The ghost of Charlotte Cray, and other stories
unpicturesque, and not worth the trouble; and we walk on in hopes of
finding something better: and are rewarded. At the close of the long
overshadowed walk, a quaint little chapel, beside which stands a
painted wooden crucifix nearly the size of life, excites our
curiosity, and, walking round it, we come upon one of the loveliest
scenes, even in the month of February, that Nature ever produced.
A green valley, creeping in sinuous folds between two ranges of high
hills; one rocky and coated with heather, the other clothed with wood.
Beneath the rocky range there winds a road bordered by trees,--along
which we can see the red diligence which brought us from the station
taking its jangling way,--and beside it runs a stream, terminating in
a cascade and a bridge, and the commencement of the lower part of
Rochefort. All the fields are cut upon the sides of hills, and are
diversified by clumps of rock covered with ferns, and usually the
groundwork of a well, protected by a few rough planks, or the
fountain-head of a mountain-stream which trickles down until it joins
the river. This is the valley of Jemelle, to see which in the proper
season would alone be worth a journey to Rochefort. We look and
admire, and lament the impossibility of ever transferring such a scene
to canvas as it should be done; and then we turn back whence we came,
and find we are standing at the entrance of an artificial cave,
situated at the back of the crucifix before alluded to, and which
forms perhaps as great a contrast to the natural loveliness we have
just looked upon, as could well be. Apparently it is the tomb of some
woman, by the framed requests which hang on either side that prayers
may be offered for the repose of her soul; but had her friends turned
out upon her grave all the maimed and motley rubbish to be found in a
nursery playbox of some years’ standing, they could scarcely have
decorated it in a less seemly manner. At the end of the cave is a
wooden grating, behind which is exhibited one of those tawdry
assemblages of horrors which tend more perhaps than all else to bring
ridicule on the Roman Catholic religion, so utterly opposed are they
to our conceived ideas of what is sacred. Two or three rudely-carved
and coarsely-painted, almost grotesque, wooden groups of the dead
Christ, the Holy Family, and the Crucifixion, form the groundwork of
this exhibition: the interstices being filled up with gold-and-white
jars of dirty artificial flowers; framed prints of saints with lace
borders, reminding one of the worst description of valentines; and
composite figures, supposed to represent the same individuals, and
which may have cost fifty centimes apiece. The collection is such as
to make the spectator shudder to see holy things so unholily treated;
and it is difficult to conceive how, in this century, when art has
been carried to such a pitch that even our commonest jugs and basons
have assumed forms consistent with it, anyone, even the lowest, can be
satisfied with such designs and colouring as these things display.
Returning homeward by the lower part of the town, we pass a _maison
religieuse_ dedicated to St. Joseph, and in the garden see the good
little sisters joining their pupils, to the number of forty or fifty,
in a merry game of “Here we go round the mulberry-bush,” and
apparently taking as much pleasure in the exercise as the youngest
there. The church and churchyard stand at this end of Rochefort. There
is nothing in the building to attract one’s notice, except that we
agree that it is the ugliest we have ever seen; but we walk round the
little churchyard, the paucity of graves in which speaks well for the
climate of the place. The crosses and railings, made of the commonest
wood and in the most fragile manner, are all rotting as they stand or
lie (several having assumed the recumbent position); and we are
leaving the spot with the conviction that we have wasted five minutes,
when we come against a crucifix fastened by heavy iron clamps against
the wall of the church. A common iron cross, rusty and red from damp
and age, with a figure nailed on it of the most perfect bronze, old
and hard, and dark and bright, and as unchanged by weather and
exposure as on the day (perhaps hundreds of years ago) it was first
placed there.
Toiling up the street again, and examining the shops as we go, I say
that, much as I like Rochefort, I do not advise any one to come here
in order to purchase their wedding _trousseau_, or lay in a stock of
winter clothing. We look in vain for something to buy in remembrance
of the place; but can see nothing out of the way, except it is a
yellow teapot, holding at the least four quarts, and with a curled
spout to prevent the tea coming out too fast, which must be almost
necessary with such a load of liquid. The teapot is delicious, and
quite unique; but scarcely worth, we think, the trouble of
transportation. We have but just decided this matter to our
satisfaction when we come upon a “miscellaneous warehouse,” upon whose
front is painted “_Cartes pour les grottes de Rochefort_,” and
remember that we must see the famous grotto, and turn in to ask the
price of admission. Five francs a-head; children half-price. We think
the charge is high; but Monsieur C-- (to whom the grotto belongs)
takes us into his house and shows us prints of the different views of
its interior, which fire our imagination to that degree, that we
decide at once to see it the next morning. We look over a book also in
which visitors to the grotto have written down their first
impressions; and these testimonials excite our curiosity still
further. A Persian describes himself as having been suddenly
transported into fairyland; and can liken the vast caverns to nothing
but the palace of his great master the Sultan, and the various forms
assumed by the stalactites to those of lovely houris grouped about
him. A French poet, in rapturous verse, compares the grotto to the
enchanted halls of the Arabian Nights, and the stalactites to “frozen
tears.” Every traveller declares the sight to have been more wonderful
and beautiful than anything he has ever seen before, until we become
quite sorry to think we must put off seeing it until the morning; and
our expectations are heightened by the rapid assurance of Monsieur C--
(who always keeps his hands moving, and never stops to consider his
commas), that it is “_trèsbeautrèsbeautrèsbeau!_” However, we agree
to return the next day at eleven o’clock, when he promises the guides
shall be in readiness for us; and we go home to another excellent
dinner, the pleasure of which is only marred by the fact that
Thérèse _will_ make us use the same knives and forks for every
course; and we haven’t the strength of mind to resist.
Yesterday I spoke to madame on the necessity of engaging someone
during the mornings to read French and German with the girls, as we
shall most likely be here for a month; and it is too long a time for
them to be idle. Madame did not think I should find a _demoiselle_ in
Rochefort who could instruct them; but there is a _professeur_ here
who has passed all his college examinations, and who, if he has the
time, will doubtless be very glad of the employment. I asked her to
send for the _professeur_ that I might speak to him on the subject;
and here, just as we have done dinner, he arrives; for madame throws
open the door, and with a certain pride in her voice (pride that
Rochefort should possess such an article), announces “_Monsieur le
Professeur_.” I glance up, thinking of Charlotte Brontë and her
professor, and hoping this one may not prove as dirty and seedy and
snuffy, and, to my amazement, see standing on the threshold a lad of
about seventeen or eighteen, dressed in green trousers and a blue
blouse, and holding his cap in his hand. The two girls immediately
choke, and bury their faces in their books, which renders my task of
catechising rather a difficult one; and I glance at E-- for aid, but
his countenance is almost level with the table as he pretends to draw.
So I find there is nothing to be done but to beg the _professeur_ to
be seated,--a request which he steadily refuses to comply with; and as
he stands there, twisting his cap in his hands, he looks so like a
butcher-boy, that it is a mercy I do not ask him what meat he has
to-day.
But the poor young man is so horribly nervous, as he tells me that,
though qualified for a tutor, he has never taught before, that I have
not the heart to refuse him on account of his youth; besides, is he
not the sole _professeur_ in Rochefort? So I give him leave to come
the next morning, and try, at all events, what he can do with the
girls; and he looks very happy for the permission. And we see him a
minute afterwards, striding proudly down the street, whistling as he
goes, and holding his head half an inch higher for having “got a
situation.” Of course the children make merry over him for the rest of
the evening, and cannot recall the appearance of their _professeur_
without shrieks of laughter; but he comes the next morning,
nevertheless, to commence his duties, and proves to be quite as
particular as older teachers, and much more competent than some, and
takes the youngest girl completely aback by telling her she shall be
punished if she is not steady.
At eleven o’clock the next morning we are all ready to view the
grottoes, and E-- and I, with the two eldest children, start off on
our expedition. The way to their entrance lies through Monsieur C--’s
park, which in summer must be a very charming resort. He has collected
here all the wild animals indigenous to the Ardennes, and shows them
to us as we walk to the mouth of the grottoes. Close to his house he
has a splendid wolf and three foxes--the golden, silver, and common
fox. I should have preferred to keep these interesting specimens a
little further off from my own nose; but there is no accounting for
tastes. In the aviary he has squirrels, guinea-pigs, doves, pigeons,
and the most magnificent pair of horned owls I have ever seen. These
birds, which are as fierce as possible, have eyes of jet and amber, as
big as half-crowns, and when in their rage they spring at passers-by,
they make a noise with their beaks just like castanets.
A little farther up the park we come upon the Ardennes deer, which are
thicker built and less graceful than the English fallow-deer, with
which they are consorting; and a wild boar, with fierce tusks and a
savage grunt, wallowing in a _parterre_ of clay, which, nevertheless,
knows his master, and puts his ugly snout out to be scratched between
the palisades of his domain. Monsieur C-- only conducts us as far as
the entrance of the grotto, and there delivers us over to the care of
the guides, two in number, who each carry a couple of petroleum lamps,
and have “Grottes de Rochefort” written on their hatbands. They ask us
if we will have costumes to enter the caves with, and we decline, not
knowing the dirt we shall encounter; but we exchange our own hats for
little, grey linen ones, trimmed with a cockade and bunch of small red
feathers in front, made after the pattern of those adopted by the
monkeys on the organs, and in which we appear very comical to each
other’s eyes. Everything is ready, and down we go--down the first
flight of steps, which is steep but easy, and which, Monsieur C--
shouts after us, will be the most difficult descent of all (I wonder
if he impresses that fable on all his visitors) until the ivy and
fern-covered entrance is passed, and we enter the very mouth of the
cave, which is yet light enough to let us see that several such
flights have still to be descended. We have hardly reached the middle
of the second, and daylight is not yet left behind us, when E-- calls