Le Morvan, [A District of France,] Its Wild Sports, Vineyards and Forests; with Legends, Antiquities, Rural and Local Sketches Part 17

But for some months previous to the _vendange_, no one but a proprietor has the right to enter a vineyard; at this period a perfect calm and silence reigns, and they become an asylum, a veritable land of Goshen, an oasis for all the partridges, hares, and rabbits of the neighbourhood. In order to prevent gentlemen and professional poachers from cruising in these delightful lat.i.tudes, killing the game and injuring the vines, a number of _gardes champetres_, generally old soldiers, are chosen, who armed with an old sabre, post themselves on some height which commands the vineyard, ready to lay violent hands on any delinquent that may make his appearance. But in spite of the _garde champetre_, his long sabre, their interminable cut and thrust, and his eternal _de par la loi, arretez!_ there is a sport in the early morning, called _a la traulee_, which is not without its charms.

The vineyards of Burgundy are for the most part divided into sections, that is to say, at from two to three hundred paces the contiguity of the vines is interrupted, and a small road, which serves during the _vendange_ to facilitate the communication and transport of the grapes, is cut in the vineyard. At daylight, therefore, before the sun is above the horizon, or the white fog hanging in the valleys has been dispersed by his rays, and the fas.h.i.+onable gentleman of the town is on the point of going to bed, the sportsman, always keen and on the alert, arrives, walks slowly and carefully along the roads I have just mentioned, looking cautiously right and left, and between the intervals of the vines on either side of him.

The rabbits hopping under the leaves, the covey of partridges bathing amidst the dew, the hares gravely discussing among themselves the respective merits of the heath and wild thyme, are thus surprised in their matutinal occupations, and become the prey of the delighted sportsman. But the moment approaches when the comparative calm and protection which the poor animals enjoy will cease--their days of fun and festival are numbered; their enemies up to this period have been few--the rich proprietors, the privileged, but now the ma.s.ses are preparing, they are cleaning up their clumsy blunderbusses, and to-morrow "the million" will take the field and a.s.sail and pop at them from every road and pathway--for the mayor, after due consultation with the princ.i.p.al personages in the village, has sent his drummer, his Mercury, his crier, to beat a tattoo in all the public places, and crossways, and announce in front of the _cabarets_ that the grapes being ripe the _vendange_ is opened.

The following day, when the last star in the heavens is disappearing, when the doors of morning are scarcely opened, every road is covered with long lines of waggons drawn by oxen, and a cavalcade of horses and mules, and great a.s.ses carrying panniers may be seen galloping along in all directions. Voices, shouts, squeaking wheels, and neighing horses are also heard on every side, and parties of _vendangeurs_ and _vendangeuses_, arm in arm, with baskets on their backs, and grape knives in their belts, their broad-brimmed hats encircled with ribbons and flowers, are seen marching along, singing many a Baccha.n.a.lian chorus in honour of the occasion. They are on their way to the vineyards, and like so many fauns and Bacchantes, only well draped, are with joyous hearts ready to gather in the harvest of the ruby grape.

In advance of this delighted and merry crowd, and always like the lark, the first on the wing, the sportsman is already at his post,--for the first day of the _vendange_ is, as Navarre used to say, a day of powder, the _fete du fusil_. And now is formed a line of sometimes three hundred _vendangeurs_ and _vendangeuses_ who starting at the same moment, ascend the hill-side cutting the grapes, filling and emptying their baskets.

The young men strike up some jovial song in praise of wine, the girls reply; and before this soul-stirring chorus, this burst of gay and animated feeling, the game, astounded at the concert, break and retire before them. Then is the moment for the sportsman, who, concealed in a large thicket and comfortably seated at the summit of the hill, listens and laughs in his sleeve as he hears the affrighted partridge call, and the timid hare rus.h.i.+ng through the vines towards him; they approach, are within range of his gun, and ere long the shot-bag is emptied, and the sportsman is in that rare but agreeable dilemma of not knowing what to do with his game or his gun.

In a wine country the _vendange_ is certainly the most exciting and merriest season of the year--it is a succession of delightful _fetes_ in the open air, of repasts amongst the vines and under the shade of the peach-trees, riding-parties in the forest, whose echoes are awakened by the melancholy notes of the horn, water-parties on the lakes, dances in the field and round the wine-press, &c.

Every _chateau_ is full to overflowing in Le Morvan during the month of August,--bands of Parisians, Picards, and Normans, acquaintances scarcely made, friends, friends'-friends, with their wives, children, dogs, nurses, and luggage arrive each hour and by every road. Every family is invaded, beds are doubled, plates are not to be found,--there is only one gla.s.s for two, one knife for three; the servants, stupified and astonished, know not how to reply or which way to turn themselves; the cooks, half-roasted and lost amidst an army of sauce-pans, know not what they are doing; they put mustard into the _meringues_, cruets of vinegar in the soup--every one is on the laugh, except however the heads of families, who rendered almost crazy by this tide of human beings always rising, by the bell of the _porte cochere_ always ringing, pa.s.s on from one to the other the new arrivals, with a note as follows:

"Mons. de G.... presents his compliments to Mons. de V...., and has the honour to inform him that not possessing in his house one bed or one arm-chair that is not occupied, he has the pleasure of sending him two Normans and three Parisians."

P.S. "The two Normans are first-rate waltzers, the Parisians perfect singers." The reply will perhaps be couched in the following strain:

"Mons. de V.... presents his compliments to Mons. de G...., and has the honour to inform him that being himself under the necessity of sleeping in his cellar, he cannot, though most anxious to oblige him, receive the two Norman dancers and the three Parisian warblers." Thus it sometimes happens that very charming, elegant, and sensitive gentlemen, who under ordinary circ.u.mstances would be very difficult to please, are obliged to sleep in a barn or loft, on a very nice bed of clean straw, with a dark lantern to light them there, and the luxury of a truss of hay for a pillow.

The peasants, generally speaking, do not witness the arrival of these visitors with much pleasure,--the dandies more especially, who shod in varnished leather, always over-dressed, musked, and starched, attract, so they think, too much the attention of the young girls. Fathers, mothers, and, above all, lovers, are at once on the look out. They mistrust these fine gentlemen, whom they always designate by the appellation of "gilded serpents."

My friends from other departments often remarked the looks of aversion with which the natives sometimes met them; and not comprehending the reason, have asked me for an explanation. Do you observe, I said, that little white house, half-hidden yonder in the poplars--there, on the banks of the Cure? That house, a few years ago, was the abiding-place of a happy and honest family,--a father, and his three daughters.

The father, who in his youth was in very good circ.u.mstances, was ruined by bad harvests, an epidemic disease in his cattle, and by other disasters that cause the downfall of many farmers. Nevertheless, and though his losses were great, he lived happy and even contented with his children, who, all three of irreproachable conduct and character, and excellent needlewomen, did their utmost to ameliorate his position. They made dresses for the ladies in the town, worked by the day, and sometimes, when they found their earnings during the summer months fall short of what they thought sufficient to meet the expenses of the coming winter, they hired themselves to some proprietor during the period of the _vendange_.

The youngest of the three,--Herminie, she might be about sixteen,--was a charming girl, a true child of Nature, fresh as a wild flower, awaking and rising every day of the year from her peaceful happy couch with the birds of heaven, always smiling and singing. Herminie was the joy, the favourite of the old man,--she was the linnet, the darling, and the life of the house. One autumnal day, (the period at which, as I have before remarked, our province abounds with strangers,) her figure attracted the attention of one of those cursed beings, with a false heart and lying lips, that the great cities send into our rural districts, carrying with them desolation and mourning. I know not in what manner it occurred, what falsehoods, what arts he used, or what traps he laid,--but he succeeded too well in his base purpose. The poor girl was deceived.

Easily convinced,--she was too pure, too young to doubt; and her mother, who would have been there to watch over her, was alas! sleeping in the very churchyard in which, in the shade of the evening, she first met her seducer. Enough,--the heartless man of the world obtained the love of the poor and simple Herminie,--and his whim, his heartless selfish whim gratified,--he disappeared.

The fault, the fault of confiding woman, soon became public. Abandoned and betrayed, the poor girl sought death as a refuge in her distress, and threw herself into the river; but her father, who watched every action of his daughter, was near, and saved her. A man of unusual intelligence, and an excellent heart, his maledictions fell entirely upon the head of him who had wronged her; for his child he had only tears and consolation. Herminie became a mother; her sisters and friends were earnest and devoted in their attentions, and antic.i.p.ated her every thought; but broken-hearted, she bent her head like some beautiful lily, which has at the parent root some corroding worm. Her gaiety fled, her songs ceased; pale and silent, she might be seen standing on some rock, listening to the howling of the storm, or, her little boy on her lap, seated for hours at her father's cottage door, picking some faded rose to pieces leaf by leaf, and looking vacantly on the fragments as they lay at her feet.

But at the bottom of her cup of grief was still one more bitter drop,--oh! how much more bitter than the rest! Her child, as if inheriting the melancholy of its mother, ceased to prattle, to smile; it did not thrive, it sickened; and in spite of all her care and watchings, of whole nights pa.s.sed in prayers to the Virgin, to her patron Saint, and G.o.d, in spite of many an hour of repentant and sorrowing tears,--it died! Bowed to the earth by this fresh, this overwhelming misfortune, Herminie complained not, but she became more pale: she was sometimes found plunged in silent but profound grief, looking towards heaven as if seeking there the little precious being the Almighty had taken from her; as if she was anxious to follow,--to be at rest, united with her baby boy again.

The _vendange_ returned once more; but the perfumed gentleman, the villain from the capital, came not again. Herminie was desirous of a.s.sisting in the labours of the season. "I am," said she, "strong enough;" and though her sisters endeavoured to dissuade her, she persisted in accompanying them to the vineyard, but there she found her strength was unequal to the task, a smile to one, and a kind answer to another, was all that she could give,--nevertheless it was remarked, during the course of the day that she spoke several times out loud, as if conversing with some invisible being. Evening arrived, and the waggons carried off their ripe and luscious loads, leaving the young men and girls racing up and down the pathways, and amongst the vines, endeavouring to smear each other's faces with the purple fruit.

Behind these laughing groups came Herminie, the expression of her dark blue eye floating in s.p.a.ce, and, like the flight of the swallow, resting on nothing. Onward she slowly stepped, idly pus.h.i.+ng before her the first faded leaves of autumn, withered by the h.o.a.r frost; and, instead of the intoxicating grape, she carried in her hand a _bouquet_ of the arbutus and the _alize_, fruits without perfume, like her own heart, now without hope or love. Night came: every eye weary with toil was closed,--the chimes alone telling the hours of the night vibrated on the air. Towards morning a startling cry of horror was heard from a cottage on the banks of the Cure--Herminie was dead! that is to say, her face was paler than usual in her sleep; but she awoke no more! I shall ever remember that beautiful face, for I had never till then contemplated the countenance of one whose spirit had taken its way to that country from which no traveller returns.

A few days, and the withered rose-leaves which the poor girl had pulled at the cottage door were scattered by the wind; a few more, and the poor old father followed his favourite child; and his surviving daughters, half-crazed with grief and sorrow, left the neighbourhood. As to him who was the original cause of this domestic tragedy,--rich, happy, perhaps a deputy and making laws himself,--he lives, and is probably respected. We call ourselves a civilized people; we throw into prison a man who strikes another,--and we do not punish, we do not cast from society, we do not even reproach the base hypocrite, who, with a smile on his lips, and for the infamous gratification of his bad, ungovernable, selfish pa.s.sions, becomes the murderer of a whole family. Bad and rotten are the laws which permit such infamous practices. Unworthy of trust are the legislators who dream not--who never think of preventing these impure and festering diseases of our social system. My friends, who had listened attentively to the sad tale, turned from me to inspect more closely the white cottage by the Cure, and no longer expressed any astonishment at the severe countenances of the peasants.

But how does it happen, will the reader say, that so delightful a province of France as that of Le Morvan should have remained for nineteen centuries unknown to England,--that nation of travellers who are to be found in every corner of the globe inhabitable and uninhabitable? How is it that such a pearl,--a sporting country too,--should have remained buried for so long a period as it were under the dark mantle of indifference? And is it to be credited that in a district in which are to be found simultaneously wolves and health, wild boar and simplicity, the best wines in the world, and all the theological virtues, should have remained up to this day hidden--lost in the deep shadows of its woods and the solitude of its mountains?

In the first place, then, I must remind you that in order to reach Le Morvan it is not necessary to traverse either the Indian Archipelago or the Cordilleras, or black or ferocious populations. Those who have by accident pa.s.sed through it, have not been induced by its appearance to inscribe its name in their note-books. But Le Morvan is close at hand; Le Morvan, so to speak, touches England,--a sufficient reason, as every one knows, for taking no interest in it.

Every year caravans of tourists leave for Italy and the East; they go to gaze upon the remains of what was once the palace of the famous Zen.o.bia, Queen of Palmyra, or to kill the lizards on the steps of the mouldering Coliseum; one invites the scorpions of Greece to bite his leg; another seeks the yellow fever in the Brazils; a third prefers being robbed in Calabria, or dying of thirst in the Deserts of Lybia;--the more distant and perilous the journey, the greater the pleasure of accomplis.h.i.+ng it.

Such is English taste.

Yet Le Morvan is a charming and picturesque country--a lovely region, clad with verdure, flowers, and forest-trees, and watered by fresh, sparkling, and silvery streams, which every one can reach without fatigue, much expense, and without the slightest chance of danger, but perhaps, as I have before said, its proximity is its misfortune.

Should any one after perusing this volume desire to visit Le Morvan, he should be aware that to do so with any degree of pleasure or profit it is absolutely necessary to speak French fluently,--for half our peasants are not in the least aware the earth is round, and that on it there are other nations besides their own. To see its thousand beauties, to fish its rivers and enter into its delightful, exciting and perilous sports, to plunge without hesitation into the depths of its forests, the traveller should also be accompanied by an experienced guide, and piloted by a friendly hand.

Le Morvan, unknown to all to-day, would come forth quickly from the sh.e.l.l of obscurity in which it lies concealed, if some man of rank in England, led thither by hazard or caprice, were to spend a few weeks amidst its glades and vineyards, its mountains and its streams.

What was Cannes twenty years since? who ever mentioned it in England, who knew its beauties? n.o.body. Lord Brougham pa.s.ses there, stops, selects a hill, crowns its top with a white _chateau_, scatters the gold from his purse, and sheds over the little town the l.u.s.tre of the renown won by his versatile genius--Cannes immediately becomes the vogue--Cannes is charming, magnificent! Cannes, certainly, with her fields of jasmine and roses, her groves of orange-trees, her burning sun, blue skies and sea, and her warm pine-woods, is a delightful spot;--but Cannes is also a place of languor and sloth, a lavender-water country. If you have the gout, if you are old and rich, if you have delicate lungs, go to Cannes, your life will be agreeable but enervating.

But Le Morvan is certainly not a country for a _pet.i.t-maitre_ or a delicate lady to live in; to enjoy yourself there you must have the fire and energy of youth in your veins, a stout heart, the lungs of a mountaineer, and a sinewy frame. You must love a forester's life, the hound and the rifle; you must be a Gordon c.u.mming in a small way. To the English invalid, I would recommend the ex-Chancellor's retreat; but to him who in the full sense of the term is a sporting man, or a lover of nature, I would say: Go--explore Le Morvan!

LIFE OF BEAU BRUMMELL.

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Translated from the Ma.n.u.script in French

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LATE MONS. FOUCAULT, MEMBER OF THE INSt.i.tUTE OF FRANCE,

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CAPTAIN JESSE, AUTHOR OF "NOTES OF A HALFPAY;" "LIFE OF BRUMMELL;"

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