That same day Roland put into execution part of his plans for his guest’s amusement. He took Sir John to see the church of Brou.
Those who have seen the charming little chapel1 of Brou know that it is known as one of the hundred marvels2 of the Renaissance3; those who have not seen it must have often heard it said. Roland, who had counted on doing the honors of this historic gem4 to Sir John, and who had not seen it for the last seven or eight years, was much disappointed when, on arriving in front of the building, he found the niches5 of the saints empty and the carved figures of the portal decapitated.
He asked for the sexton; people laughed in his face. There was no longer a sexton. He inquired to whom he should go for the keys. They replied that the captain of the gendarmerie had them. The captain was not far off, for the cloister6 adjoining the church had been converted into a barrack.
Roland went up to the captain’s room and made himself known as Bonaparte’s aide-de-camp. The captain, with the placid7 obedience8 of a subaltern to his superior officer, gave him the keys and followed behind him. Sir John was waiting before the porch, admiring, in spite of the mutilation to which they had been subjected, the admirable details of the frontal.
Roland opened the door and started back in astonishment9. The church was literally10 stuffed with hay like a cannon11 charged to the muzzle12.
“What does this mean?” he asked the captain of the gendarmerie.
“A precaution taken by the municipality.”
“A precaution taken by the municipality?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“To save the church. They were going to demolish13 it; but the mayor issued a decree declaring that, in expiation14 of the false worship for which it had served, it should be used to store fodder15.”
Roland burst out laughing, and, turning to Sir John, he said: “My dear Sir John, the church was well worth seeing, but I think what this gentleman has just told us is no less curious. You can always find—at Strasburg, Cologne, or Milan—churches or cathedrals to equal the chapel of Brou; but where will you find an administration idiotic16 enough to destroy such a masterpiece, and a mayor clever enough to turn it into a barn? A thousand thanks, captain. Here are your keys.”
“As I was saying at Avignon, the first time I had the pleasure of seeing you, my dear Roland,” replied Sir John, “the French are a most amusing people.”
“This time, my lord, you are too polite,” replied Roland. “Idiotic is the word. Listen. I can understand the political cataclysms17 which have convulsed society for the last thousand years; I can understand the communes, the pastorals, the Jacquerie, the maillotins, the Saint Bartholomew, the League, the Fronde, the dragonnades, the Revolution; I can understand the 14th of July, the 5th and 6th of October, the 20th of June, the 10th of August, the 2d and 3d of September, the 21st of January, the 31st of May, the 30th of October, and the 9th Thermidor; I can understand the egregious18 torch of civil wars, which inflames19 instead of soothing20 the blood; I can understand the tidal wave of revolution, sweeping21 on with its flux22, that nothing can arrest, and its reflux, which carries with it the ruins of the institution which it has itself shattered. I can understand all that, but lance against lance, sword against sword, men against men, a people against a people! I can understand the deadly rage of the victors, the sanguinary reaction of the vanquished23, the political volcanoes which rumble24 in the bowels25 of the globe, shake the earth, topple over thrones, upset monarchies26, and roll heads and crowns on the scaffold. But what I cannot understand is this mutilation of the granite27, this placing of monuments beyond the pale of the law, the destruction of inanimate things, which belong neither to those who destroy them nor to the epoch28 in which they are destroyed; this pillage29 of the gigantic library where the antiquarian can read the archeological history of a country. Oh! the vandals, the barbarians30! Worse than that, the idiots! who revenge the Borgia crimes and the debauches of Louis XV. on stone. How well those Pharaohs, Menæs, and Cheops knew man as the most perversive, destructive and evil of animals! They who built their pyramids, not with carved traceries, nor lacy spires31, but with solid blocks of granite fifty feet square! How they must have laughed in the depths of those sepulchres as they watched Time dull its scythe32 and pashas wear out their nails in vain against them. Let us build pyramids, my dear Sir John. They are not difficult as architecture, nor beautiful as art, but they are solid; and that enables a general to say four thousand years later: ‘Soldiers, from the apex33 of these monuments forty centuries are watching you!’ On my honor, my lord, I long to meet a windmill this moment that I might tilt34 against it.”
And Roland, bursting into his accustomed laugh, dragged Sir John in the direction of the château. But Sir John stopped him and asked: “Is there nothing else to see in the city except the church?”
“Formerly, my lord,” replied Roland, “before they made a hay-loft of it, I should have asked you to come down with me into the vaults35 of the Dukes of Savoy. We could have hunted for that subterranean36 passage, nearly three miles long, which is said to exist there, and which, according to these rumors38, communicates with the grotto39 of Ceyzeriat. Please observe, I should never offer such a pleasure trip except to an Englishman; it would have been like a scene from your celebrated40 Anne Radcliffe in the ‘Mysteries of Udolpho.’ But, as you see, that is impossible, so we will have to be satisfied with our regrets. Come.”
“Where are we going?”
“Faith, I don’t know. Ten years ago I should have taken you to the farms where they fatten41 pullets. The pullets of Bresse, you must know, have a European reputation. Bourg was an annex42 to the great coop of Strasburg. But during the Terror, as you can readily imagine, these fatteners of poultry43 shut up shop. You earned the reputation of being an aristocrat44 if you ate a pullet, and you know the fraternal refrain: ‘Ah, ça ira, ça ira—the aristocrats45 to the lantern!’ After Robespierre’s downfall they opened up again; but since the 18th of Fructidor, France has been commanded to fast, from fowls46 and all. Never mind; come on, anyway. In default of pullets, I can show you one thing, the square where they executed those who ate them. But since I was last in the town the streets have changed their names. I know the way, but I don’t know the names.”
“Look here!” demanded Sir John; “aren’t you a Republican?”
“I not a Republican? Come, come! Quite to the contrary. I consider myself an excellent Republican. I am quite capable of burning off my hand, like Mucius Scævola, or jumping into the gulf47 like Curtius to save the Republic; but I have, unluckily, a keen sense of the ridiculous. In spite of myself, the absurdity48 of things catches me in the side and tickles49 me till I nearly die of laughing. I am willing to accept the Constitution of 1791; but when poor Hérault de Séchelles wrote to the superintendent50 of the National Library to send him a copy of the laws of Minos, so that he could model his constitution on that of the Isle51 of Crete, I thought it was going rather far, and that we might very well have been content with those of Lycurgus. I find January, February, and March, mythological52 as they were, quite as good as Nivose, Pluviose, and Ventose. I can’t understand why, when one was called Antoine or Chrystomome in 1789, he should be called Brutus or Cassius in 1793. Here, for example, my lord, is an honest street, which was called the Rue53 des Halles (Market Street). There was nothing indecent or aristocratic about that, was there? Well, now it is called—Just wait (Roland read the inscription). Well, now it is called the Rue de la Révolution. Here’s another, which used to be called Notre Dame54; it is now the Rue du Temple. Why Rue du Temple? Probably to perpetuate55 the memory of that place where the infamous56 Simon tried to teach cobbling to the heir of sixty-three kings. Don’t quarrel with me if I am mistaken by one or two! Now here’s a third; it was named Crèvecoeur, a name famous throughout Bresse, Burgundy and Flanders. It is now the Rue de la Federation57. Federation is a fine thing, but Crèvecoeur was a fine name. And then you see to-day it leads straight to the Place de la Guillotine, which is, in my opinion, all wrong. I don’t want any streets that lead to such places. This one has its advantages; it is only about a hundred feet from the prison, which economized58 and still economizes59 the tumbrel and the horse of M. de Bourg. By the way, have you noticed that the executioner remains60 noble and keeps his title? For the rest, the square is excellently arranged for spectators, and my ancestor, Montrevel, whose name it bears, doubtless, foreseeing its ultimate destiny, solved the great problem, still unsolved by the theatres, of being able to see well from every nook and corner. If ever they cut off my head, which, considering the times in which we are living, would in no wise be surprising, I shall have but one regret: that of being less well-placed and seeing less than the others. Now let us go up these steps. Here we are in the Place des Lices. Our Revolutionists left it its name, because in all probability ............