unfortunate and
guilty Queen Marguerite de Bourgogne, wife of
Louis the Tenth, was strangled in 1314! We shall
never know. But we can still read the story of
the two young queens (Marguerite, the wife of Louis
le Hutin, and Jeanne, the wife of Philippe le Longue),
who, together with Blanche, lately married to
Charles de la Marche, had been arrested and cast
into prison at the instigation of the wicked
and jealous Queen Isabelle of England, wife and
murderess of King Edward the Second. We shall
never know, or wish to know, the story of these
CHÂTEAU GAILLARD
101
women's crimes, if crimes they committed! But
we think of them as we stand in the black prison
below the donjon of Château Gaillard. I wanted to
explore the dreadful place, but their ghosts seemed
to wave me back, and I hastened out into the sun-
shine and fresh air, thankful that I lived in the
twentieth century, and had been allowed to choose
my own husband, instead of being born a wretched
fourteenth-century princess, obliged to marry a king
like Louis the Tenth.
A few years later, Château Gaillard was the refuge
of the boy David Bruce, granted to him by King
Philip the Sixth, when he fled from his country at
the coming of Balliol. Later we find Henry the
Fifth of England besieging the castle, which would
have resisted for more than the sixteen months that
it did hold out, had not the ropes of the bucket
which brought the water up from the deep well
given out. . .
Since then the old castle has no story to tell.
It lives in its past, and we who visit it do so for the
sake of the memories its sight recalls. We look
down over the Seine, and think of those long dead
kings and queens, till the sun begins to sink, and the
river to flow blood red, as it flowed in those ancient
days of which we have been thinking, when human
life was so little accounted of in comparison with
power and glory.
CHAPTER V
EVREUX
A DULL, little town is Evreux at first sight, with no
history to speak of with certainty before the tenth
century, though doubtless, like all the cities of
France, it was a place of some importance long
before that time, for we hear of a local Saint named
Taurin, said to have been a disciple of Denis the
Areopagite, having brought Christianity to the
neighbourhood, and founded a little church there
of which he was appointed bishop. But little is
known of Saint Taurin, and even the place of his
sepulchre was lost, until a certain fifth-century
bishop, named Landulf, found the body of the old
man buried beside the Roman road, on the out-
skirts of the town. He built over it a small wooden
oratory, which later developed into the church and
Benedictine Abbey of Saint Taurin.
We were on our way to Lisieux, to witness some
of the ceremonies connected with the recent canon-
isation of The Little Flower of Jesus, as the new
Saint of Lisieux is called by the Catholic world.
Having been warned by our landlady in Rouen that
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EVREUX
103
we should not find a spare corner in which to sleep,
we made up our minds to stop short at Evreux,
putting up at the Hôtel du Grand Cerf.
It was a pretty enough place in the afternoon
sunlight, the house itself built round a long court-
yard full of flowers, begonias, fuchsias, geraniums,
and curtains of wistaria hanging from every wall.
In the corners lurked many porcelain beasts. Blue
and yellow cats prowled about the roof, geese
strutted among the flowers, a huge bulldog of
ferocious aspect kept guard in a kennel beside the
door. By day it was amusing; but later, when
I looked down from my window, and saw the
strangely coloured creatures creeping about in the
moonlight, it was a weird sight, reminding one of
a curious and horrible story by Blackwood about
a night he passed in a city of cats, and the horrors
that there befell him.
Evreux lies in a hollow closed in by hills, save to
the west. It was market day, and after dinner we
strolled through the town, which was crowded with
country folk, for it is the centre of a large and rich
agricultural district.
The streets were gay and noisy, so after a time
we wandered away from the main thoroughfare
to find ourselves before the ancient church of Saint
Taurin. The door was open, and there was still
light enough to see the painted windows illustrating
the life of the bishop, and his curious chasse in which
his bones are kept, to be carried in procession on
the day of his festival.
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But the principal church, the cathedral, we visited
next morning before setting out on our way to
Lisieux. It is a most curious and beautiful build-
ing, belonging to the twelfth century, very possibly
built in part by Henry the First of England, in
reparation for the damage he had done to the
original building. To me the great delight of
visiting these ancient churches is that in them one
always finds written in stone the records of the past.
For instance, as one sits looking up at the beautiful
arches and soaring pillars of this cathedral, marking
how the various styles of architecture succeed one
another, we are reminded of the wild years through
which Evreux has passed. Of the siege and burning
of the city in 1119, when the original church was
practically destroyed. Of its restoration by Henry
Beauclere, the chief incendiary, and its consecration
by his friend Bishop Audouin.
The period succeeding the Norman Conquest
was not a happy time for either England or France,
for both sides were struggling for possession of this
rich province, and cities passed from hand to hand,
according to the will of those in high places, the
people being mere pawns in the game, as likely as
not ruled by foreigners, who did not know the
language of those they governed. There was the
wretched John Lackland, afterwards King John of
England, who, as ruler of Normandy, held the town
under his suzerain King Philip Augustus. Horrible
stories are told of his barbarous cruelty, such as
that of the great banquet given to the French
EVREUX
105
knights in the castle of Evreux. Three hundred
of these gentlemen had accepted the invitation, and
the feast was at its height when they were set upon
and murdered in cold blood by the servants of
John, and their heads hung in festoons from the
ramparts. But at last, happily, the county of
Evreux was united to France, given by John as a
marriage portion to his niece Blanche of Castille,
on her marriage with Louis the Eighth, then the
Dauphin. We so often hear of this strong-minded
and pious daughter of Alphonso the Ninth of
Castille, as we travel about France, that I may be
pardoned for saying a few words about her here,
especially as, through her marriage, she finally
united the county of Evreux to the monarchy of
France.
She was not too good friends with her father-in-
law, King Philip Augustus: they were both strong
willed almost to obstinacy! There is an amusing
little story told by a thirteenth-century writer of
a passage of arms between the two. Louis, her
husband, was in great straits for money to carry
on his campaign in England, and his father, always
avaricious, had refused his help.
"And will you let your son, my lord, die in a
foreign country for want of funds to carry on the
war?" she cried. "For God's sake, sire, help him!
He ought to reign after you. Give him, in the first
place, what actually belongs to him."
"I will send him nothing at all, Blanche," replied
Philip.
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
"Nothing, sire?"
"In truth nothing!"
"Then, by God," cried Madame Blanche, "I know
what I myself will do! I have two beautiful
children belonging to my lord. I shall pawn them.
I shall easily find someone ready to lend me money
on them!" and off she went like a mad woman.
But the King sent to call her back, and, "Blanche,
said he, "I will give you as much as you wish from
my treasure. You can do with it what you please,
but, understand, that to him I send nothing."
Her son Louis was but twelve years of age when
his father, by that time Louis the Eighth, died,
and Queen Blanche found herself with a long
regency before her. She was certainly a wonderful
woman, for the country, divided as it had been at
her coming, was, by the time her son came of age,
a united kingdom. But the picture given by the
Sieur de Joinville of the royal household shows
Blanche as being distinctly difficult to live with!
It was she herself who arranged her son's marriage
with Margaret of Provence; but once it was accom-
plished, the poor young couple were obliged to meet
by stealth, so jealous was this royal mother-in-law.
It is the same chronicler, the Sieur de Joinville,
who relates how, at Pontoise, the rooms occupied
by the young people lay one above the other, a
winding staircase offering the only means of com-
munication; in this uncomfortable place the poor
young couple would meet and talk in whispers,
while sympathetic doorkeepers watched without to
EVREUX
107
warn them of the jealous Queen Mother's approach,
when they would escape to their respective rooms
to await her coming!
It was not until after his mother's death that
Louis began to exercise his own will, or to travel
about and visit his kingdom. Then it was that he
brought his wife to Evreux; and I like to think of
them sitting side by side in the beautiful cathedral,
presiding at the installation of the new bishop,
Raoul de Grospalmy, or kneeling at the altar rail
to receive the Blessed Sacrament from his hands.
In those days the woods lay thick around Evreux;
and the Abbess of Saint Sauveur, a very aristocratic
lady, and her nuns, used to hunt the stag in the
forest of Asnières, in company with a certain William
d'Ivry and other gentlemen of the neighbourhood.
Indeed, we are told that on one occasion the poor
stag, being hard pressed by the huntsmen, and
having taken to the river, "the nuns had the
pleasure of seeing it die!"
Within a short drive from Evreux is Ivry, the
scene of the great battle between Henry of Navarre
and the army of the League. Here in this plain
of Saint André, in the midst of which rises the
pyramid recording the victory, were gathered the
forces of the opposing kings. I suppose that in
childhood we all learned the Lay of the Battle of
Ivry, and pictured the King arriving "all in his
armour drest," and marked how he had "bound a
snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.” I have
no great affection for Henry of Navarre: he was too
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theatrical and time-serving for my taste. Three
times he changed his religion for political purposes,
and his private history is by no means an elevating
subject to dwell upon. But, like all God's creatures,
he had his uses, and he was a great and popular
monarch, and, above all, a great general.
His military skill he probably owed to the fact
that his mother Jeanne d'Albret, Queen of Navarre,
took him at an early age to Rochelle, to learn the
art of war under the great Admiral Coligny. His
reputation as a monarch was probably much en-
hanced by the very poor qualities of the three or
four kings who preceded him. Thinking somewhat
in this manner, as we look across the plain we can
see the ranks of the League breaking, "like thin
clouds against a Biscay gale," as the ballad has it;
and "the field is heaped with bleeding steeds and
flags and cloven mail"; indeed, the whole scene, as
pictured by Macaulay, is very fine and stirring, and
years ago at school one thoroughly enjoyed reciting
the rousing rhymes and rhythm.
But we have heard too much lately of bleeding
horses and cloven skulls, and crushed and shattered
bodies, to appreciate such poems to-day. It is said
that more than four thousand of the army of the
League lay dead or dying after the battle—a huge
number for those days-while Henry and his staff
departed in the highest spirits to the Castle of
Rosny, there to sup and pass the night in comfort.
The castle belonged to Maximilien de Bethune,
better remembered as Duke of Sully; indeed, it was

THE TOUR DE BEURRE, NOTRE DAME CATHEDRAL, ROUEN

L'AITRE DE S. MACLOU, ROUEN
XXI
EVREUX
109
his birthplace. Everyone who has heard of Sully
will remember his boundless devotion to the King,
his master, whose service he had entered when little
more than a boy. He had felled and sold the finest
timber in his park at Rosny, to provide funds for
the young man. For years he managed his finances;
no easy task, when we remember the hosts of greedy
courtiers and rapacious women who formed the
Court of Henry the Fourth. And it was to the
home of this faithful servant that Henry was making
his way, when he overtook a little band of wounded
soldiers limping along on their road to the castle,
bearing in their midst the wounded body of the
Duke of Sully. Springing from his horse, Henry
embraced his friend, and then, remounting, con-
tinued his way to Rosny, where he dined in public
with his officers, delighting everyone with his jokes
and merry stories, some of which, we may be sure,
were not of the most refined order, judging by the
literature of the period.
Next morning, before leaving Evreux, we went
to the cathedral to study it by morning light.
We found it empty, save for a few women who had
been to early Mass, and were kneeling, saying their
prayers. It was a fine morning, and the sun shone
in through the beautiful painted windows, so that
the eastern end, lofty, broad, and perfect, was full
of light and colour, while the great sanctuary gates,
which the evening before had been closed, were now
open. And, as I stood gazing into this radiant and
110 THE LURE OF NORMANDY
holy place, I thought what artists the old monk-
architects must have been to interpret so perfectly
in stone the faith which animated them, and how
hopeless it is in these days to seek to emulate them.
And then I seemed to see the great building filled
once more with the anxious crowds who fled to it
in times of peril and stress, and to hear the prayers
and litanies; while the sun, streaming in through
the windows, reminded me of the glow of the flames
which again and again destroyed the city in ancient
times. And yet here, on its original site, stands
the church, more beautiful than ever, a fitting
emblem of the Faith of those who raised it.
CHAPTER VI
LISIEUX
I SUPPOSE that, whatever may be our religious
beliefs and practices, there are few of us who have
not heard of that latest of Saints, Thérèse of Lisieux,
called more commonly, at least by Catholics, The
Little Flower of Jesus. It was our landlady at
Rouen who insisted on our being present at the
great week-long festival of her canonisation. And,
indeed, as we were in Normandy at the time, and
wishful to see the old city in her holiday attire, we
were nothing loth.
"It would be absurd, a thing unheard of," cried
she, "for Madame to find herself in Normandy, and
not to assist at a ceremony so unique. What would
your friends say on your return to England? I
myself am not une dêvote; I am not for ever running
to this shrine or that directly I have a toothache or
a pain in my stomach, as some would. But The
Little Flower, par exemple. That is another thing.
Does Madame know her history?"
I replied that I had read it as I read the stories
of most Saints, but that I was more interested in
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112
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
the past than in the present. It was of no use,
however; I was literally swept off my feet by
Madame's enthusiasm, and next morning found
myself struggling into a train already crowded with
pilgrims of every age, quality, and sex, on their way
to assist at the ceremonies to be held at Lisieux,
in honour of the Canonisation of Marie Françoise
Thérèse Martin, as she was named at her baptism.
The crowd was still as thick as ever on the platform,
and fresh people kept arriving every moment.
There were country priests shepherding old women
from distant hamlets. There were mothers with
babies and young daughters, convent schools, timid
black-gowned nuns, Brothers of Saint Joseph with
their pupils, in socks and little short breeches, their
black cloth capes flung back over their shoulders,
and even here and there a friar, brown-robed and
sandalled, his big rosary dangling at his side. It
is needless to say that we were somewhat crowded
and late in starting; but we sat there enjoying it
all, for it reminded us of those long-past days when
we used to frequent the Breton Pardons with our
friend Anatole le Braz. There was the same
atmosphere of fervour and devotion, rare to see
in these days. I remarked upon it to a woman
who sat beside me telling her beads.
66
“But naturally," she replied, looking up with a
smile, "she is our own, this Little Flower. There
are some who can even remember when she was
living at the Carmel at Lisieux. And ever since
she left us she has been our protector. In the
LISIEUX
113
Great War what should we poor French women
have done without her? Madame is English? Ah,
then, perhaps she has never heard what our Saint
said to her sister Pauline during her last illness.
'I will spend my heaven,' said she, 'in doing good
on earth'; and has she not kept her word?"
As we neared the old city I am afraid the occasion
of our visit faded for a moment from my memory
as I looked out over this Noviomagus Lexoviorum
which gave so much trouble to the Romans. A
wild, savage people these Lexovii must have been
in those days. It is even said that on one occasion
the Senate having attempted to quell a revolt
which had broken out against the Roman rule, the
Gaulish citizens fell upon them and cut all their
throats! It is one of the most ancient cities of
Normandy, and, in spite of their early resistance to
their conquerors, the people in the end became good
Roman citizens, and were one of the sixty cities of
Gaul who raised a statue to Augustus.
Duke Rollo at his coming showed himself a
generous patron to Lisieux, and the bishop became
a very great person; so great, indeed, that even the
canons shared in his reflected glory. It is told of
them that every year, on the day of the Feast of
Saint Ursin, two of these clergy of the cathedral
rode forth on horseback, followed by twenty-five
men-at-arms, and all the high officers of justice,
and took command of the city and its gates for two
days, during which time they judged all causes,
both civil and criminal, and held the right to give
8
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
the benefices of the diocese to whom they chose.
Like all the cities of Normandy, Lisieux has had
a stormy past, so in this respect its history does
not differ greatly from that of its neighbours. It
has seen the same people of whom we have spoken
elsewhere, walking its streets and worshipping in
its churches. It was at Lisieux that King Richard
of England had that touching interview with his
rebellious brother John, who had been doing his best
to betray him to his enemy King Philip Augustus.
When the young man, afraid of approaching the
brother he had so grievously offended, cast himself
at his feet: "Do not be afraid, John," said Richard;
"you are but a child, and have been in bad company.
It is they who shall pay for what you have done.
Come, get up, and let us have something to eat."
Then, turning to one of his knights, "What is there
for dinner?" he asked; and hearing that someone
had just brought him a salmon as a present, “then
you shall have that," said he to John, and ordered
it to be cooked forthwith. That is one of the little
sidelights on the history of Lisieux. It was at
Lisieux that the father and mother of these two
young men had been married. We shall think of
them when we visit the cathedral.
In the old Abbey of Saint Evroul, close by, the
Monk Orderic Vital wrote his entrancing History
of Normandy, from which we learn so much of
these old cities. And there is that bold bishop
Thomas Basin, who, for the sake of his Church and
his people, dared to defy the dreaded Louis the
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115
Eleventh himself. We think also of the great
Archbishop Thomas à Becket, who, during his exile
from England, lived near Lisieux as Abbot of the
monastery of Val Richer, and left certain of his
vestments behind, which may be seen in the Hospice
in the Rue de Paris. But, after all, we have come
to Lisieux to attend the Fête, and we are reminded
of the fact, directly we leave the station, by the
great arches of evergreen, starred with roses of every
colour, which span the Rue Alençon and the Rue
Pont Mortain, through which we pass. For the
city is "endimanchée," indeed, this late September
morning, and as for the churches they are even
more gorgeously apparelled. The entrance to the
cathedral Saint Pierre is wreathed with these same
roses, emblematical of the little heroine of the day,
the long trails being festooned with the stately
flags of the French Republic.
It is a beautiful cathedral this of Lisieux, remind-
ing one, with its narrow, pointed arches and lancet
windows, and general purity, perhaps I should say
severity of style, of Saint Hugh's great church at
Lincoln.
In the choir Henry the Second of England was
married to Eleanor of Guienne, and this Lady
Chapel was rebuilt by the Bishop of Beuvais,
Pierre Cauchon, in expiation, as is alleged, for his
false judgment of Joan of Arc. The bas-reliefs with
which it is decorated tell the story of his horrible
crime, but whether this money-loving prelate paid
for the building himself is very problematical.
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
The hotels appeared so crowded, even at that
early hour, and the menus posted up at the doors
so uninviting, that we turned away to find a con-
fectioner's or baker's, and soon came across a nice,
clean little shop, whose mistress, foreseeing extra
business, had fitted up her parlour on the first floor
as a tiny restaurant. It was fortunate that we
were neither of us stout, for the staircase leading
to it was so narrow that otherwise we might have
stuck on the ascent. We sat at a little white-
clothed table by the window, and devoured ham
and bread and butter and cakes, and took a photo-
graph of the west end of the cathedral, and watched
the crowds going up and down the great stairway
to the entrance; and then, as it still wanted some
time to the hour of Vespers, we made our way to
the church of Saint Jacques, the other great church
of Lisieux. How lovely it is this strange, old
fifteenth-century building! Every pillar, those
graceful pillars whose mouldings passing upward
as it seems instinctively, without the intervention
of a capital, to form the ribbing of the vaulted roof,
every pillar bears to-day a long silk pennon, gold
or crimson, embroidered with flowers, crosses,
fleurs-de-lis; and the triforium, exquisite, lacelike
gallery that it is, is festooned with delicate green
wreathing, starred with pink roses. Over the high
altar is a picture of the little Saint herself, framed
with her favourite flowers; and at the entrance to
the choir all the glory and radiance of colour in-
carnate culminates in showers and cascades of
LISIEUX
117
blossoms, as though the little Carmelite were ful-
filling her dying promise. For awhile we wandered
about this beautiful building, watching the pic-
turesque worshippers kneeling in the light of the
sheaves of candles before the statue of Our Lady,
and pausing before the old picture showing "How
the relics of Monseigneur Saint Ursin were brought
by a miracle to this town in 1055 by the care of
Hugo, Bishop of Lisieux."
And then, it being half-past two, we returned
to the cathedral for Vespers, to find it already
packed from end to end. However, going round
to the south-west door, we managed to effect an
entrance, and little by little threaded our way into
the south transept, taking up our stand at the foot
of one of the huge pillars of the intersection. There
we were able at least to lean, for there was by this
time not the faintest possibility of finding a seat,
the whole floor space being packed solid with human
feet, fitting into one another like a Chinese puzzle.
How beautiful the ancient church looked in all
the glory of its festival trappings! From a hole
in the centre of the intersection depended a huge
crown of flowers, and from this hung long showers
of roses looped back to the four great pillars. Just
within the choir lay the chasse, and above and
below and on every side were lights and flowers
and music and the rejoicing of crowds, who had
come from far and near to do homage to this humble
little Normandy maiden. At every moment the
crowd pressed closer, grew denser. One would have
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
said it was not possible, but here and there a child
was slipped in, a woman squeezed through, till at
last, when the way had to be cleared for the Pro-
cession of Bishops, we were forced to climb up on
to the old stone base of our column, and from thence
were able to watch the stream of Cardinals, Arch-
bishops, Bishops, Abbots, and other clergy, make
their gorgeous way through the crowd and up the
central aisle to the choir. There, after bowing
humbly to the chasse, they passed and took the
seats reserved for them. For the rest I cannot
describe it: it remains in my memory a glory of
lights and flowers, of rich vestments and sparkling
jewels, of music and rejoicing, and all in honour
of the simple, humble childlike maiden of whom
we were all thinking.
For my part, as I sat perched on the worn base
of the pillar, listening to the story of the life of this
wonderful child, as told by the Archbishop of Rouen,
I thought a good deal of that other Saint, whose
history we had been studying lately at Rouen,
and wondered which of the two had achieved the
nobler work-Joan, who saved her country from the
tyranny of an earthly foe; or this silent little
Carmelite who gave up her life to pray France
back from the still more terrible thraldom of sin
and unbelief. I thought of her as a little mother-
less girl, living with her widowed father and sisters
at Lisieux, and of her childish wish to devote her
life to prayer at the convent in which two of her
sisters were already professed.
LISIEUX
119
A well-known modern writer, in the Revue des
Deux Mondes, has given a graphic account of his
visit to the Festival, and describes the chapel of the
convent where the final celebrations were held,
showing us the wax figure of Thérèse lying in its
"arch of crystal," the profusion of stucco flowers
and paper roses. He confesses that there are too
many of these for his taste; but suggests that the
little Saint herself, who had a special preference
for these flowers, would have loved it all in her
childish, humble fashion. For, indeed, she was such
a child, only fifteen at the time she entered the
convent, only twenty-four when she died. "Just
a little, pious, imaginative girl," as the same writer
observes, "who, like God Himself, regarded the
purity of a gift rather than its value."
CHAPTER VII
CAEN
How many years is it since I first visited Caen?
We were living at Worthing at the time, and
holidays abroad were rare and precious, for we were
young married people, and had to be sparing with
our pennies. So when, one day, we heard of a
little steamer which was making cheap week-end
trips between Newhaven and Caen, we thought it
an occasion not to be lost, and wrote for berths.
But that is all so long ago; and we have wandered
so far and so often since then that I remember
very little of what befell us. I recall a very tiny
boat, rocking and heaving beside the quay; rough,
grey, foam-flecked water; and hours and hours of
discomfort, when I sat in a deck-chair with my eyes
shut, not daring to move, and thinking how comfort-
able I might have been at home. And there was
night in a stuffy cabin, with intervals of sleep,
and awaking . . . to find oneself in smooth water,
and to see, through the portholes, the green banks
and willows which border the canal that leads
from the sea to the city.
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121
Of the Bassin Saint Pierre into which we must
have emerged, and even of the old city itself, I
recollect from that visit but little, save a very
ancient and dirty inn, the name of which I have
fortunately forgotten, a confused network of narrow,
evil-smelling streets, and a great Norman church in
which I was told William the Conqueror was buried.
To-day, how different is my memory of Caen.
True, it is wiser to keep one's mouth shut, especially
when passing through the back streets and purlieus
of the harbour. But it is a charmingly picturesque
place, this favourite home of William and his wife
Matilda of Flanders.
According to ancient writers, Caen was originally
a mere fishing village, lying on the banks of the
river Orne. Some authorities suggest that its
name Cadomus was of Roman origin (Caii Domus),
others allege that it is derived from the Celtic form
Catumagos (field of battle), a third quote Catheim,
from Gate-heim (the house of the barrier), because
it was here that the old Roman road, leading from
Lisieux to Bayeux, crossed the river. This crossing
place was a valuable possession, on account of the
fees charged for the use of the ferry; and Duke
Richard III, uncle of William the Conqueror, gave
Catheim to his wife Adèle as a marriage gift. By
that time it must have become quite a little town,
for the deed of gift mentions "churches, mills, tolls,
as well as the harbour with its dues, and the sur-
rounding meadows, vineyards, and cornfields."
We shall remember how this young Duke was
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
poisoned by his brother Robert the Magnificent,
or Robert the Devil, concerning whom so many
strange and romantic stories have been told. We
shall find them, together with other wonderful
things, in the beautiful old library of Caen, where
we used to sit reading and dreaming for so many
hours. It is one of the most delightful and inspiring
libraries that I know, not too large or crowded,
and with a restful charm about it which accords
well with the ancient city. Together with the
museum, picture-gallery, and certain municipal
offices, it once formed part of an ancient convent,
and a quiet studious charm enfolds one as one enters
the door. I think that the first long room must
once have been a chapel. It is on the upper floor,
and its windows look down over the courtyard.
The walls are lined with ancient books, over which
generations of monks have pored; while down the
centre of the long apartment are glass cases con-
taining priceless missals, breviaries, and other
ecclesiastical treasures, fortunate enough to have
escaped the fury of the Revolution. It is all so
beautiful, so quiet and studious, that one still feels
as if it were a sacred place, and hushes one's foot-
steps across the glistening, polished floor. Beyond
the first hall, through a broad opening, lies the
reading-room, also lined with books, and furnished
with delightful attendants, to whom it is apparently
a pleasure, rather than a duty, to help you in your
particular wants. Legend, history, biography,
architecture, they know far better than yourself
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123
what you need and in what corner the volumes
lurk. And the sun shines in through the tall
windows, and you sit in your comfortable chair at
one of the great leather-covered tables, and read
and read and read. It is time and memory that
fail, not information, for you have only to mention
the subject in which you are interested, and in a
few moments you find yourself furnished with every
detail.
One could spend years in the library of Caen
and yet feel that one was only beginning to know
the story of the old city. Packed away on the
shelves are legends, half fact, half fable, such as
the story of the Viking Lothric and his son Bier the
Invulnerable. A wild saga is that. It tells of his
birth, and how his mother, who must have been
something of a witch, rubbed his body with all
manner of poisons as soon as he was born, so that
ever after he could not be wounded. And there
are stories of his journeys with Hasting. How they
gathered an army of young Northmen together,
and after building a fleet of ships and collecting
weapons, armour, and provisions, set off in the
name of their god Thor to conquer a new country
for themselves. We read of the early dukes, too—
the strange, half-mythical rulers of Normandy-of
their rough wooings, their marriages, which they
celebrated "after the Danish manner.'
"" Then we
seem to emerge suddenly into the dawn of history,
when, as we have seen, Rollo embraced Christianity,
and churches began to arise, cities to be fortified,
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
laws to be enforced. And so we come to the days
of William the Conqueror. But it was still a very
different land from the Normandy of to-day, and
we need to pore long over the ancient stories before
we can begin to realise what it must have been
like when Duke William and his wife came to dwell
in the new castle they had built on the hill at Caen.
This William is always in our thoughts; whether
we are walking through the narrow streets of the
town, or sitting in the stillness of the library, he
seems constantly at our side. His portrait, as I
have said, confronts us on the great staircase:
his statue dominates the gardens: his church and
that of his wife are among the principal objects of
interest in Caen.
Why William fixed upon Caen as his favourite
abode, and chose it as his burial-place, I do not
know. The first time we find him mentioned in
connection with the little town was in the year
1059, when the Duke, then quite young, and staying
in his castle of Valongues, passed through Caen on
his famous ride to Arques.
He had received the news that his uncle, William
of Arches, had joined with the King of France to
deprive him of his duchy, and he set forth with all
his characteristic energy to chastise him. We can
almost hear his furious words as we listen to the
old story as told by Wace, who describes how the
messenger came spurring on with pressing speed,
crying, "Better would it be for thee to be elsewhere!
They who guard the frontiers have need of thy

THE CHURCH OF SAINT STEPHEN, CAEN

THE ABBAYE OF ARDENNES
CAEN
125
aid; for thy uncle, William of Arches, hath linked
himself by oath and affiance with King Henry
of France." Then the Duke tarried not till the
varlet should speak further, nor indeed till he had
well said his say; but called for his good horse.
"Now shall I see," said he, "who of you is ready,
now shall I see who of you will follow me."
And, making no further preparations, he crossed
by the fords of Saint Clement, and so through
Bayeux and Caen, feigning as though he would go
to Rouen. But when he came to Pont Audemer
he crossed the Seine and from thence, still
hastening, galloped on till he joined his people
before Arques, or, as it was called in those days,
Arches. And we are told that none of those who
took horse with him at Valongues kept up with
him, and all wondered how he had come so soon
from such a distance. So the first picture we
have of William at Caen is of a flying horseman,
rushing through the narrow streets, careless of the
crowds who turned to stare at him, his one idea, as
it was through life, to hold fast what he considered
his. And if we go to Dieppe we shall see near by
the remains of this famous castle of Arques, or
Arches, still standing on its rock, the square donjon
with its deep ditch dating from the time of the
Normans, and we shall be able to fancy the young
Duke gazing up at the battlements and planning
how he should begin his attack. But to return to
Caen.
The city in those days possessed no castle, and
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was still without wall or fence to protect it. But
having made up his mind that he liked the place,
that it possessed important possibilities, William
set to work, in his vigorous fashion, to transform
the old fishing village into a fortified city, with a
castle, now used as barracks, and two great abbeys,
one dedicated to Saint Stephen being at the western
extremity of the town, the other founded by his
young wife Matilda or Maheut at the eastern end.
Nothing can be more magnificent and interesting
than these great churches, the one so stern and
masculine, the other full of delicate womanly
charm. The old streets of the city are wonderful
enough, delighting one with their very age and dis-
comfort. But when for the first time we turn off
from the Rue Guillaume le Conquerant, and come
face to face with the great, gaunt west end of
William's church, one leaves the twentieth century
behind indeed, to pass back through the ages to
that day in the year 1087, when the west doors
opened to receive the funeral cortège of the Con-
queror of England.
We used often to turn off from the noisy street
to wander about in this great church. We found
a friendly sacristan, who might well have been a
reincarnation of one of the old monks who built
this splendid worshipping place. He was a tall,
stately, very handsome person, and for all I know
to the contrary may once have been the great
Lanfranc himself. He found us strolling aimlessly
about the nave, and, after inviting us to visit the
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127
ancient sacristy with a portrait of William, invited
us up to walk round the huge triforium galleries,
from whence we could look down into the choir
and nave. It is a wonderful place this triforium,
for it has been scarcely touched since its erection,
and its details are the purest early Norman. And
it is a good place too, to recall the past, to picture
Lanfranc and his friend and patron walking and
talking familiarly together beneath the massive
arches of the groined roof, to watch this future Arch-
bishop of Canterbury passing his hand caressingly
over one of these grotesque corbels, as fresh and
sharp as when they were first placed there, and
pointing out the perfect lines of the mouldings.
Of course the church has been restored, even
enlarged; but it is still the Abbaye aux Hommes,
which our first Norman King built in expiation for
his disobedience to the head of the Church, in marry-
ing Matilda of Flanders, who was said to be related
to him on his father's side.
The story of his courtship of the beautiful Maheut
has been told so often that the actual facts have
probably become somewhat overlaid with fable,
but I give it as it is related by the chronicler.
Maheut was the daughter of Baldwin, Count of
Flanders, and Adela, who had formerly been married
to William's uncle. Hence the relationship diffi-
culty! The young Duke, who had succeeded his
father Robert the Devil at a very early age, had
grown into a tall, proud, handsome young man.
When we visit Falaise we shall hear the story of his
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birth, which, to tell the truth, was not very reputable,
and on the subject of which William was extremely
touchy. Duke William and Count Baldwin met at
Boulogne to discuss the question of the marriage;
and as William was already beginning to make a
great stir in the world, and was expected to rise still
higher, Baldwin was quite pleased at the idea of
having so powerful a young man for a son-in-law
and ally, and readily agreed to overlook the un-
fortunate stain on his birth.
But when Matilda was informed of the matter
she was of quite another mind, and at first utterly
refused to accept William as a suitor.
"J'aime mieux être nonne voilée
Que jamais sois à bastard donnée !"
she exclaimed, when she heard of the proposed
marriage; or, as another writer says: "Rising,
and flushing with indignation, she cried, 'I, the
descendant of Hugh Capet! You must be mad,
my father, to think that a King's granddaughter
would marry a man of such birth!""
I suppose that gossip travelled as quickly in
those days as in ours, for, in spite of every precaution,
the story soon reached William's ears, and his rage
knew no bounds. One writer tells how he waylaid
Matilda as she was coming out of church with her
ladies, and beat her in the street, till she lay at his
feet half dead and covered with mud. Another,
that mounting his horse in a fury, he rode straight
to Bruges, made his way into the palace, and,
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129
having found Matilda, seized her by her long hair,
and, flinging her down on the ground, beat her till
she begged for mercy.
"Le Duc par ses tresses la prit
Avant de lui dire autre raison
À ses pieds il l'a jettée, et
Contre ses éperons tombée
Il l'a de pieds et de poigns battue
Au point que peu s'en faut qu'il ne l'a tué."
The treatment, though drastic, even for the
times, appears to have succeeded; and the Count,
hearing that William was likely to go far, and even
to become King of England, persuaded his daughter
to reconsider her determination, and the wedding
preparations began.
Dresses in those days were very magnificent,
with their jewels, their long knotted sleeves, their
embroidered mantles, and the veil that fell over the
long hair that was worn streaming over the shoulders.
And we may be sure that William was no less
magnificent than his bride. A handsome pair they
must have made when they were married at Eu
in the great church of Notre-Dame. Miss Strick-
land, quoting from the chronicle of Baudoin
d'Avesnes, gives an amusing incident which is said
to have occurred at the wedding-feast of these two
greatest of Caen worthies. The Duke of Flanders,
seeing how well things were going, inquired of his
daughter why she had, after all, consented to link
her life with that of the man who had subjected
her to so rough a wooing. "Ah," said the bride,
9
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
"but you see I did not know him then so well as I
do now!"
After the wedding the young couple went first
to Rouen, their capital, and then to Caen, where
they began to consider the question of the building
of the two abbeys, one for men and one for women,
which formed part of the penance which the Church
had laid upon them in granting forgiveness for
the marriage.
It was the monk Lanfranc, afterwards the cele-
brated Archbishop of Canterbury, of whom we
have spoken when visiting that city,¹ whom William
chose as his architect, appointing him Abbot of
this new monastery of Saint Stephen.
At the other extremity of Caen, Matilda estab-
lished her beautiful convent and church for women,
dedicating it to the Holy Trinity; and around each
abbey soon grew up a new walled suburb of Caen,
that dominated by Saint Stephen's being called
Bourg l'Abbé, the other Bourg l'Abbess.
Thus, in Norman times, the city of Caen con-
sisted of four quarters: the original town of Grand
Bourg; the castle with the parish and church of
Saint George; and the two new religious districts.
Even to-day, after nearly a thousand years, the
aspect of Caen is not entirely changed. The two
great churches still dominate it as of old, though
the monks and nuns have disappeared; and the
castle on the height, with its bridge spanning the
deep moat, though now used as a barracks, brings
1 The Lure of English Cathedrals (Southern).
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131
back to our thoughts very forcibly those days when
William and Matilda held their Court within its
gloomy walls.
Their first home had been at Rouen, in the old
castle down by the river; but later Caen became their
favourite residence; and in the castle Matilda must
often have sat at her embroidery, while William,
descendant of Vikings as he was, lived his restless,
ambitious, dominating life abroad; for, in spite of
his great affection for her, Matilda could not have
found him a very comfortable husband to live with.
It was at Caen that the celebrated Trêve de Dieu
was first proclaimed. By it certain abuses were
intended to be prevented. No one was to preach
in a parish church without permission of the bishop;
priests were forbidden to marry; laymen had no
right over church property; in time of war the
country folk were to be allowed to take "refuge" in
the cemeteries. Above all, no one was to make
war, or fight in any cause, from Wednesday night
till Monday morning, Thursday being sacred to the
Ascension of our Lord, Friday to His death,
Saturday to His resting in the tomb, and Sunday
because it was the day of His resurrection. I am
afraid that the kings and nobles of the period did
not adhere very strictly to this order of the Church,
but it was at least an attempt to mitigate the
horrors of war. Later, the duration of the truce was
limited to from nine o'clock on Saturday till one on
Monday, "so that all men might render what they
should to God on the Lord's Day."
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At Caen, too, the curfew was first sounded, not
so much as a preventive of fire, as a discouragement
to those discontented persons who were fond of meet-
ing and plotting after dark by light of fire or candle.
Many are the stories and legends told of the days
spent by Duke William and his Duchess at Caen.
Their children came quickly, and for the most part
turned out badly, giving their father and mother
much sorrow, and causing a breach between husband
and wife. For Matilda, left much to herself during
William's constant warlike expeditions, spoiled her
children, particularly Robert, the eldest, who rebelled
against his father, claiming the Duchy of Normandy
during William's lifetime. She would relieve the
wretched, undutiful spendthrift from her own
private purse, which gave rise to the well-known
scene, when the Duke, entering her room one day,
found her searching among her treasures for money
to send to her unworthy favourite.
"I have already forbidden you to send him help,
Madame," cried the Duke furiously. "By the
splendour of God, I believe you would rob me to
assist him!"
But if we would meet Matilda at Caen we must
make our way to the Abbaye aux Dames, the
great church of which remains in almost the same
condition as on the day when the Queen was laid
there to rest. Her daughter Cecilia was the first
nun professed there, and was no doubt present when
Matilda, then Queen of England, was buried in the
great marble sarcophagus, which originally stood
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133
in the crypt below the choir. A ghostly place it
is this crypt, so little changed that the centuries
which have elapsed since its foundation seem
a dream. And the church above, how can I
describe it? It is one of the most perfect Norman
buildings in existence. Even as we approach the
western entrance, we are struck by the magnifi-
cence of the huge square towers with their stories
of sculptured arches, and the doorway, immense,
as though to welcome all the world. And then
entering, we see the matchless nave. The columns
supporting the round, decorated arches are tall
and elegant, with sculptured capitals, and, sur-
mounting the blind triforium, is an exquisite
clerestory, with high, stilted arches soaring up
into the stone roof.
But it is when we reach the choir and the tran-
septs that we begin to wonder whether the whole
building could have been designed by the stern
Monk of Bec, or, if so, whether he may not have had
unlawful dealings with the fairies and elves who
haunted the woods around his forest home! In
any case, I think that Matilda must have had a good
deal to do with it; for just as Saint Stephen's, with
all its majesty, is suggestive of the rude strength of
the warlike William, so is this exquisite building
full of feminine charm and delicacy. One seems to
see in every detail and at every turn the influence
of the woman artist, such as we know Matilda to
have been. And, moreover, there it stands to-day
almost as it must have appeared on that 18th of
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June 1067, when it was consecrated in the presence
of its foundress and her husband, then just returned
in triumph from his conquest of England.
We may easily imagine the great building crowded
with stately shaven Norman lords, and ladies in
their rich costumes, and fair, long-haired Saxon
nobles, brought over in William's train to swell his
triumph. The silks and velvets and embroideries
light up the grey
walls like beds of brilliant flowers.
Prominent among all towers the huge form of
William, holding by the hand his little daughter
Cecilia, who at the moment of the offertory is to
be presented to God as a thank-offering for her
father's conquest of England, and that she may
grow to womanhood in the seclusion of the cloister,
and pray for her family and her country. There,
too, stands the child's mother Matilda, nominally
the first abbess of this convent, and around are
grouped the children, Robert, William, and Henry.
And the light falls down upon them from the high
windows, showing up the long, pleated tunics, and
the colours of the embroideries, and the mantles
and jewels glowing and gleaming. Then lights
begin to sparkle on the altar, and music rises up to
linger and die in the distant vaulting of the roof.
In the month of November, sixteen years later,
we find Matilda's church once more the scene of a
great ceremony, when the west doors are opened to
receive the body of the Queen. There were many
poor present, we are told, by whom this gentle lady
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135
had been much beloved on account of her boundless
charity. And after a Requiem Mass had been
chanted, and the absolution given, they laid the
body in a stone coffin in the dusky crypt below the
choir of the church. We are told that to-day her
bones are preserved in the black stone sarcophagus
which now stands in the middle of the Nuns' Choir,
behind the high altar of the church. On it you
may read an inscription, telling "how she loved
piety, and consoled the poor," who, indeed, sadly
needed consolation in those cruel days of disorder.
As for William, after Matilda's death, he seems to
have become more stern and forbidding than ever.
He had always been passionate, proud, revengeful,
and the well-known story of the way in which he
met his death at Mantes shows that he did not
soften with age. So when, having finished his days
at Rouen, his body was brought to the abbey church
of Saint Stephen for burial, I doubt if anyone really
mourned for him as they had mourned for his wife
Matilda. Wace has told us, indeed, that "there
was no bishop, abbot, earl, or noble prince who did
not repair to the interment of the body." He also
describes how, "after they had sung the 'Libera me,'
they carried William to the church"; and goes on
to relate that, as the procession reached the great
west door, a cry was raised that the town was on
fire, so that everyone rushed off save a few monks
who remained to guard the body. Even when,
the fire having been extinguished, the company
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
returned, and the ceremony proceeded, it was
again interrupted, in a most strange and embarrass-
ing manner, by a certain young man named Acelin
laying claim to the ground in which the grave had
been prepared.
As we stood looking down at the marble slab which
once covered all that was mortal of our first Norman
King, we thought what a strange irony of fate it
was that this great conqueror of England, this
man who had perfected the feudal system under
which all land was held from the Crown, was unable
to take undisputed possession of seven feet of ground
in which to lay his body! Around and above us
was the great church which he had built, and echo-
ing along the aisles and galleries I fancied I could
hear the cry: "Lords, hearken unto me! I warn
all, and forbid ye, by Jesu the Almighty, and by
the Apostle of Rome, that ye inter not William in
the spot where ye are about to lay him." And he
goes on to explain that the greater part of the church
belongs to him, Acelin, having been erected on his
land without his permission. "I therefore appeal
to William to do me right," he concludes, "in that
judgment where all go alike before Him who lieth
not. Before ye all I summon that he render me
justice for it!"
It must have been a truly awful scene, especially
in those days of superstition. The prayers and
chanting ceased, the bearers halted and set down
the bier upon which the dead King lay uncoffined;
and a great clamour arose. After some haggling,
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137
however, a price was agreed upon for the land, and
the burial proceeded. But even then William could
not rest in peace, for the grave had been made too
small for his huge form, which had to be forced into
it, giving rise to a very painful and horrible
scene.
At last it was over, and the once restless body
was left to its long sleep. But his tomb was
once more disturbed. In the sixteenth century,
as Ducarel relates, the Bishop of Bayeux, having a
great desire to see the body of William, caused the
stone to be raised, and found beneath, the skeleton
of an enormous man, a giant such as the chroniclers
all describe him to have been, for, like King Saul,
he was taller from the shoulders upward than any
of his subjects.
Again, in 1562, Calvinists visited Caen, and fell
upon the two abbeys, breaking the monuments of
William and Matilda, rifling their tombs, melting
the gold and silver vessels which the long dead
worshippers had left for the service of God, and
stealing the priceless vestments, covered with
plaques of beaten gold, and other jewelled orna-
ments which had been worn by the Duke and
Duchess on great occasions, all of which they had
vowed to these churches they had built. And when
there was no more to take they moved on to other
towns, and Caen was left to sleep again till in 1793
it was torn asunder by the fury of the Great
Revolution.
We can see the mob in their red caps pouring up
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
the great nave of Saint Stephen's, wrecking as they
go the altars and statuary, forcing their way into
the sacristy, and breaking open the chests and
cupboards where the sacred vessels are stored. Then,
reaching the choir where the Conqueror still lies,
and forcing up the slab, they fall upon the ancient
bones and scatter them, so that they are lost for ever
among the ruin. But to-day in the choir we find
once more a great stone, and on it read the in-
scription:
Hic sepultus est invictissimus
Gulielmus Conquestor
Normanniæ Dux
Et Angliæ rex
Hujusce Domus
Conditor
Qui obit Anno
MLXXXVII.
Among the wonderful old buildings of Caen, and
truly their name is legion, is that now called the
Lycée Malherbe, which stands on the very site of
Lanfranc's celebrated Abbaye aux Hommes. Un-
happily it was rebuilt in the first half of the
eighteenth century, and little remains of the original
monastery. But the refectory, with its stone roof,
and walls still covered with sixteenth-century
panelling, is very fine and interesting. And so are
the great staircase and the chapel with its beautiful
woodwork, and other treasures which escaped the
revolutionary fury.
And we may visit the turreted and sculptured
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139
Hôtel de la Monnaie, and the Hôtel de la Bourse,
once the Hôtel d'Escoville, which I should like to
have photographed had not the court around which it
is built been haunted by so many unpleasant odours!
Indeed, I am afraid I must confess that the older
streets of Caen are not so fragrant as they might be,
which is a pity, as they are some of the quaintest
and most picturesque in France. And then there
is the surrounding country from which to view it
all. And particularly there is the walk to the
Abbey of Ardenne, which lies out upon the breezy
plateau overlooking Caen. We reach it by way of
La Maladrerie, an outskirt of the city, but formerly
a little village where in 1161 Henry the Second of
England built a leper hospital, so giving rise to the
name of the district. A short climb takes us up
from the squalid, low-lying street, with its noisy
trams, to a breezy region of cornfields and poppies;
and even a lark, rare sight in France, which, having
escaped from the indefatigable Norman fowler, is
soaring up into the clear air, scattering his notes in
careless ecstasy. And what a view he must have!
Even from the ground we look down over the
country below, spread out like a vast blue picture.
There is Saint Peter's, with its wonderful spire, the
tall lancet wondows of which are said to be unique
in strength and lightness, and Saint Saviour's,
Saint John's, and the rest of the churches, as well
as the two great abbeys. There run the two long
streets, with their crowds, their smells, their scream-
ing trams, and here are we in the breeze and the
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
sunshine, out once more in the sweet, fresh country.
No wonder the lark is singing so madly! No wonder
the old White Canons of Saint Norbert built their
abbey here rather than down beside the river!
We see the group of buildings across the fields,
lying half hidden behind great surrounding walls,
and presently, when we have followed the footpath
for awhile, come to a mighty gateway and enter
the courtyard. But what a strange sight greets us!
On our left still stands the huge and magnificent
church, proud and splendid even in its humiliation
and decay. For its doors are tottering and open,
and within, nave, side chapels, even the sanctuary,
are piled roof-high with hay and straw, among which
a blue wagon and a farmer's cart have been thrust.
Peeping here and there, forlornly, are exquisitely
sculptured capitals and detached early English
shafts and pillars. And around the yard are what
were no doubt guest-chambers and the dwellings
of monks, and other conventual buildings, but now
used as stables, cowsheds, chicken-lofts. From out-
side, the high wall conceals the litter, the ruin; it
looks as if it might still be what it was of old, a
stately home of prayer and charity. But within
the gates it is an understaffed farmyard, a place of
dogs and cows, of fowls scratching among piles of
straw, and ducks turning somersaults in the great
paved fish-pond. And in what was once the house
of the stately Abbot live the farmer and his family,
while the beautiful Gothic chapel is a storehouse
for grain and hay.

A FARM YARD IN OLD NORMANDY

A TYPICAL CHATEAU OF NORMANDY
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141
But it is time to return to Caen, for there we shall
find awaiting us another celebrated inhabitant of
whom we must speak before we leave the city. To
reach her we must travel through seven centuries,
from the days of William and his Queen Matilda,
to find ourselves in the midst of that terrific up-
heaval which destroyed the French monarchy and
all that it signified of law and order. At that time
there was living at Caen a young girl named Marie
Anne Charlotte de Corday, a granddaughter or
grand-niece of the great writer Peter Corneille,
whose house we may visit in one of the narrow old
streets of Rouen. The family of Charlotte, though
noble, had become very poor; and when the mother
died, Monsieur de Corday brought his children to
Caen to a little house near the church of the Holy
Trinity. The Abbess, sorry for them, took the
two girls to be educated with her own niece in the
convent of Queen Matilda, and here Charlotte grew
to womanhood, a tall, beautiful, silent, rather
obstinate girl, very religious, and full of utopian
notions about the rights of men, which she had
picked up from books lent her by the nephew of
Madame de Belzunce, the Abbess. Some writers
have weaved quite a romance around this young
viscount, Henri de Belzunce, and Charlotte. He
was a dark, pale, young man, a major in the 2nd
Bourbon Infantry Regiment, and Charlotte used
often to meet him when he came to visit his aunt
at the abbey. But it is doubtful whether there
was any romantic element in the friendship. The
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
young man was a royalist, and we are told that they
used to have great and heated discussions, and that
he would lend her books. They were of the same
age-twenty; and when Henri was shot by the
savage patronal guard in one of the risings at Caen,
Charlotte is said to have been a witness of the
horrible scene which followed, when his bleeding
head was carried on a pike through the town, and
his heart torn out and roasted. And, though she
felt no hatred against the ignorant, misguided
people, she swore to avenge him. It was on their
leaders that she wished her vengeance to fall; but
how accomplish her purpose, she, a young country
girl, brought up in a convent without any knowledge
of Paris, the centre of the mischief?
On leaving the abbey Charlotte had gone to stay
with an old cousin, a Madame de Bretville, who
lived in the Rue Saint Jean, inhabiting a dull, old
house which formerly stood on the site now occupied
by No. 148. The girl had invited herself; and the
old lady, who was very miserly, was by no means
pleased to have her. It was a building in two
stories, separated from the road by a small, paved
court, itself entered by a narrow, arched doorway,
and the two ladies lived on the first floor, approached
by a spiral stairway. It was a terribly depressing
life for a beautiful young girl, and no doubt she
often used to cross the road to the old church of
Saint Jean, which still stands opposite the site of
the house.
We went there ourselves the other day, and, as
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143
we walked up the tottering nave and came out
under the superb lantern which crowns the inter-
section, we pictured her tall, slender form kneeling
before the altar rail, and, as we paused, three old
bells chimed, and a fourth struck the hour, the same
bells which had often warned Charlotte that her
hour of freedom was over and she must return to
her prison.
The church itself had been described to us as
flamboyant, and of little account compared with
Saint Peter's and the other architectural gems of
Caen. But it impressed me immensely with its
very age. It had evidently once been a great and
much frequented house of prayer; now it was
empty, standing as it does in one of the poorer
streets of the city. Its foundations must be none
too secure, for the walls and roof are disfigured
here and there by great cracks, and there is an air
of age and melancholy about the whole building.
But the colours! It is true that most of the windows
have been filled in with plain glass, but enough of
the old paintings remain to stain the walls, so that
the sculptured stone of the ribbed roof, and the
gallery round the triforium, resemble the most
exquisitely tinted Chinese ivory. The south tran-
sept has a superb altar to the Sacred Heart, and
above it a painted window representing the Last
Supper and the Crucifixion—a wonderful mingling
of red, green, and blue. But how pathetic it all is!
We had been thinking of a revival of religion in
France, and surely this building might be taken to
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typify the condition of the Faith in that country
-the one beautiful thing in the squalid district
where it stands, bound together, propped from
falling by the love and devotion of the poor wor-
shippers who gather beneath its roof. How long
will it continue to exist? Did Charlotte think of
all this as she sat for long hours looking up at
the picture of the world's great sacrifice? Did it
strengthen her to strike her one great blow which
she thought would save her country from utter
infidelity?
We met the priest afterwards coming out of his
house in the Rue des Carmes, and he told us of the
rebuilding of the church in 1417, after its destruction,
when our Henry V had let his army loose to pillage
the city of Caen.
He pointed out the house, now No. 44, next, I
think, to his own, where several of the leading
Girondins used to meet after they had been driven
out of Paris in the spring of 1793. There it was
that they plotted in secret the downfall of the
Mountain, the name given to the party on the
extreme left of the revolutionary assembly, of which
Marat was the leader. There seems little doubt
that Charlotte was largely influenced by what she
heard from these men, and particularly from
Charles Jean Marie Barbaroux, their leader. She
had probably noticed them going and coming in
the street, or had met them even in the church
itself. She had heard how Barbaroux had posted
up the celebrated Grey Placard, which I believe
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145
still exists in the British Museum, and which was
specially directed against Marat.
We hear of a visit paid to this Barbaroux one
June evening by Charlotte, accompanied by an old
servant; and of other visits, when she told the
chief of the bitter feeling which existed among many
of the inhabitants of Caen against the doings of the
Mountain. But in everything that she did there
seems to have been a quiet, orderly determination,
which shows that she was moved by no sudden
impulse. Moreover, she had neither expectation
nor possibly even a wish to escape the inevitable
result of what she purposed doing. Before leaving
Caen she burned all incriminating papers, went to
bid farewell to a friend at Vernon, saying that she
was going on a journey and did not like to leave
without embracing her. Wrote to her father, ex-
plaining that she was leaving for England without
his permission, and could not say good-bye, as it
would make her too sad.
It was on the 9th of July 1793 that she set out
for Paris, putting up at the Hôtel de la Providence,
in the Rue des Vieux Augustins, of which inn she
had been told by one of the employés at the coach-
office at Caen. Several stories are told of her short
stay there. How, while her room was being pre-
pared, she asked questions of the servant concerning
Le Petit Marat, and laughed when she was told
that he was a good citizen. How, on the morning
of the 13th, she went out early, as soon as the shops
were opened, and bought, in the Palais Royal, for
10
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
forty sous, one of those strong, pointed, kitchen
knives we still find used in France. How, having
ordered a carriage, and eaten her breakfast, she set
out for Marat's house in the Rue des Cordeliers
No. 30, and asked quite simply to see him. The
portress answered that the Friend of the People
was very ill, and could see no one, and Charlotte
had to return to her room. Here she wrote a letter,
saying that she had just arrived from Caen, the
centre of the Girondin disturbance, and could put
it in Marat's power to do France a great service.
This note she sent by post; and in the evening,
dressed more gaily than usual in grey, with a pink
fichu, wearing a black hat with a green ribbon and
cockade, and carrying a fan, she made her way
once more to Marat's house. This time the door
was opened by the woman Simone Evrard, and
Charlotte was admitted. We have all pictured the
little dwarfish Marat, sitting in his bath, and heard
his voice, as Charlotte heard it, bidding her to enter.
A plank had been laid across the bath, and he
was writing, and there were the remains of supper
about, and all the while Simone kept going and
coming. For a time they talked of the troubles
at Caen, and Charlotte spoke of her friends at the
Rue des Carmes. And when, having watched him
take down their names, she had seen him mark each
for the guillotine, and among them her chief friend
Barbaroux, the girl rose, and, grasping her knife,
struck him from above, killing him with a single
blow.
CAEN
147
From her prison Charlotte wrote a full account of
all that had happened, to be sent to her friends in
the Rue des Carmes. The letter is preserved among
the national archives. Then came the trial, the
letter to her father, and the evening of the 30th of
July, when she set out in the cart on her two hours'
jolting ride through the streets of Paris to the
Place of the Guillotine. They say that Samson, in
his pity for her, placed himself between her and the
knife as she was waiting; and that, noticing his
intention, she motioned him aside, saying with a
smile: "I have a right to be curious about it, for
I have never seen a guillotine."
They buried her in the cemetery of the Madeline.
In the Museum of Versailles you may see her
portrait, painted from life by David, as she sat in
her prison waiting for death. But, if you are of
my way of thinking, you will find Charlotte Corday
nearest to you at Caen, at the Hospice, then the
Abbaye aux Dames, where the stately Abbess,
Madame de Belzunce, once ruled, and in whose
park and spacious cloister Charlotte read and
dreamed; in the Rue Saint Jean, against whose
more ancient houses her skirts have brushed in
passing; up by the castle, where she came face to
face with the ghastly head of her friend set on its
dripping pike; in the Rue des Carmes, where the
Girondin deputies were lodged. But more than all
I think we shall find Charlotte in the tottering old
church of Saint Jean, kneeling before the altar of
the Sacred Heart, gazing up at the crucified form
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
of Him who gave her the strength needed to con-
summate her own sacrifice. For there can be no
doubt that it was from this point of view that
Charlotte Corday regarded her deed: "I killed one
man to save a hundred thousand!" she cried at her
trial. "A savage, wild beast to give rest to my
country!" And so, in quitting this ancient city,
let our last thought be of this young and beautiful
girl who, as truly as any of the heroes of old, gave
her life for the future of her native land.
CHAPTER VIII
FALAISE
It is a grey day, but grey weather suits an ancient
land like Normandy, haunt of phantoms, legends,
and memories! All the interest of the province
lies in the past, with the story of the great ones who
have gone.
We go to Normandy to find them
again inhabiting the ruined castles where they once
lived and loved, to read about them in the libraries,
to catch sight of them kneeling in the churches
where so many of them worshipped, to visit those
of their tombs which the vandalism of the Revolution
has spared. Travellers from all lands flock into
Normandy, and incidentally they leave behind
plenty of good money, which helps to swell materially
the prosperity of this rich province of France.
But it is especially the English tourist one meets
in Normandy, for our country lies so close to its
shores. An Englishman can easily spend his week-
ends in one of the old towns over the Channel, and
scarcely interfere with his business in London at
all. And what history his children can absorb from
a visit to Caen, Bayeux, Falaise, and the rest of the
149
150
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
picturesque old places! For are they not all con-
nected with our early Norman kings? The fili-
bustering William becomes a personage far more
real than one's own great-grandfather; even his
father Robert the Devil, and the older dukes, his
ancestors, emerge from the shadowy pages of our
lesson-books real flesh and blood as we are, to walk
the quaint old streets again, telling us stories of
the days when they were young. We may pity,
or despise, or admire them, according to our fancy
or our bringing up; but whatever we may feel in
England about the conquest of our country will
not detract from our opinion of William when once
we have met him and grown to know him in his
native land. I am sure that if I had lived in the
eleventh century, which God forbid, I should have
hated and resented this proud, overbearing, cruel
conqueror of England. But, making his acquaint-
ance in the Normandy of to-day, one cannot but
recognise that the greatness and prosperity of
England began with the coming of William the
Bastard, and feel that the result of the battle of
Hastings was not so much the conquest of England
as her new birth. For, take it how you will, our
island at that time had sunk into a very decrepit
state, and, so far as civilisation was concerned,
England was behind the rest of Europe. It needed
drastic measures to bring the country up to date,
and the Normans were a stern people. So the story
which has come down to us of the reforming of
the "evil customs of the benighted Islanders," as
1
FALAISE
151
Freeman designates our ancestors, is certainly very
grim and terrible. But, as the same writer goes on
to point out, William was a man of conservative
instincts, and had no wish to change England into
a second Normandy. So, having conquered our
land, he "allowed our national life and our national
institutions to live on unbroken," and the final
form which the fusion of the two peoples took was
"for the conquerors to be lost in the greater mass
of the conquered."
When I first thought of writing this little book
about my visit to Normandy, I was attracted by
the beauty of the country, its rich meadows, its
apple orchards, its forgotten shrines, forests, and
homely villages. But after a week or two of this
pastoral life, fate, or could it have been the spirit
of the great William himself, began leading me to
the old towns, Rouen, Caen, Evreux, Lisieux, and
everywhere we found the Duke. Out of the grey
autumnal mists he would come riding on his huge
charger, so real, so living, that the present would
vanish, and we would find ourselves back in the
eleventh century, following the story of this great
man through all the varied scenes in which it was
enacted. And it was thus that we made our way
to Falaise, his birthplace.
We had set off from Caen in the early morning,
while the country was still damp and blanketed
in mist, like England. On the horizon, marching
across the level wastes of field and meadowland,
colourless and monotonous in the sunless atmo-
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
sphere of an early October morning, marched endless
ranks of lopped and shaven trees, recalling memories
of the wretched peasants whom the great Duke
tore from their homes and forced to follow him to
England. On a morning like this their ghosts rise
from the furrows, hide in the ditches. The very
hayricks take on the forms of their forsaken home-
steads.
Presently we halt at a station called Mézidon, a
junction for all kinds of places, and change into a
little, pottering local train to wait and wait and
wait. But the morning mist is thinning a little,
and the shabby goods-trains loom out on the sidings,
reminding one that it is the twentieth century, and,
William having been dead eight hundred years, we
are free to go and come as we please.
Then, once again, we find ourselves out in the
broad, flat country, passing a group of disused
army huts which add a touch of realism to our
dreaming, bringing to mind another war, when
a modern piratical chieftain, of the same name
as the long-dead Conqueror, forced on a conflict
which brought trouble and sorrow to the whole
civilised world.
At Coulibœuf the hedges and orchards begin.
It might be England, save for the long ranks of
poplars. And still the country is vague with mist,
like Arthur's land, full of dreams and visions.
The sight of the church spire reminds us of Charlotte
Corday, whose uncle was dean of this little place.
It was he who alluded to his niece as “a new
FALAISE
153
Judith raised up by God for the salvation of
France."
The battle of the sun and the fog was over by the
time we arrived at Falaise, and, being market-day,
we found the town crowded. Having descended
the long road from the station we emerged into the
old irregular market-place, and paused involuntarily
at sight of the extraordinarily picturesque and
ancient church of Saint Gervais, which dates from
the eleventh century. Its great square Norman
tower is crowned by a steep roof of slate, in which
are built curious little pointed gabled windows like
pigeon-houses, which attract our notice at once,
as do the flying buttresses of the choir between
which nestle ancient chapels.
The market was very crowded and noisy, so,
passing beneath the beautiful porch, we took
refuge in the vast, silent, empty building, and after
awhile walked about, looking at the incised funeral
slabs which pave the chapels and line the walls.
On many of them a human form has been cut, with
a face of white marble let into the grey stone and
white hands raised in prayer.
Presently, growing hungry, we went out to search
for an inn, and for some time wandered through
the narrow old streets unable to discover one.
Then, just as we were becoming rather desperate,
a woman darted out of a doorway, and, inquiring
if we were looking for a restaurant, led us into a
copper-hung kitchen, which opened straight off the
road, where was a great fire, and a stout, red-faced
154 THE LURE OF NORMANDY
cook, and a rich appetising smell, which made us
more hungry than ever. Our guide took us through
to a room behind, where we found tables set, and a
girl, so pretty and attractive in her fresh-coloured,
sturdy, Norman way, that we at once named her
Arletta. The first dish turned out to be calves'
head, and she was greatly troubled because I did
not take it. I never can, after seeing the calves on
market-day. "For herself she ate everything," she
informed us, and certainly she looked as though
she did, as no doubt did the Arletta of the eleventh
century, whom we had come to visit, and who might
well have lived in just such a room, ancient, low-
ceiled, with small-paned windows, through which
the sunlight passed timidly as though doubtful what
it might discover. We sat at thick-legged oak
tables, black with age, and drank good Norman
cider, and presently, having paid our bill and ven-
tured to tip Arletta, who took it very graciously,
began making our way up to the castle.
On our road we passed through a great silent
square, Place Guillaume as it is called, where stands
the church of the Holy Trinity, wonderful and
richly decorated, and on the opposite side the Hôtel
de Ville.
But after all we have come to visit the castle,
which stands on the great rock or Falaise which has
given its name to the town, and where we find
Ogier the Dane, one of Rollo's chiefs, established
as early as the ninth century. From his eyrie he
could look out over his broad lands and swoop
FALAISE
155
down to slay and pillage whenever he had a mind.
Early in the eleventh century we hear of Duke
Richard the Second giving over the government of
the town and surrounding country to one Onfrois-
le-Danois, who built the first great fortress called
Porte-le-Comte. At Duke Richard's death the
estate of Falaise passed to his second son Robert,
afterwards known as Robert the Magnificent, or,
as he has been called by some, Robert the Devil.
And thus we arrive at the great story of Falaise,
that which always returns to our minds as we look
up at the towering donjon on the rock, the tradition
which still, after nearly a thousand years, brings
visitors to this old Norman town, the romantic
history of the young Count Robert, and the fair
daughter of the Tanner of Falaise.
The custodian, who lives in a little house at the
entrance to the castle grounds, was giving her
husband his dinner, so we went back to photograph
the splendid equestrian statue of the great William,
which stands in the centre of the square. Nothing
could be finer, nothing more suggestive than this
bronze effigy of Normandy's mighty hero. He sits
his rearing horse as though he and the great mag-
nificent beast were one, gripping the bridle with
his left hand, and flourishing his pennon-crowned
spear in his right. He looks the very incarnation
of a wild Northern chief. Around the pedestal
stand the earlier Dukes, his ancestors; Robert, his
father; Richard, his uncle; Richard the Good, his
grandfather; Richard the Fearless; William Long-
156
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
spear; and the great founder of the race, Rollo.
There they stand, these implacable heroes, and above,
dwarfing all by his size, his might, and the story of
his achievements, is this tanner's grandson William
the Conqueror of England. As we look at him we
can almost understand the story of his rough wooing
of Matilda. What woman could resist such a man?
And we can even better understand the influence
he exercised over the weak though pious Edward
the Confessor, and his domination of Harold and
the other Saxon lords. He was surely a reincarna-
tion of Rollo, his ancestor, a conqueror of new
worlds.
On our return to the castle gateway we found our
guide waiting; and as we passed beneath the en-
trance, and followed the long, grass-grown terrace
shadowed by splendid lime-trees, she pointed out
to us the remains of ancient towers and bastions,
for this terrace represents the southern outer wall
of the castle. At the western end we found other
defences, especially a semicircular tower called
Tour-à-la-Reine. Our guide was a great talker and
well primed in the story of the castle, and as we
walked slowly along she described to us the wild.
life led here in the days of Robert and his com-
panions. Dissatisfied with his father's provision,
and jealous of his elder brother Duke Richard, he
hastened, as soon as the old Duke was dead, to take
possession of Falaise, and established himself in
the fortress on the rock. It was enthralling to listen
to the story as we approached the very castle where

THE CASTLE OF FALAISE

STATUE OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR AT FALAISE
FALAISE
157
it all occurred; to imagine Duke Richard's arrival
with his soldiers; to listen to the noise, the shouting;
to see the rebel younger brother Robert led prisoner
before the Duke, who pardons him and sets him
free; to see this same generous Duke dying, with
many of his nobles, poisoned, as it is supposed,
by Robert's order, and buried in the old abbey
church at Fécamp, where his father had been
interred.
If half the stories told of this Robert are true,
he must have been a terror to the neighbourhood.
But it is more than probable that the wild doings
of an earlier Robert have been laid to his charge.
And now the great donjon begins to overshadow us,
and we walk timidly as though the early chiefs were
looking down upon us from above and ordering
the sentinels to be hanged for allowing us to pass
the outer fortifications!
I should think no one could stand before the
great building unmoved. The first fortress on this
rock is said by some writers to have been built by
Julius Cæsar. The castle has been thus described
in an old manuscript discovered at Falaise:
"The castle stands at the extremity of the town,
and is shaped like the stern of a ship, surrounded
by rocks, pools, and walls flanked with towers, and
separated from the town by a deep ditch. Within
the fortifications, which are capable of holding two
thousand men, is a little chapel dedicated to Saint
Proux. The keep is a huge square building, very
ancient, and joined to and beside it is a smaller
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
building, also very old, in which the Dukes of
Normandy, and in particular Robert, the father of
William the Conqueror, had their dwelling."
This great donjon keep, the very heart of the
castle, is in such perfect condition without, that,
upon entering by the one low narrow doorway, we
are startled at finding the interior a mere empty
shell. But, climbing up among the ruins with which
it is encumbered, we reach presently a certain
window, set high at an angle of the wall, and from
thence look down over the valley of the Ante.
"Look!" I exclaimed, pointing, "there is still a
tannery down there at foot of the castle hill!"
"But, certainly," replied the woman, "there has
never been a Falaise without a tannery. It is even
more correct to say that Falaise took its origin
from its tanneries."
She went on to tell me the legend of the shepherd
of Guibray, a little village, now a suburb of Falaise.
It happened at a time when all this region was
forest land, and the great rock upon which the
castle now stands was uninhabited, and a certain
shepherd used to feed his flock in a clearing where
to-day stands the church of Guibray. One day,
noticing the sheep scratching in the grass, he began
digging at the spot, and found a statue of a woman
and child, which he took to be that of Our Lady.
A little oratory was quickly raised to shelter the
image, and pilgrims soon began to arrive, especially
on the 15th of August, the day on which, in the
year 720, being the Feast of the Assumption, the
FALAISE
159
statue was discovered. Soon miracles were reported;
the pilgrimage grew in importance; hawkers, who
always follow in the wake of religious festivals,
began to throng the roads leading to Guibray; and,
finally, an annual fair came to be held in the avenues
and lanes leading to the church, a very flourishing
and important fair, since William the Conqueror
had exempted this his birthplace from all taxes.
And on the banks of the swift, little river Ante,
which we find still watering the valley, shoemakers
and leatherworkers of all kinds established them-
selves, so that, by the middle of the eighteenth
century, there were no less than fifty-five tanneries
in the new town, which had come into being at foot
of the great rock.
The tannery of Arletta's father is now owned by
one Jules le Couturier, and has been in his family
for at least two hundred years earlier than that,
who knows? Before me, as I write, lies a copy of
the old poem, by Benoit de Sainte-More, giving an
account of the young Duke Robert's first sight of
the tanner's daughter. Robert, who is said to have
been only seventeen at the time, had just returned
from a day's hunting, and had no doubt paused,
on the way to his room, to look down from this
very window at which all visitors to Falaise take
up their stand, while the guide recounts the well-
known love-story.
At the fountain below, to-day marked by an in-
scription, a group of girls were washing linen, their
skirts turned up to their knees; and one, "whose
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
skin was whiter than snow, or the flower of the
lily, her cheeks like new-born roses, and her eyes
full of modesty and kindness," in short, Arletta,
the daughter of the tanner Verpré, so captivated
the heart of the young Duke, that he sent his
chamberlain to ask her of her father. The story
of the courtship is very vivid as we stand looking
down upon Arletta's old home.
There was some natural hesitation on the part
of the father to this "marriage after the Danish
fashion," according to which several of the Norman
dukes had wedded; and on being pressed still
further he went for advice to his hermit brother, who
lived in the neighbouring forest. This worthy took
rather a different view of the matter, pointing out
that it was undoubtedly the duty of a subject to
obey in all things the pleasure of his lord. And so
Arletta went up to the castle in her beautiful new
clothes, of which an old writer has given a descrip-
tion-the white undergarment, the close-fitting grey
pelisse, the loose, short mantle, and over all her long,
fair hair. It must have been by this very window
that she passed, for here, close by, is her chamber,
with the alcove in which the bed was set, and even
the little niche for the lamp. There is the hearth,
too, before which, later, her baby son William was
laid, and took his "seizin" by grasping the rushes
with which the floor was strewn.
There are many stories told of the early days of
the boy William. How, as he was walking in the
forest near Falaise, he was stolen by Arletta's arch-
FALAISE
161
enemy, Saga the witch, who sends a wolf to fetch him,
and hides him in her cave. The tale reads like one
of Grimm's Household Stories. It is the great and
holy Herluin, founder of the Abbey of Bec, whom
the Duke sends in search of the missing child, and
with him a certain Allen Bourdon and the boy's
dog Bruno. The story tells how the faithful beast
led them straight through the forest to the witch's
cave, which they found closed by a heavy door, and
guarded by a dwarf of terrifying aspect. Having
forced an entrance, they saw to their horror that the
child lay bound, while over him Saga brandished a
knife ready to strike. But the dog had seen also,
and, bounding over the head of the dwarf, rushed
up to the witch, and pinned her down, while the
men made off into the forest with William.
legend goes on to say that it was as a thank-offering
for the preservation of his son that Duke Robert
not only created Herluin a count and Bourdon a
knight, but vowed to go himself on a pilgrimage to
the Holy Land. The same story tells how on the
ship was Saga disguised, and of the storms and
other misfortunes she brought about. Finally, she
poisons Duke Robert, and, returning to Normandy,
raises a revolt of the barons against Arletta's young
son William. But at the battle of Val-des-Dunes,
near Caen, she is fortunately taken prisoner and
burned as a witch. So much for Saga!
The
How much truth there may be in this wild story
it is difficult to say. No doubt legends grew as fast
in those days as in these! A child of William's
11
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
birth had many enemies to fear. There was Talvas,
son of the Duke of Alençon, who, meeting the little
boy one day walking hand in hand with his squire
in the town, frowned down at the child, exclaiming,
"God curse you! It is through you and your family
that my race will be humbled!"
So when Duke Robert, still young, and having
the roving blood of the Vikings in his veins, took
it into his head to start off on this pilgrimage to
the Holy Land, his barons tried to prevent him,
declaring that the duchy was in too unsettled a
condition to be left without a ruler. And it was
then that the Duke sent for his son, and, taking
him in his arms, presented him to his barons as their
future lord. "I have this little son," said he, "who
will soon grow, if it please God. Of his wisdom and
courage I have every confidence. I beg you to
accept him from this moment as my successor. I
appoint Allan, Duke of Brittany, to be Governor
and Seneschal of Normandy, until William is of age;
but Henry, King of France, shall have the guardian-
ship of the boy.'
So, before setting out on the journey from which
he never returned, we see Robert taking the little
William to Paris to place him under the care of his
overlord, and for a time Falaise sees the child no
more.
Seven long years pass before we meet William
again at Falaise. His father, Duke Robert, has not re-
turned from his journey. He lies buried at Nicea, or,
as William of Malmesbury has it, at Apulia. Arletta
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163
has married a knight named Herlewin de Conteville;
and William, a handsome boy of fourteen, is living
at Rouen, the capital of his duchy, in the old castle
down by the river. Henry, King of France, has
not proved a very faithful guardian, and is making
use of the jealous and disaffected Norman barons,
of whom there are many, to take possession one
by one of the strongest places in Normandy. He
has already dispossessed William of the great
frontier castle of Tillières, and now has en-
couraged a count named Toustain le Gois to
establish himself in the strong castle and town
of Falaise.
It is the year 1040, and William is already a com-
mander, for, ever since he was able to play at
soldiers, he has had his company of boys, and been
taught the art of war. So, as soon as the news
reaches him of this fresh treachery, he starts off
from Rouen with the Constable de Gacé and the
best of his troops for Falaise. We can imagine the
effect upon the people as they beheld this handsome
boy in his shining armour: he their townsman, the
only son of their Duke, the grandson of their friend
the Tanner du Verpré. At the first opportunity,
it being a very dark night, the gates of the town
were opened to receive William; and when Toustain
saw a great piece of the castle wall fall under the
battering rams of the Duke, he surrendered, and
departed into the exile to which William con-
demned him.
But the young Duke's troubles were not yet over,
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
for there were traitors even among his relations.
There was his cousin Guy of Burgundy, who had
been brought up with him "ever since William had
begun to ride, and to know how to feed and dress
himself," and on whom William had lavished all
his boyish affection. Within the very castles of
which the young Duke had made him governor,
he plotted and planned secretly with Hamon-es-Dens
and Grimold-es-Pessiez, and other jealous mal-
contents and creatures of the King of France, saying
that he himself, being born in lawful wedlock,
had a better right to the duchy than this grandson
of a tanner, and promising all kinds of rewards to
his supporters. So they began to prepare for an
attack on the Duke.
William was staying at Valognes at the time, for
the sake of the hunting; the thick woods around
abounding in game of all kinds. One night, just
as he had fallen asleep, there commenced a tre-
mendous noise and battering upon the castle door,
and he heard the voice of a favourite fool of his,
one Gallet of Bayeux, crying, "Rise up! Rise up!
or ye be all dead men! William, where art thou?
Thy foes are gathering thick around; if they find
thee thou art a dead man." It is Master Wace
who tells the graphic story. The young Duke arose,
"sorely dismayed," and, waiting only to fling a
cloak round his shoulders, mounted his horse and
fled away on the road to Falaise. Once, after
passing the fords at Vire, he paused, to enter the
church of Saint Clement, and, falling on his knees,
FALAISE
165
prayed God to be his safe conduct and to let him
pass in safety. It must have been a wild and
terrible ride for the boy, for he was alone and
dared speak to no one, even to inquire the way,
fearing to encounter enemies at every turn. But
as he rode through Rue, just before sunrise, he
beheld the knight Hubert-de-Rue standing at his
gate. Now, William's horse was all but spent,
and he himself still clothed only in his shirt and
breeches, so it is no wonder that the good knight,
recognising him, cried out, astonished at his con-
dition.
Then said William, "Dare I speak to thee,
Hubert?" And, when Hubert had reassured him,
he told him all the matter.
The knight led him into his house, and gave him
his own good horse, and, calling three of his five
sons, bade them conduct the Duke safely to Falaise,
and lodge him in the castle, well knowing that
there he would be safe.
66
After they were out of sight, Hubert remained
standing upon the bridge looking out over the
way by which William had arrived, and listening
anxiously; and it was not long before the traitors
came spurring into sight, and stopped to inquire
if he had seen "The Bastard.” 'Aye," answered
Hubert, "he passed this way not long ago. You
will have him soon, for he cannot have gone far.
But stay, I will lead you myself. I should like to
give him the first blow!" The old chronicler does
not tell us by what route he led them, but we can
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
be sure that it was long enough to give the Duke
plenty of time to reach Falaise!
As we stand in this mighty castle we recall many
scenes other than those connected with the Con-
queror. In 1139 we shall find Geoffrey Plantagenet
besieging the fortress, but unable to take it by
force, though later it was surrendered to him by
the inhabitants themselves.
In 1203 it was again besieged and surrendered
to the King of France, Philippe Augustus. And
there was a great and terrible siege of Falaise by
Henry V of England, when the castle had to
capitulate for want of food, and remained in the
hands of the English until, in 1450, it was recaptured
by the French under the great Dunois.
It seemed strange, after spending hours in the
company of these long dead heroes, to find oneself
in the railway station waiting for a train to take
us back to Caen. The platform was crowded with
people returning from market, and we had some
difficulty in finding seats. At Mézidon we had to
change, and for some time it really seemed as though
we were fated to pass the night on that comfortless
platform. However, everyone except ourselves
seemed resigned, certainly no one appeared sur-
prised. No doubt they were accustomed to the
vagaries of the local Norman trains! At intervals
tin trumpets would hoot and whistles shriek, but,
so far as I could see, all in vain. And even when at
last our train did really emerge out of the gathering
dusk, and we seemed on the point of starting, the
FALAISE
167
stationmaster, a gorgeous person in a white cap and
much gold lace, espied a girl in our compartment,
and another delay ensued, till a second train
arriving from which several passengers descended
to squeeze into our already overcrowded car-
riages; then, indeed, with much urging from the
impatient whistle and tin trumpet the train began
to move.
It would have been an unbearably tedious journey
save for a very pretty girl who sat opposite with
her mother. The latter was not bad-looking in
her fresh-coloured Norman way, but the daughter
was charming. Her brown hair was arranged in
two plaits and coiled over her ears; and she had
the prettiest of blue eyes that had a way of smiling
from under their long black lashes at nothing in
particular, except, perhaps, her own girlish thoughts.
She was charmingly dressed, too, in a flowered
cotton gown, very simply made, and long enough
for her to have been considered hopelessly dowdy
by more fashionable town girls. Her neck was all
the more provoking, because the simple white
muslin collar she wore fitted so closely under her
rounded chin; and over all she wore a grey cloth
coat with some sort of decoration, a white Greek
cross with a dark-blue edge, and in the centre a
circle with another cross on a gold ground. I feel
sure she was just the girl I should have liked my son
to marry, if I had had a son. From her neat little
brown shoes to her neat little black hat, she was
such a picture of a girl as one seldom meets with
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
in these days. And my mind being still full of
Falaise and Arletta, I thought how fortunate
she was to have been born in this our twentieth
century, instead of in the time of Duke Robert
the Magnificent and the Tanner's daughter.
CHAPTER IX
BAYEUX
We had taken advantage of a fine morning to visit
Bayeux. We reached it early, and, as we left the
station and began walking down the long Avenue
Sadi-Carnot, the October mists still hung heavily
over the meadows, pale yellow mists. As the sun
grew stronger, they warmed and deepened to a
golden haze, seen through which the town we were
approaching resembled some
"City of shadowy palaces
And stately, rich in emblem, and the work
Of ancient kings who did their days in stone
•
99
-such wizardry is there in a fine October morning.
Already twice we had crossed the little river Aure,
when the road turned gently to the right, and we
saw rising up into the iridescent blue of the sky the
strangely beautiful spire-crowned lantern of the
cathedral. The mist had thinned somewhat, and
the lower buildings were growing more sharply
But the great
defined, losing their romance.
central tower of the church was still veiled and
169
170
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
dreamlike, purple seen through pale gold, as
though uncertain whether it belonged to earth
or heaven.
Few people would, I think, visit Bayeux to-day
save for its tapestry and its cathedral. Centuries
ago this Pagus Bajocassinus, as it was called, had
other attractions, however. On a rising ground to
the north of the city stood one of the three most
celebrated of Druid temples, where the god Belenus
was adored, and a golden calf, which is said to
have lain buried for ages beneath the temple ruins.
Here, also, was one of the great colleges of the
Druids.
The Romans at their coming renamed the city
Augustodurum, and gave it splendid baths, over
whose site now stands the ancient church of Saint
Lawrence. There were temples, too, where other
and more licentious gods replaced the sterner
deities of the earlier cult. Abundant traces of this
Roman occupation have been found beneath the
soil at Bayeux.
But even the Roman civilisation could not stand
before the savage fury of the Men of the North,
who, in the middle of the fourth century, fell upon
Pagus Bajocassinus like wolves, rending and de-
vouring all that came in their way, as was their
savage custom. Being near to the sea, the country
attracted them, and they settled down on the ruins
of the city they had destroyed, so far as such rovers
could settle anywhere. They formed a kind of
independent republic, living a life of robbery by
BAYEUX
171
sea and land. They spoke the old Danish tongue
of their ancestors, guarding it jealously from any
admixture of French or Latin, and remained de-
voted to the worship of their ancient gods, Thor and
Wodin, long after the rest of Normandy had become
Christian. Their war cry, "Thor Aide!" was raised
by the soldiers of the Bessin as late as the Battle
of Hastings. Norman lords sent their sons to be
educated at Bayeux, that they might learn to speak
in all its purity the old Norse language, just as
to-day we send our children to Touraine when we
wish them to speak French with a perfect accent.
I suppose every traveller in Normandy has heard
of the beautiful Popa, daughter of the Count of
the Bessin. After the Northmen, led by Rollo, had
forced their way into the city, now called Bayeux,
and had burned her home and slain her father, in
the division of the spoil the young girl found herself
given as a slave to the Scandinavian chief, who
married her after the "rites of his religion and the
laws of his country," and by whom he had his son
and successor William Longspear.
Strangely enough, it seems to have proved a very
happy marriage. For though, when later, Rollo,
then Duke of Normandy, had for political reasons
found himself obliged to take to wife the daughter
of the King of France, he formally repudiated the
Scandinavian beauty, he did not forget her. No
sooner had the French girl died (which she seems
to have done rather early) than he hastened to send
for Popa; and, as William of Jumièges tells us,
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
again went through a ceremony of marriage with
her, but this time probably after the Christian rite,
he being by this time, nominally at any rate, a
Christian. Rollo, as we have seen, had his capital
at Rouen, but, like all Normans of the period, sent
his son William at an early age to be educated at
Bayeux. The boy was given into the charge of
Count Bothon, the governor of the Bessin, and
learned not only the language of his forefathers,
but their arts of war and their disregard of fatigue
and discomfort. His little son Richard was living
at Bayeux for the same reason when he was sum-
moned to Rouen to preside at his father's funeral.
He it was who married the beautiful young Danish
girl Gunnor, whose daughter Emma became first
the wife of Ethelred, King of England, and after-
wards married the great Canute. We shall re-
member her better, perhaps, as being that Emma
who had to walk over the red-hot ploughshares in
Winchester cathedral. They were all just the
same wild, savage Scandinavians as their fore-
father Rollo, founder of the race. And when we
hear of William of Falaise setting out to conquer
England we shall remember that he had the blood
of these piratical Vikings flowing in his veins,
deliberately nurtured and encouraged by his proud
ancestors, who had almost all been educated in this
ancient town of Bayeux, that they might retain
the characteristics of their fathers.
We should like to have seen (from a safe distance)
the old Bayeux of those days, protected as it was

THE NAVE OF THE CATHEDRAL OF BAYEUX
BAYEUX
173
by its twelve towers, and entered by four fortified
gates. But it was a restless place to inhabit, for
no one's life was safe for long, and few died peace-
fully in their beds. It was here that the rebel
lords, led by Guy of Burgundy, plotted against
the young Duke William, and were overheard by
the fool Gallet, who warned his young master and
so saved his life, as we have told when speaking of
Falaise.
But come let us visit the cathedral, and in passing
to the west end be sure to notice the entrance to
the south transept, which is worth coming all the
way from England to see. It strikes one at once,
for here is carved in stone, that all may read, the
story of the murder of the great Archbishop of
Canterbury, Saint Thomas à Becket. When one
thinks of him to-day one is apt to forget how world-
wide was his fame, and how from all parts of
Europe pilgrims flocked to his shrine. Also, in those
days the Christian Church was not disunited as it
became later, and English bishops were recognised
in France as in England. This pictured history
of Henry's crime and repentance was therefore
thoroughly understood by those who saw it, and
no doubt served to heighten the fame of the great
Saint of Canterbury. As to its architecture, it
greatly resembles that of the south porch of the
cathedral of Lincoln.
But let us walk round to the western end, and
enter by the great door. What a sight meets our
eyes! A Norman nave, perfect as on the day
174 THE LURE OF NORMANDY
when, in the year 1078, it was consecrated by John,
Archbishop of Rouen, in the presence of William
the Conqueror, his brother Odo the bishop, Queen
Matilda, and all her children. A splendid sight it
must have been when these walls, then new and
glistening, and hung with the celebrated tapestry,
looked down upon all these famous folk in their
gorgeous dresses. There is the great Norman King
himself, for we cannot visit a town or village in
Normandy without meeting him, and beside him
his Queen, their many children kneeling behind like
so many figures on an ancient tomb, their hands
raised in prayer, their faces full of pious devotion.
They appear such a model family that it is almost
impossible to believe the terrible stories we read
of these insubordinate sons. Odo the bishop, too,
how devout he looks! Yet he has already cast
covetous eyes on the duchy, and even on the
Kingdom of England, of which his brother has made
himself monarch. It was but four or five years
later that William arrested him with his own hand
for treason, and imprisoned him in the old castle
of Rouen, where so many of his relations had been
incarcerated. It was only as the King lay upon
his deathbed that the bishop of Bayeux was re-
leased, to work more mischief! If only there had
been newspapers in those days, how exciting we
should have found them. This bishop Odo, for
instance. No sooner was his brother dead than he
conspired with his nephew Robert to upset the late
King's will, and place the wretched ne'er-do-weel
BAYEUX
175
on the throne of England. In fact, most of the
troubles and horrors which followed the death of
William were due to this unworthy and ambitious
Odo, bishop of Bayeux. But we shall meet him
later, when we visit the tapestry. For the present
let us walk round the cathedral, and admire the
exquisite sculptured arches, no two alike, and the
wonderful diaper work which covers the wall
between them, and the strange little bas-reliefs
filling in the angles where they meet. I suppose
the original roof sprang from this level. To-day
the upper portion of the nave consists of a low
triforium arcade and a lofty clerestory of high,
narrow windows, constructed very early in the
thirteenth century. As for the choir, it is of the
same period as the clerestory, and was built by an
English bishop of Bayeux, Henry of Beaumont, in
1205. Below lies the burial-place of the earliest
of the bishops, over which a Norman crypt has
been erected-a dim, ancient, ghostly place, the
roof supported by twelve squat carven pillars.
And as we stand there we cannot but think how
much it resembles the Norman crypt of Canterbury,
though, of course, on an infinitely smaller scale.
In the year 1543 Bayeux underwent a savage
and horrible outrage at the hands of the Calvinists.
The story of the sufferings of the inhabitants is
too terrible to relate; but these streets and ancient
houses, these churches and even the cathedral
itself, witnessed such scenes as horrify one to recall.
It was during this awful period that the graves in
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
the crypt were opened, and the bodies, stripped of
their wrappings, thrown to the dogs. And so for
a time Mass ceased to be offered in the cathedral of
Notre-Dame. But through it all the great building
was itself spared, and that almost by a miracle.
For the order had gone forth for its destruction,
when a monk, at risk of his life, ventured to approach
the commander, one Romillé, and represented to him
what a splendid Protestant temple the place would
make, and how little the necessary alterations would
cost. Thus the actual building of the cathedral
was saved, and, after the storm had passed, was re-
consecrated and once more put to its former uses.
But the treasury, once so rich with its silver statues,
its crosses, golden candelabras, its superb chalices
and jewelled mitres, all that was gone. All the
rich vestments had been stolen by the soldiers,
but the ancient chasuble of Saint Ragnobert was
saved. The bishop Charles d'Humières, escaping
barely with his life, made time to fetch this greatest
of the relics, and bore it with him to England.
Here it remained in safety till the storm was over.
You may see it to-day once more in its place in the
treasury, together with a few other curious things,
such as the Dragon which carried the great candle
in the procession on Easter Saturday.
In the south transept is an old painting of the
murder of Saint Thomas of Canterbury. Who
gave it to the church I wonder? We know that
Henry the Second had a palace at Bayeux, and
used often to stay there. It was at Bayeux that
BAYEUX
177
he received the visit of the Pope's legates, charged
with the task of reconciling the King to the Arch-
bishop. And it was at a castle near by that the
King was holding his Christmas Court, when fresh
news reached him causing the well-known ex-
clamation that sent the four knights off on their
murderous journey to Canterbury. It is curious
to find the story of his crime so vividly portrayed
in this city where Henry was living when it was
committed.
After visiting the cathedral we walked round
the town, admiring the old houses in the Rue
Bien Venu. They are so very quaint and un-
changed that it is quite easy to fancy them once
more inhabited by the wives and daughters of the
former burgers of Bayeux.
We wondered where stood the hospital, built at
the Pope's command, by Duke William, on the
occasion of his marriage to Matilda of Flanders?
The House of the Dean, too, with its little chapel
dedicated to Saint Thomas, where did that stand?
And, most interesting of all, the old Temple of
Thor and Wodin?
On the north side of the cathedral is a little place,
shadowed by an immense plane-tree, the giant
trunk of which is protected by a low wall. The tree
struck us at once by its great size and the evident
care with which it had been preserved. No children
climbed among its branches, which were as perfect
and carefully tended as though it were one of the
sacred trees of the Druids. And the name of the
12
178
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
place where it stood, "Place de la Prison!" But,
as if to remove all doubt, at its foot had been set
a board with an inscription: "Arbre de la liberté,
planté le 10 germinal, An VII."
What thoughts did not the sight of this great and
beautiful tree evoke! We could fancy we saw the
ceremony of its planting, and could hear the noise
of the shouting, bells clashing, voices yelling the
"Marseillaise," and see the little silent enclosure
crowded once more with red-capped men, and
women wearing the colours of the Revolution. And
in the midst was their Tree of Liberty, then a young
sapling, emblem of what this savage, destructive
dawn was to develop into, the great modern Re-
public of France. But at Bayeux those wild days
seem very far off and unreal. For, in truth, it is
a sleepy little place, living in its past, much of its
prosperity even coming from the tourists who visit
it on account of its antiquities. A clean, quiet,
little place, with a certain likeness to England in
its lush meadows, and fat cows and well-fed, friendly
dogs. It has shrunk little by little from the great
city it once was. There were the early wars when
it was periodically burned and wrecked. There
were the accidental fires, almost inevitable when
the houses were built of wood and there were no
fire-engines. There was the awful siege and sacking
of the town when the English joined with the King
of Navarre and reduced it to cinders. Earlier the
terrible assaults by the Comte de Dunois, when the
city would have been completely destroyed save
BAYEUX
179
for the timely apparition of the centuries dead-and-
gone Saint Ragnobert, who came to warn him that
Bayeux would be given up to him voluntarily the
next day if he spared it. In fact, it is a miracle
that this sleepy little Norman town exists at all at
the present day, when we consider its tumultuous
past: and how the cathedral has escaped wreckage
is the greatest miracle of all, unless, indeed, we
believe in the alleged intervention of the good
old Bishop Saint. But come, we must visit the
tapestry, for that is the greatest of all the miracles
of preservation for which Bayeux ought to be
thankful.
To speak correctly, this wonderful and precious
survival of Norman days is not tapestry, which is
a woven material, but embroidery worked, as is
surely certain, by Queen Matilda, wife of William
the First of England.
In former times it was hung round the nave of
the cathedral on great feast days, and is said to
have formed part of the decorations on the occasion
when the church was consecrated in presence of
the royal couple and their children. I must confess
that I was prepared to be rather disappointed with
this ancient needlework of which I had heard so
much. But when I entered the great upper
chamber of what was once the palace of the bishops
of Bayeux, I found how greatly I had been mis-
taken, for this "Tapisserie de La Reine Matilde"
is, quite apart from its origin, a very astonishing
thing, resembling, in some ways, the paintings on
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
Egyptian tombs and papyri. An excellent repro-
duction lies before me as I write, but nothing
prepares one for the original.
In the first place, it is so very narrow, only twenty
inches wide, and so long that the airtight glass
case in which it hangs fills the large chamber,
winding backwards and forwards like a maze.
Upon it we read the story of the conquest, told from
a strictly Norman point of view, as was of course
inevitable, the artist being William's wife.
We are shown Harold conferring with Edward the
Confessor, who is seated in his palace, crowned,
sceptred, and wearing the beard of an old man.
The young man is asking permission to go hunting
in Brittany, but in reality to bring back his two
brothers whom Edward has placed with the Duke
as hostages for the good conduct of their father
Earl Godwin, just deceased. Edward, being greatly
attached to Harold, remonstrates, saying that Duke
William will prove too clever for him, and that he
will get into trouble. Harold, however, sets out,
equipped as though for a hunting expedition, with
his dogs, his falcon, his knights, and his servants.
It is to Bosham he makes his way, where he has a
palace, inherited, as some say, from his grandfather,
King Canute, and where we see him praying in the
old church. Afterwards he and his followers are
seen refreshing themselves and wading out into
the shallow water of the estuary to gain the
ships which are to carry them over to the Breton
coast.
1
BAYEUX
181
And here I feel that, living as I do within a few
miles of the royal and ancient Bosham, I owe it to
the quaint little place to say a few words about its
history.
I suppose that Harold, who was Count of Wessex
and Duke of Kent, and who had often played there
with his brothers and his sister Edith as a boy,
Iwould not see much difference in Bosham if he
returned there to-day. It is still the village of
"the sea creek . . . the petty rill
That falls into it, the green field, the grey church,
The simple lobster-basket, and the mesh. . . .
Old fishermen sit smoking along the sea-wall of
an evening, just as their fathers have done for
centuries past; and the quaint houses and little
inns, Harbour View, Mariner's Terrace, the Anchor,
still lie there with their backs turned to the water,
so that at high tide one can draw a boat up to the
back steps and jump in from one's kitchen. And
one of the old women, Mrs Frogbrook, or another,
seeing that you are interested in the place, will tell
you how Harold would "sit for hours fishing for pike
in the moat that surrounded his house," and how
his grandfather had a palace near by, called Stone-
walls, and that it was "just here" the great Danish
King seated himself and bade the advancing tide
stand still. For, in spite of its humble aspect, this
Bosham is well known to the antiquary and the
archæologist. For instance, the church in which
we have left Harold kneeling. Camden tells us that
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THE LURE OF NORMANDY
it was here that a "Scottish monk called Dicul had
a very small cell, and in it five or six religious men
living poorly in service of the Lord, which many
years after was converted into a retiring place for
King Harold, whence he, upon a time, for his recrea-
tion, made out with a little bark into the main sea,
and was with a contrary pirrie carried violently
into Normandy, and there detained in hold until
he had by oath assured the Kingdom of England
unto William of Normandy," as we shall read later
in the tapestry. But, after all, it is the church
which is the glory of Bosham; and, if you happen
to have the good fortune to visit it when one of the
old people is about, you will hear such stories as
throw quite a new light on the history of the little
fishing village! For instance, at foot of the old
chancel pier you will notice a slab, and upon it a
black raven, and will be told that it covers the grave
of the little twelve-year-old daughter of King
Canute, "she who died when the family was spending
the summer at Bosham." And you will hear how
her little body was found lying in its stone coffin
surrounded by its long golden hair, when the floor
of the nave was lowered some years ago (the woman
who told me was a child at the time, and saw
the grave opened).
And the chancel arch itself: How strange it is
to see it represented so accurately in the ancient
needlework. And there are the sculptured bases
of the pillars round the nave, and the splendid
font, and the very ancient masonry of the chancel.
BAYEUX
183
Yes, one feels that, indeed, a thousand years are
but one day when one visits the old church of
Bosham.
Returning to the story as told by the tapestry,
we find that no sooner has Harold set sail than a
tempest has blown him out of his course and set
him down at the mouth of the Somme, on the terri-
tory of William's half brother, and bitterest enemy,
Guy of Pontieu. The coast is infested by wreckers,
who seize the English knights and shut them up
in a tower, possibly the old ruinous building near
Saint Valery, still known as Harold's Tower. After
some delay he is taken to Bayeux, and imprisoned in
the castle, and so the story continues, till Harold
finds means of sending a messenger to William,
telling him of his plight, and Guy is ordered to
deliver up his prisoner to his overlord. But we
need not follow every detail of the story. We see
the Duke and Harold setting out upon their strange,
half-mythical journey to Brittany, and are shown
the King of that country escaping from his castle
of Dol by sliding down a rope, and entrenching
himself first at Rennes and then at Dinan, where
he finally surrenders. The galloping horses, the
movement of the men, the extraordinary spirit of
the work, is astounding. . . . And then Harold
is knighted, and he and William return to Bayeux,
where the great and much disputed scene takes
place, in which Harold swears to deliver up England
to the Duke after the death of Edward.
This scene, perhaps in some ways the most
184 THE LURE OF NORMANDY
important of all, since, if it took place, William was
justified in his later conduct, is somewhat slurred
over in the tapestry. Possibly neither William nor
Matilda was proud of the way in which the promise
was extorted; but, as it occurred at this town of
Bayeux, it is not out of place to give it some
prominence.
On arriving with Harold at Bayeux, the Duke
summoned his nobles as for a parliament, and the
evening before caused all the relics he could procure
to be brought secretly to the palace, and stored away
in a great chest covered with a pall, over which was
placed a magnificent gold-embroidered cloth, and
upon it were placed two trifling little reliquaries
of but small account. Next morning the Court
assembled, and William, seated upon his throne,
summoned Harold to swear upon the relics to assist
him in obtaining possession of the crown of England.
Wace says that when Harold placed his hand on the
chest to swear, it trembled and his flesh quivered. But
when, having vowed to marry William's daughter,
and to do all in his power "according to his might
and wit, after the death of Edward, to deliver up
England to the Duke, so help him God and these
holy relics," William took the covering off the
chest, and showed him the sacred bones which lay
there, and the bodies of the Saints in their wrap-
pings, he trembled and shook and was sore afraid,
and shortly after took his leave and returned to
England.
There is little doubt but that he landed at the
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185
same port as that from which he had sailed. We see
the castle and a watcher stationed on a balcony and
women within awaiting his return. There follows
a visit to King Edward, to whom he relates all
that has happened. Next we see the King carried
in a litter to Saint Peter's abbey at Westminster,
where he dies, after prophesying disaster to the
kingdom, saying: "Behold the Lord hath bent His
bow, by fire and sword will He chasten!" And then
Harold, breaking his oath, receives the crown and
battle-axe from Archbishop Stigand, and is repre-
sented sitting upon his throne, acclaimed by the
people.
There follows the appearance of the comet,
"yon grimly glaring, treble-brandished scourge of
England," as Tennyson calls it, which for a month
shone in the sky, terrifying the superstitious people
of the day. Then it is that the news of Harold's
crowning reaches William, and we see the ship
coming to anchor in the Norman port. I wish I
had space to tell the story as given by Wace. How
William, who was hunting in his park at Rouen,
had just strung his bow to try some new arrows,
when he saw a messenger, all weary and travel-
stained, approaching, who drew him aside and told
him of King Edward's death and how Harold had
seized upon the crown.
Without a word the Duke
gave his bow to his page, got into his boat, and,
crossing the Seine, came to his hall, and sat down
at the end of a bench, covering his face with his
mantle and resting his head against a pillar.
186
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
But the tapestry tells nothing of this. Instead, it
shows us the Duke instantly ordering the con-
struction of a fleet, and trees are cut down and
sawn into planks, ships are made and launched,
and laden with food, wine, and arms. Finally, one
splendid scene following closely upon another, we
see William embarking with his army and his
horses, crossing the Channel, and landing at
Pevensey.
The soldiers go riding off to Hastings to find food,
an ox is killed, sheep slaughtered, and presently
the lords are seated at table, and the bishop of
Bayeux, the false Odo, is saying grace. And a
fortress is constructed at Hastings, a house is set
on fire; now William is mounting his horse, and the
tapestry becomes one amazing battle scene, even
the frieze and the lower border are filled with dying
horses and men. The Normans, as was their custom,
have shaved their heads and faces for the battle,
and wear pointed helmets, but the Saxons wear
moustaches and long hair. And then we see the
death of Harold and his brothers, and the long strip
comes to an untimely end.
It is said to have been hung round the nave of
the cathedral at its consecration. One writer
asserts that it was offered by Queen Matilda to her
brother-in-law Bishop Odo for that purpose. But
we shall never know for certain the story of the
actual working of the Tapisserie de la Reine Matilde.
For my part, I like to think of the Queen sitting in
her tower and working through the long hours,
BAYEUX
187
together with her ladies, that they might have a
gift ready for the acceptance of their hero on his
return from his conquest of England.
The first existing mention of the tapestry is in an
inventory of the treasure of the cathedral, dated
1476, "a very long and narrow cloth embroidered
with figures and writings, representing the Conquest
of England, which is hung round the nave of the
church on feast days."
When the Calvinists pillaged the church, the
embroidery was given into the charge of the Town
Council, who guarded it during those terrible days,
and apparently returned it to the cathedral later.
In 1792 the soldiers of the Revolution, requiring
a cover for a waggon, fetched out the ancient
treasure from the sacristy, and had already fixed
it in place, when someone ordered it to be removed
and a more suitable covering provided. And so
the priceless old treasure passed from hand to hand,
till, in 1804, it found itself once more placed under
the protection of the mayor, with an order that
it should be publicly exposed in the cathedral for
a fortnight every summer.
It was kept fastened round a windlass, from which
it was unrolled whenever anyone wished to see it,
and the rough usage wore it considerably, especially
towards the latter end. So it was finally taken to
the library of the bishop's palace, and placed in
the position in which we see it to-day.
How wonderful it is to think, as one looks at the
ancient stitches, of the centuries which have passed
188
THE LURE OF NORMANDY
since the delicate white fingers of Matilda and her
ladies placed them there! What tears may not
have fallen upon it as they worked at one of the
battle scenes, how they laughed and chatted about
the various knights depicted, and . . . how we
should love to have heard them!
t

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