CHAPTER IV.

Famine reigned in France, for the resources of the country were drained off to sustain the court in luxury and vice. In seven years, Louis XV added seven hundred and fifty millions of francs to the two billions and a half of debts left by Louis XIV. Archbishop Fénélon wrote to the Grand Monarque: ‘At length, France is become one great hospital, desolate and unprovided with the necessaries of life. By yourself alone these disasters have been created. In the ruin of France, everything has passed into your hands; and your subjects are reduced to live upon your bounty.’

Louis the Well-Beloved was hunting one day in the forest of Sénart. He met a peasant carrying a coffin. ‘For whom is that coffin?’ asked the king. ‘For a man.’ ‘What did he die of?’ ‘Hunger.’ France was dying: in a few years, but for the Revolution, it would have been dead and buried, killed by famine.

‘In my diocese,’ said the Bishop of Chartres, ‘men browse with the sheep.’

Taxes innumerable were paid. But there was not money enough. Hundreds perished, that the beasts of Æsop’s fables might squirt water in the duck-ponds of Versailles. The royal mistresses sparkled with jewels, and each jewel cost a human life. One hundred millions of francs went in pensions, the Red Book told on whom. Exemption from taxes was given liberally; the king created nobles, the revenue created employés, all these were exempt. Thus, whilst the sum required of the people increased every year, every year the number of payers decreased. The load weighed on fewer shoulders, and became more and more oppressive.

At Versailles, fifteen thousand men and five thousand horses were supported at the public cost to give splendour to the seat of royalty; they consumed sixty million livres per annum. The king’s house cost eighteen millions, that of the queen four millions, and those of the princes nine millions, though they possessed as their apannages a seventh part of the territory of France. The Church drew an annual income of four hundred and fifty millions; the tithes were worth eighty millions, and its buildings were estimated at five hundred millions. Of the land in France, one-fifth belonged to the Church.

What was the condition of the peasant? It has been already described; it was he who bore the burden and heat of the day. On his toils the court, the nobles, and the Church lived. It was his blood that they sucked. The peasant might not plant what he would in his fields; pastures were required to remain pastures, arable land was to be always arable. If he changed his field into meadow, he robbed the curé of his tithe; if he sowed clover in his fallow land, the landlord or the abbot turned in his flock of sheep, to crop off it what he deemed his share. The lord and the abbot sent out their cattle to pasture an hour before those of the peasant; they had the right to keep huge dovecots, and the pigeons fed on the grain of the farmer. The tenant worked for his landlord three days in the year for himself, three days for each of his sons and servants, and three for each horse and cart. He was bound to cut and make and stack his lord’s hay in spring, and to reap and garner his wheat in autumn; to repair the castle walls, and make and keep up the castle roads. Add to all this the tax to the king, twelve sous per head for each child, the same for each servant, the subvention for the king; the twentieth for the king, that is, the twentieth portion of the fruits of the earth, already tithed for the Church.

When we hear folk declaim against the French Revolution, do not let us forget what was the state of the people before that event. The Revolution was a severe surgical operation, but it was the salvation of France.

To the beautiful gothic church of Notre Dame de la Couture, the people of Bernay and the neighbouring villages went in procession, on the Feast of the Assumption, to entreat the Blessed Virgin to obtain for them relief from their miseries. Human succour seemed in vain. If they appealed to the king, his answer was, _Give!_ If they besought the nobility, they also answered, _Give!_ If they threw themselves at the feet of the Church, her response was also, _Give!_

Now, throughout the land a cry went up to Heaven. At Bernay it took the form of a pilgrimage.

The origin of the Church of La Couture was as follows. Far away in the purple of antiquity, when first the faith of Christ began to dawn in Gaul, a shepherd-boy found himself daily deserted by his flock, which left him as he entered the forest in the morning, and only returned to him at nightfall. Impelled by curiosity, he followed the sheep one day, and they led him through bush and brake till he emerged on a pleasant sunny glade upon the slope of the hill, where the pasture was peculiarly rich, and where also, resting against a magnificent wild rose, leaned a black statue of the Blessed Virgin.

This discovery led to a concourse of pilgrims visiting the image, which had been thus unaccountably placed in the heart of a forest. The clergy of the ancient city of Lisieux sent a waggon to transport the image to their church; but no sooner was it placed upon their altar than it vanished, and was found next morning in the glade of Bernay. A chapel was erected over it, and was served by a hermit, but the afflux of pilgrims made the shrine rich, and a church was built in the forest, and about the church a village soon arose. The trees were cut down, and the bottom of the valley was brought into cultivation, from which fact the church obtained its name of La Couture, or Ecclesia de Culturâ Bernaii.

The church is beautifully situated on the steep side of the hill, with its west front towards the slope, and its apse standing up high above the soil, which falls away rapidly from it into the valley. The western doorway is richly sculptured and contains a flamboyant window, occupying the tymphanum of the arch. Above this portal is a large window, which, at the time of our story, was filled with rich tracery, and with richer glass that represented Mary, the Queen of Heaven, as the refuge of all in adversity. In the central light, the Virgin appeared surrounded by flames and rays, her face and hands black, whilst angels harped and sang around her. A fillet surmounted her, bearing the text ‘Nigra sum, sed formosa, sicut tabernacula cedar.’ (Cant. i. 4.) On one side, cripples and sick persons stretched forth their hands to the sacred figure; on the other, were peasants trampled on and smitten by the servants of nobles in armour, whilst above in the tracery might be seen houses and barns in conflagration, and ships about to be engulfed in waves[1].

From the west door, a flight of fifteen steps leads down into the nave, so that on entering, the appearance of the church is almost that of a magnificent crypt.

On the 15th of August, in the afternoon, the church presented an imposing spectacle. Eight parishes had united to visit the shrine, and supplicate the protection of the Blessed Virgin. The day had been hitherto very fine, and the sight enjoyed from the churchyard of the processions arriving from different quarters, in the bright sunshine, had been singularly beautiful. Each parish procession was headed by its banner; the clergy, by crucifix and candles. Various confraternities, with their insignia, united to give picturesqueness to the scene. From the interior of the church the effect was striking, as the line,--endless it seemed,--rippled down the flight of western steps, with tapers twinkling and coloured banners waving; whilst the organ thundered, and the people shouted the refrain of a penitential litany. The illumined figures in the yard contrasted with those in shadow, as they flowed through the portal: this was especially noticeable when a band of girls in white, with white veils, and lighted taper in hand, preceded by their white banner emblazoned with a representation of the Assumption, moved through the doorway. The leading ribbons of this banner were held by two maidens in white; one of these was Gabrielle, and her appearance in this pure garb was most beautiful. A wreath of white roses encircled her head, and clasped the muslin veil to her temples. As the shadow of the arch fell upon her, a slight puff of wind extinguished her candle, but on reaching the foot of the steps a taper was held towards her, and she was about to re-light hers at the flame, when, raising her eyes, she encountered those of M. Berthier, who, with a smirk, proffered her his burning candle. She shrank away, and kindled her light at the candle of a girl who followed her.

M. Berthier was in company with an old gentleman, very thin, with a hatchet face, white hair, and black eyes active and brilliant. He was dressed in an old brown riding-coat, with high collar, over which protruded a short wiry pig-tail, fastened with a large bow. He took snuff, at intervals of a few minutes, from a large gold box; and he took it in a peculiar manner, not from his fingers but from the palm of his hand, into which he shook the tobacco dust, and from which he drew it into his nostrils by applying the palm to his face. This method of snuffing might be economical, but it was ungainly and dirty, for it left crumbs of tobacco upon the lips, nose, and cheeks of the old man.

‘That is the wench,’ said Berthier, after he had politely returned the taper, which he had unceremoniously snatched from the hand of a peasant, that he might offer it to Gabrielle.

‘A pretty little darling,’ the old man replied. ‘Is this the third flame this year, and we only in August? Bah! my lad, you are positively shocking.’

‘Are you going to remain here among these rascals?’

‘A moment or two, my friend; I want to see who are the malcontents. Bah! these people ask Heaven for food. Let Heaven give them rain and sunshine, and the earth yield her increase; who will profit thereby? Not they. Bah! Famine is not the result of the seasons, it is no natural phenomenon. It is good for the people to be kept on low diet, it humbles them; America bred fat cattle, and they have thrown off the yoke. What makes the famine, my boy? Why, _we_ make famine, and keep up famine, because the people must be retained in subjection.’

Berthier touched the old man to silence him; Lindet was close to them, and his glittering eye rested on the Intendant and his father-in-law. But Foulon took no notice of the touch, and he continued:--‘Bah! If they are hungry, let them browse grass. Wait till I am minister, I will make them eat hay; my horses eat it.’

Thomas Lindet heard the words as distinctly as did Berthier. A flush, deep as ruby, suffused his face, and he clenched his teeth, whilst a flame darted from his eyes.

‘Who is that devil?’ asked Foulon, with imperturbable calmness, of his son-in-law.

‘He is the priest of S. Cross, at Bernay. I owe him a grudge. Come out of this crush into the air, I am stifled.’

Berthier drew his father-in-law to the door.

The weather was undergoing a change. To the west, above the hill, a semicircle or bow of white cloud, in which the sun made prismatic colours, edged a dense purple-black mass of darkness. It was like gazing into a hideous cavern whose mouth was fringed with fungus.

‘A storm is at hand,’ said Berthier; ‘it is approaching too rapidly for us to escape. We must remain here.’

An ash with scarlet berries grew opposite the west door, on high ground. This tree stood up against the advancing clouds like a tree of fire, so intense was the darkness within the bow of white. The leaves scarcely rustled; at intervals a puff of wind swept over the churchyard and shook the tree, but between the puffs the air was still. Gradually a peculiar smell, very faint, like the fume of a brick-kiln at a great distance, filled the air. The white vapourous fringe dissolved into coils of cloud, ropy, hanging together in bunches, and altering shape at each moment. A film ran over the sun, which was instantly shorn of its rays; a chill fell on the air, and a shadow overspread the ground; the ash turned grey, and everything that had been golden was transmuted into lead.

From the church within sounded the organ, and the people chanting the Magnificat; and incense rose before the altar, on which six candles burned.

From over the western hill came the mumble of distant thunder, a low continued roll like the traffic of heavy-laden vehicles on a paved road. A few large drops fell and spotted the flagstone on which Berthier and Foulon stood. They looked up. The sky was now covered with whirling masses of vapour, some light curl-like twists flew about before the main body of lurid thunder-cloud, which was seamed and hashed with shooting lights.

The wind arose and moaned around the church, muttering and hissing in the louvre-boards of the spire; the ash shivered and shook, the willows and poplars in the valley whitened and bent, and the long grass in the cemetery fell and rose in waves; the jackdaws flew screaming around the tower, a martin skimmed the surface of the ground, uttering its piercing cry.

Foulon had been scratching his initials listlessly on the flag on which he stood, with the ferule of his walking-stick. Drops like tears falling about it made him say:--‘Come in, Berthier, my boy. The rain is beginning to fall, and you will have your smart coat spotted and spoiled.’

The two men re-entered the church. Vespers had just concluded, and Lindet ascended the pulpit. From where he stood he saw them in the doorway, with the sheet-lightning flashing and fading behind them. At one moment they appeared encircled with flame, at another plunged in darkness.

‘As I came into this church to-day,’ spoke Lindet with distinctness, ‘I heard one say to another: _If the peasants are hungry, let them browse grass. I would make them eat hay; my horses eat it._ As I stand in this pulpit, and the lightning illumines yonder window, I see painted there a lean, famished peasant, trampled under the hoofs of the horse of some noble rider, and the great man has his staff raised to chastise the peasant. Under these circumstances, the poor man lifts his hands to heaven, as his only refuge. That is what you do this day,--you, the down-trodden, scourged, and bruised; you who are bidden browse the grass, because that is the food of brute-beasts. Just Heaven! the importunate widow was heard who cried to the unjust judge to avenge her on her adversary, and shall not God avenge His own elect, though He bear long?’

The rain burst with a roar upon the roof,--a roar so loud and prolonged that the preacher’s voice was silenced. The vergers closed the great doors to prevent the rain from entering, for the wind began now to blow in great gusts. The fountains of heaven seemed to have burst forth, the rain rattled against the west window, loudly as though hail and not rain were poured upon it. Dazzling flashes of lightning kindled up the whole interior with white brilliancy, casting no shadows. The congregation remained silent and awed, the clergy in their tribune opposite the pulpit sat motionless. The candles flickered in the draughts that whistled round the aisles; their flames seemed dull and orange.

Suddenly the bells in the tower began to peal. According to popular belief their sound dispels tempests, and the ringers were wont to pull the ropes during a storm. The clash and clangour of the metal alternated with the boom of the thunder. The darkness which fell on the church was terrible, men and women on their knees recited their beads in fear and trembling. Scarce a heart in that great concourse but quailed. Once a child screamed. Then, as for one instant, the bells ceased, the sobbing of a babe at its mother’s breast was heard. The water began to flow down the hill, collect into a stream in the churchyard, and to pour in a turbid flood down the steps into the nave. It boiled up under the closed door, it rushed into the tower and dislodged the ringers, who were soon over shoe-tops in water.

A startled bat flew up and down the church, and dashing against the altar-candles extinguished one with its leathern wings.

All at once the rain ceased to fall, and the wind lulled. None stirred; all felt that the tempest was gathering up its strength for one final explosion ere it rolled away. Then a tall thin woman in black, with a black veil thrown over her head, was observed to have stationed herself immediately before the altar, where she knelt with outstretched arms and uplifted face. Those who were near observed with horror that the face, from which the veil was upthrown, was of a blue-grey colour. When she had made her way to her present situation none knew; none had observed her in the procession, for then she had been, probably, closely veiled. She threw her arms and hands passionately towards the black Virgin above the altar, and in the stillness of that lull in the storm her piercing cry was heard pealing through the church, ‘Avenge me on my adversary.’

‘My God!’ whispered Berthier to his father-in-law, as he pointed to the excited worshipper, ‘look at my wife, Foulon! she has gone mad.’

‘Bah!’ answered the imperturbable old man; ‘nothing of the sort, my boy; she is invoking vengeance upon you and me.’

Instantly the whole church glared with light, brighter than on the brightest summer day. No one present saw any object, he saw only light--light around him, light within him, followed by a crash so deafening and bewildering that it was some minutes before any one present was able to perceive what had taken place, much less to realize it.

The lightning had struck the tower, glanced from it, bringing part of the spire with it; had rent the west wall of the church, and had shattered the slab on which, some minutes previously, Foulon and Berthier had been standing.

This was the last effort of the storm; the sky lightened after this explosion, the rain fell with less violence, and gradually ceased.

The congregation left the church. The torrent, which had rushed down the hill, had in some places furrowed the graves and exposed the dead. The grass was laid flat, and much of it was buried in silt. Every wall and eave dripped, and the valley of the Charentonne lay under water.