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Matilda Betham-Edwards - East of Paris
its neighbour, another having contrived to wedge itself between two of portlier bulk, a third coolly taking
possession of some inviting frontage, shutting out its fellow's light, air, and sunshine; here, meeting the
eye, breakneck alley, there aerial terrace, and on all sides architectural reminders of the Souvigny passed
away, the Souvigny once so splendid and important, now reduced to nothingness, as is, politically
speaking, the so-called House of France.
The Abbey Church, like that of La Charite, shows a mixture of many styles, the general effect being
magnificent in the extreme. Throughout eastern France you find no more imposing facade. But, as
observes M. Emile Montegut, in the work before quoted, the church has been created as Nature creates a
soil, each age contributing its layer; Byzantine, Roman, Gothic, each style is here seen, the latter in its
purity.
Whilst the church itself stands taut and trim, a mass of sculptured masonry in rich browns and reds, the
interior shows melancholy dilapidation. But, indeed, for the stern lessons of history, how sad were the
spectacle of these mutilated effigies in marble, exquisite sculptures when fresh from the artist's hand,
to-day torsos so hideously hacked and hewn as hardly to look human! We cannot, however, forget that
the history of races, as of nations and individuals, is retributive. When the 'Roi-Soleil,' that incarnation of
the Bourbon spirit, was so inflated with his own personality as to forbid the erection of any statue
throughout France but his own, he paved the way for the revolutionary iconoclasts of a century later. It
was simply a recurrence of the old fatality, the inevitable moral, since History began.
For here, defaced to such a point that sculptures they can be called no longer, are memorialised not only
Louis XIV.'s ancestors, but his offspring, namely, Louise Marie, one of his seven children by Madame de
Montespan, all, as we know, with those of Madame de la Valliere, legitimised, ennobled and enriched.
Pierre de Beaujeu, husband of the great Anne of France, was also buried here. Anne it was who, on the
death of Louis XI., governed France with all her father's astuteness, but without his cruelty, and pleasant
and comforting it is to find that Duke Pierre, her husband, seconded her in every way, himself remaining
in the background, acting to perfection the difficult role of Prince Consort. The sight of these once
exquisite marbles may perhaps awaken in other minds the reflection that crossed my own. Heretical as I
shall seem, I venture to express the opinion, that in such cases one of two courses are advisable, either
the removal of the torsos, or restoration; why should not some genius be able in this field to do what
Viollet le Duc has so successfully achieved in another? But for that great architect, the cathedral of
Moulins - and how many other beautiful French churches? - would long ago have tumbled to pieces,
been handed over as storage to corn merchants, or brewers! Is it so much more difficult to restore a
marble effigy, whether of human being or animal, than a facade or an altar-piece? If impossible, then, I
say, let broken marbles like those of Souvigny be hidden from view.
The agreeable town of Sens on the Yonne is here described for completeness' sake. Although not lying in
the Bourbonnais, Sens formed the last stage of our little tour in this direction, a direct line of railway
connecting the town with Moulins. What a change we found here! Instead of unswept, malodorous
streets, and sordid riverside quarters, all was clean, trim, and cared for, one wholly uncommon feature
lending especial charm.
For the tutelar goddess of Sens, benignant genius presiding over the city, is a stream, or rather parent of
many streams, that water the streets of their own free will, supplying thirsty beasts with copious draughts
in torrid weather, and keeping up a perpetual air of rusticity and coolness.
Wherever you go you are followed by the musical ripple of these runlets, purling brooks so crystalline
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