This is, of course, a very feeble attempt to render the words of Jasmin.
He was most pathetic when he recounted the sorrows of the poor. While
doing so, he avoided exciting their lower instincts. He disavowed all
envy of the goods of others. He maintained respect for the law, while
at the same time he exhorted the rich to have regard for their poorer
brethren. "It is the glory of the people," he said at a meeting of
workmen, "to protect themselves from evil, and to preserve throughout
their purity of character."

This was the spirit in which Jasmin laboured. He wrote some other poems
in a similar strain--'The Rich and Poor,' 'The Poor Man's Doctor,' 'The
Rich Benefactor' (Lou Boun Riche); but Jasmin's own Charity contained
the germ of them all. He put his own soul into his poems. At Tonneins,
the emotion he excited by his reading of Charity was very great, and the
subscriptions for the afflicted poor were correspondingly large.

The municipality never forgot the occasion; and whenever they became
embarrassed by the poverty of the people, they invariably appealed to
Jasmin, and always with the same success. On one occasion the Mayor
wrote to him: "We are still under the charm of your verses; and I
address you in the name of the poor people of Tonneins, to thank you
most gratefully for the charitable act you have done for their benefit.
The evening you appeared here, sir, will long survive in our memory. It
excited everywhere the most lively gratitude. The poor enjoyed a day of
happiness, and the rich enjoyed a day of pleasure, for nothing can be
more blessed than Charity!"

Jasmin, in replying to this letter, said: "Christ's words were, 'Ye have
the poor always with you'; in pronouncing this fact, he called the world
to deeds of charity, and instituted this admirable joint responsibility
(solidarite), in virtue of which each man should fulfil the duty of
helping his poorer neighbours. It is this responsibility which, when the
cry of hunger or suffering is heard, is most instrumental in bringing
all generous souls to the front, in order to create and multiply the
resources of the poor."

Jasmin's success at Tonneins led to numerous invitations of a like
character. "Come over and help us," was the general cry during that
winter of famine. The barber's shop was invaded by numerous deputations;
and the postman was constantly delivering letters of invitation at
his door. He was no longer master of his time, and had considerable
difficulty in attending to his own proper business. Sometimes his
leisure hours were appropriated six months beforehand; and he was often
peremptorily called upon to proceed with his philanthropic work.

When he could find time enough to spare from his business, he would
consent to give another recitation. When the distance was not great he
walked, partly for exercise, and partly to save money. There were few
railways in those days, and hiring a conveyance was an expensive affair.
Besides, his desire always was, to hand over, if possible, the whole of
the receipts to the charitable institutions for whose benefit he gave
his recitations.

The wayfaring poet, on his approach to the town in which he was to
appear, was usually met by crowds of people. They received him with joy
and acclamation. The magistrates presented him with a congratulatory
address. Deputations from neighbouring towns were present at the
celebration. At the entrance to the town Jasmin often passed under a
triumphal arch, with "Welcome, Jasmin! our native poet!" inscribed upon
it. He was conveyed, headed by the local band, to the hall where he was
to give his recitation.

Jasmin's appearance at Bergerac was a great event. Bergerac is a town of
considerable importance, containing about fourteen thousand inhabitants,
situated on the right or north bank of the river Dordogne. But during
that terrible winter the poor people of Bergerac were in great distress,
and Jasmin was summoned to their help. The place was at too great a
distance from Agen for him to walk thither, and accordingly he was
obliged to take a conveyance. He was as usual met by a multitude of
people, who escorted him into the town.

The magistrates could not find a place sufficiently large to give
accommodation to the large number of persons who desired to hear him.
At length they found a large building which had been used as a barn; and
there they raised a platform for the poet. The place was at once filled,
and those who could not get admission crowded about the entrance. Some
of the people raised ladders against the walls of the building, and
clambered in at the windows. Groups of auditors were seen at every place
where they could find a footing. Unfortunately the weather was rainy,
and a crowd of women filled the surrounding meadow, sheltered by their
umbrellas.

More than five hundred persons had not been able to find admission, and
it was therefore necessary for Jasmin to give several more readings
to satisfy the general enthusiasm. All the receipts were given over by
Jasmin for the benefit of the poor, and the poet hurried home at once to
his shaving and hair-dressing.

On another occasion, at Gontaud, the weather was more satisfactory. The
day was fine and sunny, and the ground was covered with flowers. About
the time that Jasmin was expected, an open carriage, festooned with
flowers, and drawn by four horses, was sent to the gate of the town,
escorted by the municipal council, to wait for the poet. When he arrived
on foot for the place was at no great distance from Agen twelve young
girls, clothed in white, offered him a bouquet of flowers, and presented
him with an address. He then entered the carriage and proceeded to the
place where he was to give his recitation. All went well and happily,
and a large offering was collected and distributed amongst the poor.

Then at Damazan, where he gave another reading for the same purpose,
after he had entered the carriage which was to convey him to the place
of entertainment, a number of girls preceded the carriage in which the
poet sat, and scattered flowers in his way, singing a refrain of the
country adapted to the occasion. It resembled the refrain sung before
the bride in The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille:

 "The paths with flowers bestrew,
  So great a poet comes this way;
  For all should flower and bloom anew,
  So great a poet comes to-day."{2}

These are only specimens of the way in which Jasmin was received during
his missions of philanthropy. He went from north to south, from east to
west, by river and by road, sleeping where he could, but always happy
and cheerful, doing his noble work with a full and joyous heart.
He chirruped and sang from time to time as if his mouth was full of
nightingales. And he was never without enthusiastic multitudes to listen
to his recitals, and to share their means with the poor and afflicted.
We might fill this little story with a detailed account of his
journeyings; but a summary account is all that is at present necessary.
We shall afterwards return to the subject.


Endnotes to Chapter VIII.

{1} Mr. George Dolby, in his work 'Charles Dickens as I knew him,'
tells "the story of the famous 'reading tours,' the most brilliantly
successful enterprises that were ever undertaken." Chappell and Co. paid
him 1500 sterling for thirty readings in London and the provinces, by
which they realised 5000 sterling. Arthur Smith and Mr. Headland were
his next managers, and finally Mr. George Dolby. The latter says that
Mr. Dickens computed the money he netted under the Smith and Headland
management at about 12,000 sterling; and under Dolby's management "he
cleared nearly 33,000 sterling."

{2} In Gascon: "Las carreros diouyon fleuri,
  Tan gran poete bay sourti;
  Diouyon fleuri, diouyon graua,
  Tan gran poete bay passa."



CHAPTER IX. JASMIN'S 'FRANCONNETTE.'

Jasmin published no further poems for three or four years. His time was
taken up with his trade and his philanthropic missions. Besides, he
did not compose with rapidity; he elaborated his poems by degrees; he
arranged the plot of his story, and then he clothed it with poetical
words and images. While he walked and journeyed from place to place, he
was dreaming and thinking of his next dramatic poem--his Franconnette,
which many of his critics regard as his masterpiece.

Like most of his previous poems, Jasmin wrote Franconnette in the Gascon
dialect. Some of his intimate friends continued to expostulate with
him for using this almost dead and virtually illiterate patois. Why not
write in classical French? M. Dumon, his colleague at the Academy
of Agen, again urged him to employ the national language, which all
intelligent readers could understand.

"Under the reign of our Henry IV.," said M. Dumon, "the Langue d'Oil
became, with modifications, the language of the French, while the Langue
d'Oc remained merely a patois. Do not therefore sing in the dialect of
the past, but in the language of the present, like Beranger, Lamartine,
and Victor Hugo.

"What," asked M. Dumon, "will be the fate of your original poetry? It
will live, no doubt, like the dialect in which it is written; but
is this, the Gascon patois, likely to live? Will it be spoken by our
posterity as long as it has been spoken by our ancestors? I hope not;
at least I wish it may be less spoken. Yet I love its artless and
picturesque expressions, its lively recollections of customs and manners
which have long ceased to exist, like those old ruins which still
embellish our landscape. But the tendency which is gradually effacing
the vestiges of our old language and customs is but the tendency of
civilisation itself.

"When Rome fell under the blows of the barbarians, she was entirely
conquered; her laws were subjected at the same time as her armies. The
conquest dismembered her idiom as well as her empire.... The last
trace of national unity disappeared in this country after the Roman
occupation. It had been Gaul, but now it became France. The force of
centralisation which has civilised Europe, covering this immense
chaos, has brought to light, after more than a hundred years, this most
magnificent creation the French monarchy and the French language. Let
us lament, if you will, that the poetical imagination and the
characteristic language of our ancestors have not left a more profound
impression. But the sentence is pronounced; even our Henry IV. could not
change it. Under his reign the Langue d'Oil became for ever the French
language, and the Langue d'Oc remained but a patois.

"Popular poet as you are, you sing to posterity in the language of the
past. This language, which you recite so well, you have restored and
perhaps even created; yet you do not feel that it is the national
language; this powerful instrument of a new era, which invades and
besieges yours on all sides like the last fortress of an obsolete
civilisation."

Jasmin was cut to the quick by this severe letter of his friend, and he
lost not a moment in publishing a defence of the language condemned to
death by his opponent. He even displayed the force and harmony of
the language which had been denounced by M. Dumon as a patois. He
endeavoured to express himself in the most characteristic and poetical
style, as evidence of the vitality of his native Gascon. He compared it
to a widowed mother who dies, and also to a mother who does not die,
but continues young, lovely, and alert, even to the last. Dumon had
published his protest on the 28th of August, 1837, and a few days later,
on the 2nd of September, Jasmin replied in the following poem:--

 "There's not a deeper grief to man
  Than when his mother, faint with years,
  Decrepit, old, and weak and wan,
  Beyond the leech's art appears;

  When by her couch her son may stay,
  And press her hand, and watch her eyes,
  And feel, though she revives to-day,
  Perchance his hope to-morrow dies.

  It is not thus, believe me, sir,
  With this enchantress--she will call
  Our second mother: Frenchmen err,
  Who, cent'ries since, proclaimed her fall!
  Our mother-tongue--all melody--
  While music lives can never die.

  Yes! she still lives, her words still ring;
  Her children yet her carols sing;
  And thousand years may roll away
  Before her magic notes decay.

  The people love their ancient songs, and will
  While yet a people, love and keep them still:
  These lays are as their mother; they recall
  Fond thoughts of mother, sister, friends, and all
  The many little things that please the heart,
  The dreams, the hopes, from which we cannot part.
  These songs are as sweet waters, where we find
  Health in the sparkling wave that nerves the mind.
  In ev'ry home, at ev'ry cottage door,
  By ev'ry fireside, when our toil is o'er,
  These songs are round us--near our cradles sigh,
  And to the grave attend us when we die.

  Oh, think, cold critics! 'twill be late and long,
  Ere time shall sweep away this flood of song!
  There are who bid this music sound no more,
  And you can hear them, nor defend--deplore!
  You, who were born where its first daisies grew,
  Have fed upon its honey, sipp'd its dew,

  Slept in its arms, and wakened to its kiss,
  Danced to its sounds, and warbled to its tone--
  You can forsake it in an hour like this!
  Yes, weary of its age, renounce--disown--
  And blame one minstrel who is true--alone!"{1}

This is but a paraphrase of Jasmin's poem, which, as we have already
said, cannot be verbally translated into any other language. Even the
last editor of Jasmin's poems--Boyer d'Agen--does not translate them
into French poetry, but into French prose. Much of the aroma of poetry
evaporates in converting poetical thoughts from one language into
another.

Jasmin, in one part of his poem, compares the ancient patois to one of
the grand old elms in the Promenade de Gravier, which, having in a storm
had some of its branches torn away, was ordered by the local authorities
to be rooted up. The labourers worked away, but their pick-axes became
unhafted. They could not up-root the tree; they grew tired and forsook
the work. When the summer came, glorious verdure again clothed the
remaining boughs; the birds sang sweetly in the branches, and the
neighbours rejoiced that its roots had been so numerous and the tree had
been so firmly planted.

Jasmin's description of his mother-tongue is most touching. Seasons
pass away, and, as they roll on, their echoes sound in our ears; but the
loved tongue shall not and must not die. The mother-tongue recalls our
own dear mother, sisters, friends, and crowds of bygone associations,
which press into our minds while sitting by the evening fire. This
tongue is the language of our toils and labours; she comes to us at our
birth, she lingers at our tomb.

"No, no--I cannot desert my mother-tongue!" said Jasmin. "It preserves
the folk-lore of the district; it is the language of the poor, of the
labourer, the shepherd, the farmer and grape-gatherers, of boys and
girls, of brides and bridegrooms. The people," he said to M. Dumon,
"love to hear my songs in their native dialect. You have enough poetry
in classical French; leave me to please my compatriots in the dialect
which they love. I cannot give up this harmonious language, our second
mother, even though it has been condemned for three hundred years. Why!
she still lives, her voice still sounds; like her, the seasons pass, the
bells ring out their peals, and though a hundred thousand years may roll
away, they will still be sounding and ringing!"

Jasmin has been compared to Dante. But there is this immense difference
between them. Dante was virtually the creator of the Italian language,
which was in its infancy when he wrote his 'Divine Comedy' some six
hundred years ago, while Jasmin was merely reviving a gradually-expiring
dialect. Drouilhet de Sigalas has said that Dante lived at the sunrise
of his language, while Jasmin lived at its sunset. Indeed, Gascon was
not a written language, and Jasmin had to collect his lexicon, grammar,
and speech mostly from the peasants who lived in the neighbourhood of
Agen. Dante virtually created the Italian language, while Jasmin merely
resuscitated for a time the Gascon dialect.

Jasmin was not deterred by the expostulations of Dumon, but again wrote
his new epic of Franconnette in Gascon. It took him a long time to
clothe his poetical thoughts in words. Nearly five years had elapsed
since he recited The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille to the citizens of
Bordeaux; since then he had written a few poetical themes, but he was
mainly thinking and dreaming, and at times writing down his new epic
Franconnette. It was completed in 1840, when he dedicated the poem to
the city of Toulouse.

The story embodied in the poem was founded on an ancient tradition. The
time at which it occurred was towards the end of the sixteenth century,
when France was torn to pieces by the civil war between the Huguenots
and the Catholics. Agen was then a centre of Protestantism. It was
taken and retaken by both parties again and again. The Huguenot captain,
Truelle, occupied the town in April 1562; but Blaize de Montluc, "a
fierce Catholic," as he is termed by M. Paul Joanne, assailed the town
with a strong force and recaptured it. On entering the place, Montluc
found that the inhabitants had fled with the garrison, and "the terrible
chief was greatly disappointed at not finding any person in Agen to
slaughter."{2} Montluc struck with a heavy hand the Protestants of the
South. In the name of the God of Mercy he hewed the Huguenots to pieces,
and, after spreading desolation through the South, he retired to his
fortress at Estellac, knelt before the altar, took the communion, and
was welcomed by his party as one of the greatest friends of the Church.

The civil war went on for ten years, until in August 1572 the massacre
of Saint Bartholomew took place. After that event the word "Huguenot"
was abolished, or was only mentioned with terror. Montluc's castle
of Estellac, situated near the pretty village of Estanquet, near
Roquefort--famous for its cheese--still exists; his cabinet is
preserved, and his tomb and statue are to be seen in the adjoining
garden. The principal scenes of the following story are supposed to have
occurred at Estanquet, a few miles to the south of Agen.

Franconnette, like The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille, is a story of
rivalry in love; but, though more full of adventure, it ends more
happily. Franconnette was a village beauty. Her brilliant eyes, her rosy
complexion, her cherry lips, her lithe and handsome figure, brought all
the young fellows of the neighbourhood to her feet. Her father was a
banished Huguenot, but beauty of person sets differences of belief at
defiance.

The village lads praised her and tried to win her affections; but, like
beauties in general, surrounded by admirers, she was a bit of a flirt.

At length two rivals appeared--one Marcel, a soldier under Montluc,
favoured by Franconnette's grandmother, and Pascal, the village
blacksmith, favoured by the girl herself. One Sunday afternoon a number
of young men and maidens assembled at the foot of Montluc's castle
of Estellac on the votive festival of St. Jacques at Roquefort.
Franconnette was there, as well as Marcel and Pascal, her special
admirers. Dancing began to the music of the fife; but Pascal, the
handsomest of the young men, seemed to avoid the village beauty.
Franconnette was indignant at his neglect, but was anxious to secure
his attention and devotion. She danced away, sliding, whirling, and
pirouetting. What would not the admiring youths have given to impress
two kisses on her lovely cheek!{3}

In these village dances, it is the custom for the young men to kiss
their partners, if they can tire them out; but in some cases, when the
girl is strong; and an accomplished dancer, she declines to be
tired until she wishes to cease dancing. First one youth danced with
Franconnette, then another; but she tired them all. Then came Marcel,
the soldier, wearing his sabre, with a cockade in his cap--a tall and
stately fellow, determined to win the reward. But he too, after much
whirling and dancing, was at last tired out: he was about to fall with
dizziness, and then gave in. On goes the dance; Franconnette waits for
another partner; Pascal springs to her side, and takes her round the
waist. Before they had made a dozen steps, the girl smiles and stops,
and turns her blushing cheeks to receive her partner's willing kisses.

Marcel started up in a rage, and drawing himself to his full height, he
strode to Pascal. "Peasant!" he said, "thou hast supplied my place too
quickly," and then dealt him a thundering blow between the eyes. Pascal
was not felled; he raised his arm, and his fist descended on Marcel's
head like a bolt. The soldier attempted to draw his sabre. When Pascal
saw this, he closed with Marcel, grasped him in his arms, and dashed him
to the ground, crushed and senseless.

Marcel was about to rise to renew the duel, when suddenly Montluc, who
happened to be passing with the Baron of Roquefort, stepped forward and
sternly ordered the combatants to separate. This terrible encounter put
an end to the fete. The girls fled like frightened doves. The young
men escorted Pascal to his home preceded by the fifers. Marcel was not
discouraged. On recovering his speech, he stammered out, grinding his
teeth: "They shall pay clearly for this jesting; Franconnette shall have
no other husband than myself."

Many months passed. The harvest was gathered in. There were no more
out-door fetes or dances. The villagers of Estanquet assembled round
their firesides. Christmas arrived with it games and carol-singing. Then
came the Feast of Lovers, called the Buscou,{4} on the last day of the
year, where, in a large chamber, some hundred distaffs were turning, and
boys and girls, with nimble fingers, were winding thread of the finest
flax. Franconnette was there, and appointed queen of the games. After
the winding was over, the songs and dances began to the music of a
tambourin. The queen, admired by all, sang and danced like the rest.

Pascal was not there; his mother was poor, and she endeavoured to
persuade him to remain at home and work. After a short struggle
with himself, Pascal yielded. He turned aside to his forge in silent
dejection; and soon the anvil was ringing and the sparks were flying,
while away down in the village the busking went merrily on. "If the
prettiest were always the most sensible," says Jasmin, "how much my
Franconnette might have accomplished;" but instead of this, she flitted
from place to place, idle and gay, jesting, singing, dancing, and, as
usual, bewitching all.

Then Thomas, Pascal's friend, asked leave to sing a few verses; and,
fixing his keen eyes upon the coquette, he began in tones of lute-like
sweetness the following song, entitled 'The Syren with a Heart of Ice.'
We have translated it, as nearly as possible, from the Gascon dialect.

 "Faribolo pastouro,
 Sereno al co de glas,
 Oh! digo, digo couro
 Entendren tinda l'houro
 Oun t'amistouzaras.
 Toutjour fariboulejes,
 Et quand parpailloulejes
 La foulo que mestrejes,
 Sur toun cami set met

 Et te siet.
 Mais res d'acos, maynado,
 Al bounhur pot mena;
 Qu'es acos d'estre aymado,
 Quand on sat pas ayma?"

 "Wayward shepherd maid,
 Syren with heart of ice,
 Oh! tell us, tell us! when
 We listen for the hour
 When thou shalt feel
 Ever so free and gay,
 And when you flutter o'er
 The number you subdue,
 Upon thy path they fall
 At thy feet.
 But nothing comes of this, young maid,
 To happiness it never leads;
 What is it to be loved like this
 If you ne'er can love again?"

Such poetry however defies translation. The more exquisite the mastery
of a writer over his own language, the more difficult it is to reproduce
it in another. But the spirit of the song is in Miss Costello's
translation,{5} as given in Franconnette at the close of this volume.

When reciting Franconnette, Jasmin usually sang The Syren to music of
his own composition. We accordingly annex his music.

All were transported with admiration at the beautiful song. When Thomas
had finished, loud shouts were raised for the name of the poet. "Who had
composed this beautiful lay?" "It is Pascal," replied Thomas. "Bravo,
Pascal! Long live Pascal!" was the cry of the young people. Franconnette
was unwontedly touched by the song. "But where is Pascal?" she said. "If
he loves, why does he not appear?" "Oh," said Laurent, another of his
rivals, in a jealous and piqued tone, "he is too poor, he is obliged
to stay at home, his father is so infirm that he lives upon alms!" "You
lie," cried Thomas. "Pascal is unfortunate; he has been six months ill
from the wounds he received in defence of Franconnette, and now his
family is dependent upon him; but he has industry and courage, and will
soon recover from his misfortunes."

Franconnette remained quiet, concealing her emotions. Then the games
began. They played at Cache Couteau or Hunt the Slipper. Dancing came
next; Franconnette was challenged by Laurent, and after many rounds the
girl was tired, and Laurent claimed the kisses that she had forfeited.
Franconnette flew away like a bird; Laurent ran after her, caught
her, and was claiming the customary forfeit, when, struggling to free
herself, Laurent slipped upon the floor, fell heavily, and broke his
arm.

Franconnette was again unfortunate. Ill-luck seems to have pursued
the girl. The games came to an end, and the young people were about to
disperse when, at this unlucky moment, the door was burst open and
a sombre apparition appeared. It was the Black Forest sorcerer, the
supposed warlock of the neighbourhood.

"Unthinking creatures," he said, "I have come from my gloomy rocks up
yonder to open your eyes. You all adore this Franconnette. Behold, she
is accursed! While in her cradle her father, the Huguenot, sold her to
the devil. He has punished Pascal and Laurent for the light embrace she
gave them. He warned in time and avoid her. The demon alone has a claim
to her."

The sorcerer ended; sparks of fire surrounded him, and after turning
four times round in a circle he suddenly disappeared! Franconnette's
friends at once held aloof from her. They called out to her, "Begone!"
All in a maze the girl shuddered and sickened; she became senseless, and
fell down on the floor in a swoon. The young people fled, leaving her
helpless. And thus ended the second fete which began so gaily.

The grossest superstition then prevailed in France, as everywhere.
Witches and warlocks were thoroughly believed in, far more so than
belief in God and His Son. The news spread abroad that the girl was
accursed and sold to the Evil One, and she was avoided by everybody. She
felt herself doomed. At length she reached her grandmother's house,
but she could not work, she could scarcely stand. The once radiant
Franconnette could neither play nor sing; she could only weep.

Thus ended two cantos of the poem. The third opens with a lovely picture
of a cottage by a leafy brookside in the hamlet of Estanquet. The
spring brought out the singing-birds to pair and build their nests. They
listened, but could no longer hear the music which, in former years, had
been almost sweeter than their own. The nightingales, more curious
than the rest, flew into the maid's garden; they saw her straw hat on
a bench, a rake and watering-pot among the neglected jonquils, and the
rose branches running riot. Peering yet further and peeping into the
cottage door, the curious birds discovered an old woman asleep in her
arm-chair, and a pale, quiet girl beside her, dropping tears upon her
lily hands. "Yes, yes, it is. Franconnette," says the poet. "You
will have guessed that already. A poor girl, weeping in solitude, the
daughter of a Huguenot, banned by the Church and sold to the devil!
Could anything be more frightful?"

Nevertheless her grandmother said to her, "My child, it is not true; the
sorcerer's charge is false. He of good cheer, you are more lovely than
ever." One gleam of hope had come to Franconnette; she hears that Pascal
has defended her everywhere, and boldly declared her to be the victim
of a brutal plot. She now realised how great was his goodness, and her
proud spirit was softened even to tears. The grandmother put in a good
word for Marcel, but the girl turned aside. Then the old woman said,
"To-morrow is Easter Day; go to Mass, pray as you never prayed before,
and take the blessed bread, proving that you are numbered with His
children for ever."

The girl consented, and went to the Church of Saint Peter on Easter
morning. She knelt, with her chaplet of beads, among the rest, imploring
Heaven's mercy. But she knelt alone in the midst of a wide circle. All
the communicants avoided her. The churchwarden, Marcel's uncle, in
his long-tailed coat, with a pompous step, passed her entirely by, and
refused her the heavenly meal. Pascal was there and came to her help.
He went forward to the churchwarden and took from the silver plate the
crown piece{6} of the holy element covered with flowers, and took and
presented two pieces of the holy bread to Franconnette--one for herself,
the other for her grandmother.

From that moment she begins to live a new life, and to understand the
magic of love. She carries home the blessed bread to the ancient
dame, and retires to her chamber to give herself up, with the utmost
gratefulness, to the rapturous delight of loving. "Ah," says Jasmin in
his poem, "the sorrowing heart aye loveth best!"

Yet still she remembers the fatal doom of the sorcerer that she is sold
for a price to the demon. All seem to believe the hideous tale, and no
one takes her part save Pascal and her grandmother. She kneels before
her little shrine and prays to the Holy Virgin for help and succour.

At the next fete day she repaired to the church of Notre Dame de bon
Encontre,{7} where the inhabitants of half a dozen of the neighbouring
villages had assembled, with priests and crucifixes, garlands and
tapers, banners and angels. The latter, girls about to be confirmed,
walked in procession and sang the Angelus at the appropriate hours. The
report had spread abroad that Franconnette would entreat the Blessed
Virgin to save her from the demon. The strangers were more kind to her
than her immediate neighbours, and from many a pitying heart the prayer
went up that a miracle might be wrought in favour of the beautiful
maiden. She felt their sympathy, and it gave her confidence. The
special suppliants passed up to the altar one by one--Anxious mothers,
disappointed lovers, orphans and children. They kneel, they ask for
blessings, they present their candles for the old priest to bless, and
then they retire.

Now came the turn of Franconnette. Pascal was in sight and prayed for
her success. She went forward in a happy frame of mind, with her taper
and a bouquet of flowers. She knelt before the priest. He took the
sacred image and presented it to her; but scarcely had it touched the
lips of the orphan when a terrible peal of thunder rent the heavens, and
a bolt of lightning struck the spire of the church, extinguishing her
taper as well as the altar lights. This was a most unlucky coincidence
for the terrified girl; and, cowering like a lost soul, she crept out of
the church. The people were in consternation. "It was all true, she was
now sold to the devil! Put her to death, that is the only way of ending
our misfortunes!"

The truth is that the storm of thunder and lightning prevailed
throughout the neighbourhood. It is a common thing in southern climes.
The storm which broke out at Notre Dame destroyed the belfry; the church
of Roquefort was demolished by a bolt of lightning, the spire of Saint
Pierre was ruined. The storm was followed by a tempest of hail and rain.
Agen was engulfed by the waters; her bridge was destroyed,{8} and many
of the neighbouring vineyards were devastated. And all this ruin was
laid at the door of poor Franconnette!

The neighbours--her worst enemies--determined to burn the daughter of
the Huguenot out of her cottage. The grandmother first heard the cries
of the villagers: "Fire them, let them both burn together." Franconnette
rushed to the door and pleaded for mercy. "Go back," cried the crowd,
"you must both roast together." They set fire to the rick outside and
then proceeded to fire the thatch of the cottage. "Hold, hold!" cried
a stern voice, and Pascal rushed in amongst them. "Cowards! would you
murder two defenceless women? Tigers that you are, would you fire and
burn them in their dwelling?"

Marcel too appeared; he had not yet given up the hope of winning
Franconnette's love. He now joined Pascal in defending her and the
old dame, and being a soldier of Montluc, he was a powerful man in the
neighbourhood. The girl was again asked to choose between the two. At
last, after refusing any marriage under present circumstances, she clung
to Pascal. "I would have died alone," she said, "but since you will have
it so, I resist no longer. It is our fate; we will die together." Pascal
was willing to die with her, and turning to Marcel he said: "I have been
more fortunate than you, but you are a brave man and you will forgive
me. I have no friend, but will you act as a squire and see me to my
grave?" After struggling with his feelings, Marcel at last said: "Since
it is her wish, I will be your friend."

A fortnight later, the marriage between the unhappy lovers took place.
Every one foreboded disaster. The wedding procession went down the green
hill towards the church of Notre Dame. There was no singing, no dancing,
no merriment, as was usual on such occasions. The rustics shuddered at
heart over the doom of Pascal. The soldier Marcel marched at the head of
the wedding-party. At the church an old woman appeared, Pascal's mother.
She flung her arms about him and adjured him to fly from his false
bride, for his marriage would doom him to death. She even fell at the
feet of her son and said that he should pass over her body rather than
be married. Pascal turned to Marcel and said: "Love overpowers me! If I
die, will you take care of my mother?"

Then the gallant soldier dispelled the gloom which had overshadowed the
union of the loving pair. "I can do no more," he said; "your mother
has conquered me. Franconnette is good, and pure, and true. I loved the
maid, Pascal, and would have shed my blood for her, but she loved you
instead of me.

"Know that she is not sold to the Evil One. In my despair I hired the
sorcerer to frighten you with his mischievous tale, and chance did the
rest. When we both demanded her, she confessed her love for you. It was
more than I could bear, and I resolved that we should both die.

"But your mother has disarmed me; she reminds me of my own. Live,
Pascal, for your wife and your mother! You need have no more fear of me.
It is better that I should die the death of a soldier than with a crime
upon my conscience."

Thus saying, he vanished from the crowd, who burst into cheers. The
happy lovers fell into each other's arms. "And now," said Jasmin, in
concluding his poem, "I must lay aside my pencil. I had colours for
sorrow; I have none for such happiness as theirs!"


Endnotes to Chapter IX.

{1} The whole of Jasmin's answer to M. Dumon will be found in the
Appendix at the end of this volume.

{2}'Gascogne et Languedoc,' par Paul Joanne, p. 95 (edit. 1883).

{3} The dance still exists in the neighbourhood of Agen. When there a
few years ago, I was drawn by the sound of a fife and a drum to the spot
where a dance of this sort was going on. It was beyond the suspension
bridge over the Garonne, a little to the south of Agen. A number of men
and women of the working-class were assembled on the grassy sward,
and were dancing, whirling, and pirouetting to their hearts' content.
Sometimes the girls bounded from the circle, were followed by their
sweethearts, and kissed. It reminded one of the dance so vigorously
depicted by Jasmin in Franconnette.

{4} Miss Harriet Preston, of Boston, U.S., published part of a
translation of Franconnette in the 'Atlantic Monthly' for February,
1876, and adds the following note: "The buscou, or busking, was a kind
of bee, at which the young people assembled, bringing the thread of
their late spinning, which was divided into skeins of the proper size
by a broad and thin plate of steel or whalebone called a busc. The same
thing, under precisely the same name, figured in the toilets of our
grandmothers, and hence, probably, the Scotch use of the verb to busk,
or attire."

{5} Miss Louisa Stuart Costello in 'Bearn and the Pyrenees.'

{6} A custom which then existed in certain parts of France. It was taken
by the French emigrants to Canada, where it existed not long ago. The
crown of the sacramental bread used to be reserved for the family of the
seigneur or other communicants of distinction.

{7} A church in the suburbs of Agen, celebrated for its legends and
miracles, to which numerous pilgrimages are made in the month of May.

{8} A long time ago the inhabitants of the town of Agen communicated
with the other side of the Garonne by means of little boats. The first
wooden bridge was commenced when Aquitaine was governed by the English,
in the reign of Richard Coeur-de-lion, at the end of the twelfth
century. The bridge was destroyed and repaired many times, and one
of the piles on which the bridge was built is still to be seen. It is
attributed to Napoleon I. that he caused the first bridge of stone to
be erected, for the purpose of facilitating the passage of his troops to
Spain. The work was, however, abandoned during his reign, and it was
not until the Restoration that the bridge was completed. Since that time
other bridges, especially the suspension bridge, have been erected, to
enable the inhabitants of the towns on the Garonne to communicate freely
with each other.



CHAPTER X. JASMIN AT TOULOUSE.

It had hitherto been the custom of Jasmin to dedicate his poems to one
of his friends; but in the case of Franconnette he dedicated the poem to
the city of Toulouse. His object in making the dedication was to express
his gratitude for the banquet given to him in 1836 by the leading men
of the city, at which the President had given the toast of "Jasmin, the
adopted son of Toulouse."

Toulouse was the most wealthy and prosperous city in the South of
France. Among its citizens were many men of literature, art, and
science. Jasmin was at first disposed to dedicate Franconnette to the
city of Bordeaux, where he had been so graciously received and feted
on the recitation of his Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille; but he eventually
decided to dedicate the new poem to the city of Toulouse, where he had
already achieved a considerable reputation.

Jasmin was received with every honour by the city which had adopted
him. It was his intention to read the poem at Toulouse before its
publication. If there was one of the towns or cities in which his
language was understood--one which promised by the strength and depth of
its roots to defy all the chances of the future--that city was Toulouse,
the capital of the Langue d'Oc.

The place in which he first recited the poem was the Great Hall of the
Museum. When the present author saw it about two years ago, the ground
floor was full of antique tombs, statues, and monuments of the past;
while the hall above it was crowded with pictures and works of art,
ancient and modern.

About fifteen hundred persons assembled to listen to Jasmin in the Great
Hall. "It is impossible," said the local journal,{1} "to describe the
transport with which he was received." The vast gallery was filled with
one of the most brilliant assemblies that had ever met in Toulouse.
Jasmin occupied the centre of the platform. At his right and left
hand were seated the Mayor, the members of the Municipal Council, the
Military Chiefs, the members of the Academy of Jeux-Floraux,{2} and
many distinguished persons in science, literature, and learning. A large
space had been reserved for the accommodation of ladies, who appeared in
their light summer dresses, coloured like the rainbow; and behind them
stood an immense number of the citizens of Toulouse.

Jasmin had no sooner begun to recite his poem than it was clear that he
had full command of his audience. Impressed by his eloquence and powers
of declamation, they were riveted to their seats, dazzled and moved by
turns, as the crowd of beautiful thoughts passed through their minds.
The audience were so much absorbed by the poet's recitation that not a
whisper was heard. He evoked by the tones and tremor of his voice their
sighs, their tears, their indignation. He was by turns gay, melancholy,
artless, tender, arch, courteous, and declamatory. As the drama
proceeded, the audience recognised the beauty of the plot and the poet's
knowledge of the human heart. He touched with grace all the cords of his
lyre. His poetry evidently came direct from his heart: it was as rare as
it was delicious.

The success of the recitation was complete, and when Jasmin resumed his
seat he received the most enthusiastic applause. As the whole of the
receipts were, as usual, handed over by Jasminto the local charities,
the assembly decided by acclamation that a subscription should be raised
to present to the poet, who had been adopted by the city, some testimony
of their admiration for his talent, and for his having first recited to
them and dedicated to Toulouse his fine poem of Franconnette.

Jasmin handed over to the municipality the manuscript of his poem in a
volume beautifully bound. The Mayor, in eloquent language, accepted the
work, and acknowledged the fervent thanks of the citizens of Toulouse.

As at Bordeaux, Jasmin was feted and entertained by the most
distinguished people of the city. At one of the numerous banquets at
which he was present, he replied to the speech of the chairman by an
impromptu in honour of those who had so splendidly entertained him. But,
as he had already said: "Impromptus may be good money of the heart, but
they are often the worst money of the head."{3}

On the day following the entertainment, Jasmin was invited to a "grand
banquet" given by the coiffeurs of Toulouse, where they presented him
with "a crown of immortelles and jasmines," and to them also he recited
another of his impromptus.{4}

Franconnette was shortly after published, and the poem was received with
almost as much applause by the public as it had been by the citizens
of Toulouse. Sainte-beuve, the prince of French critics, said of the
work:--

"In all his compositions Jasmin has a natural, touching idea; it is a
history, either of his invention, or taken from some local tradition.
With his facility as an improvisatore, aided by the patois in which he
writes,... when he puts his dramatis personae into action, he endeavours
to depict their thoughts, all their simple yet lively conversation, and
to clothe them in words the most artless, simple, and transparent,
and in a language true, eloquent, and sober: never forget this latter
characteristic of Jasmin's works."{5}

M. de Lavergne says of Franconnette, that, of all Jasmin's work, it is
the one in which he aimed at being most entirely popular, and that it
is at the same time the most noble and the most chastened. He might
also have added the most chivalrous. "There is something essentially
knightly," says Miss Preston, "in Pascal's cast of character, and it
is singular that at the supreme crisis of his fate he assumes, as if
unconsciously, the very phraseology of chivalry.

"Some squire (donzel) should follow me to death. It is altogether
natural and becoming in the high-minded smith."

M. Charles Nodier--Jasmin's old friend--was equally complimentary in his
praises of Franconnette. When a copy of the poem was sent to him, with
an accompanying letter, Nodier replied:--

"I have received with lively gratitude, my dear and illustrious friend,
your beautiful verses, and your charming and affectionate letter. I have
read them with great pleasure and profound admiration. A Although ill in
bed, I have devoured Franconnette and the other poems. I observe, with
a certain pride, that you have followed my advice, and that you think
in that fine language which you recite so admirably, in place of
translating the patois into French, which deprives it of its fullness
and fairness. I thank you a thousand times for your very flattering
epistle. I am too happy to expostulate with you seriously as to the
gracious things you have said to me; my name will pass to posterity in
the works of my friends; the glory of having been loved by you goes for
a great deal."

The time at length arrived for the presentation of the testimonial of
Toulouse to Jasmin. It consisted of a branch of laurel in gold. The
artist who fashioned it was charged to put his best work into the golden
laurel, so that it might be a chef d'oeuvre worthy of the city which
conferred it, and of being treasured in the museum of their adopted
poet. The work was indeed admirably executed. The stem was rough, as
in nature, though the leaves were beautifully polished. It had a ribbon
delicately ornamented, with the words "Toulouse a Jasmin."

When the work was finished and placed in its case, the Mayor desired to
send it to Jasmin by a trusty messenger. He selected Mademoiselle Gasc,
assisted by her father, advocate and member of the municipal council, to
present the tribute to Jasmin. It ought to have been a fete day for the
people of Agen, when their illustrious townsman, though a barber, was
about to receive so cordial an appreciation of his poetical genius from
the learned city of Toulouse. It ought also to have been a fete day for
Jasmin himself.

But alas! an unhappy coincidence occurred which saddened the day that
ought to have been a day of triumph for the poet. His mother was dying.
When Mademoiselle Gasc, accompanied by her father, the Mayor of Agen,
and other friends of Jasmin, entered the shop, they were informed
that he was by the bedside of his mother, who was at death's door. The
physician, who was consulted as to her state, said that there might only
be sufficient time for Jasmin to receive the deputation.

He accordingly came out for a few moments from his mother's bed-side. M.
Gasc explained the object of the visit, and read to

Jasmin the gracious letter of the Mayor of Toulouse, concluding as
follows:--

"I thank you, in the name of the city of Toulouse, for the fine poem
which you have dedicated to us. This branch of laurel will remind you
of the youthful and beautiful Muse which has inspired you with such
charming verses."

The Mayor of Agen here introduced Mademoiselle Gasc, who, in her turn,
said:--

"And I also, sir, am most happy and proud of the mission which has been
entrusted to me."

Then she presented him with the casket which contained the golden
laurel. Jasmin responded in the lines entitled 'Yesterday and To-day,'
from which the following words may be quoted:--

"Yesterday! Thanks, Toulouse, for our old language and for my poetry.
Your beautiful golden branch ennobles both. And you who offer it to me,
gracious messenger--queen of song and queen of hearts--tell your city of
my perfect happiness, and that I never anticipated such an honour even
in my most golden dreams.

"To-day! Fascinated by the laurel which Toulouse has sent me, and which
fills my heart with joy, I cannot forget, my dear young lady, the sorrow
which overwhelms me--the fatal illness of my mother--which makes me fear
that the most joyful day of my life will also be the most sorrowful."

Jasmin's alarms were justified. His prayers were of no avail. His mother
died with her hand in his shortly after the deputation had departed. Her
husband had preceded her to the tomb a few years before. He always had
a firm presentiment that he should be carried in the arm-chair to the
hospital, "where all the Jasmins die." But Jasmin did his best to save
his father from that indignity. He had already broken the arm-chair, and
the old tailor died peacefully in the arms of his son.

Some four months after the recitation of Franconnette at Toulouse,
Jasmin resumed his readings in the cause of charity. In October 1840 he
visited Oleron, and was received with the usual enthusiasm; and on his
return to Pau, he passed the obelisk erected to Despourrins, the Burns
of the Pyrenees. At Pau he recited his Franconnette to an immense
audience amidst frenzies of applause. It was alleged that the people
of the Pyrenean country were prosaic and indifferent to art. But M.
Dugenne, in the 'Memorial des Pyrenees,' said that it only wanted such
a bewitching poet as Jasmin--with his vibrating and magical voice--to
rouse them and set their minds on fire.

Another writer, M. Alfred Danger, paid him a still more delicate
compliment.

"His poetry," he said, "is not merely the poetry of illusions; it is
alive, and inspires every heart. His admirable delicacy! His profound
tact in every verse! What aristocratic poet could better express in
a higher degree the politeness of the heart, the truest of all
politeness."{6}

Jasmin did not seem to be at all elated by these eulogiums. When he
had finished his recitations, he returned to Agen, sometimes on foot,
sometimes in the diligence, and quietly resumed his daily work.
His success as a poet never induced him to resign his more humble
occupation. Although he received some returns from the sale of his
poems, he felt himself more independent by relying upon the income
derived from his own business.

His increasing reputation never engendered in him, as is too often
the case with self-taught geniuses who suddenly rise into fame, a
supercilious contempt for the ordinary transactions of life. "After
all," he said, "contentment is better than riches."


Endnotes to Chapter X.

{1} Journal de Toulouse, 4th July, 1840.

{2} The Society of the Jeux-Floraux derives its origin from the ancient
Troubadours. It claims to be the oldest society of the kind in Europe.
It is said to have been founded in the fourteenth century by Clemence
Isaure, a Toulousian lady, to commemorate the "Gay Science." A meeting
of the society is held every year, when prizes are distributed to
the authors of the best compositions in prose and verse. It somewhat
resembles the annual meeting of the Eisteddfod, held for awarding prizes
to the bards and composers of Wales.