Personal Sketches of His Own Times, Vol. 2 (of 3)

On our first inquiry for the convent above alluded to, we had been directed by mistake to another establishment belonging to the saint of the same name, but bearing a very inferior appearance, and superintended by an abbess whose toleration certainly erred not on the side of laxity. We saw the old lady within her grated lattice. She would not come out to us; but, on being told our business, smiled as cheerfully as fanaticism would let her. (I dare say the expected pension already jingled in her glowing fancy.) Our terms were soon concluded, and every thing was arranged, when Lady Barrington, as a final direction, requested that the children should not be called too early in the morning, as they were unused to it. The old abbess started: a gloomy doubt seemed to gather on her furrowed temples; her nostrils distended; and she abruptly asked, “N’êtes-vous pas Catholiques?”

“Non,” replied Lady Barrington, “nous sommes Protestans.”

The countenance of the abbess now utterly fell, and she shrieked out, “Mon Dieu! alors, vous êtes hérétiques! Je ne permets jamais d’hérétique dans ce convent! – allez! – allez! – vos enfans n’entreront jamais dans le couvent des Ursulines! – allez! – allez!” and instantly crossing herself, vehemently counting her beads, and muttering Latin like a schoolmaster, she withdrew from the grate.

Just as we were turned out, we encountered, near the gate, a very odd though respectable-looking figure. It was that of a man whose stature must originally have exceeded six feet, and who was yet erect, and, but for the natural shrinking of age, retained his full height and manly presence: his limbs still bore him gallantly, and the frosts of more than eighty winters had not yet chilled his warmth of manner. His dress was neither neat nor shabby: it was of silk – of the old costume: his thin hair was loosely tied behind; and, on the whole, he appeared to be what we call above the world.

This gentleman saw that we were at a loss about something; and with the constitutional politeness of a Frenchman of the old school, at once begged us to mention our embarrassment and command his services. Every body, he told us, knew him, and he knew every body at Rouen. We accepted his offer, and he immediately constituted himself cicisbeo to the ladies and Mentor to me. After having led us to the other Convent des Ursulines, of which I have spoken, he dined with us, and I conceived a great respect for the old gentleman. It was Monsieur Helliot, once a celebrated avocat of the parliament at Rouen: his good manners and good-nature rendered his society a real treat to us; while his memory, information, and activity were almost wonderful. He was an improvisore poet, and could converse in rhyme, and sing a hundred songs of his own composing.

On my informing M. Helliot that one of my principal objects at Rouen was a research in heraldry, he said he would next day introduce me to the person of all others most likely to satisfy me on that point. His friend was, he told me, of noble family, and had originally studied heraldry for his amusement, but was subsequently necessitated to practise it for pocket-money, since his regular income was barely sufficient (as was then the average with the old nobility of Normandy) to provide him soup in plenty, a room and a bed-recess, a weekly laundress, and a repairing tailor. “Rouen,” continued the old advocate, “requires no heralds now! The nobles are not even able to emblazon their pedigrees, and the manufacturers purchase arms and crests from the Paris heralds, who have always a variety of magnificent ones to dispose of suitable to their new customers.”

M. Helliot had an apartment at Rouen, and also a country-house about four miles from that city, near the Commandery, which is on the Seine; – a beautiful wild spot, formerly the property of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem. Helliot’s house had a large garden ornamented by his own hands. He one day came to us to beg we would fix a morning for taking a déjeûner à la fourchette at his cottage, and brought with him a long bill of fare (containing nearly every thing in the eating and drinking way that could be procured at Rouen), whereon he requested we would mark with a pencil our favourite dishes! He said this was always their ancient mode when they had the honour of a société distingué; and we were obliged to humour him. He was delighted; and then, assuming a more serious air, – “But,” said he, “I have a very particular reason for inviting you to my cottage: it is to have the honour of introducing you to a lady who, old as I am, has consented to marry me the ensuing spring. I know,” added he, “that I shall be happier in her society than in that of any other person; and, at my time of life, we want somebody interested in rendering our limited existence as comfortable as possible.”

This seemed ludicrous enough, and the ladies’ curiosity was excited to see old Helliot’s sweetheart. We were accordingly punctual to our hour. He had a boat ready to take us across the Seine near the Commandery, and we soon entered a beautiful garden in a high state of order. In the house (a small and very old one) we found a most excellent repast. The only company besides ourselves was the old herald to whom M. Helliot had introduced me; and, after a few minutes, he led from an inner chamber his intended bride. She appeared, in point of years, at least as venerable as the bridegroom; but a droop in the person and a waddle in the gait bespoke a constitution much more enfeebled than that of the gallant who was to lead her to the altar. “This,” said the advocate, as he presented her to the company, “is Madame * * *: – but n’importe! after our repast you shall learn her name and history. Pray, madame,” pursued he, with an air of infinite politeness, “have the goodness to do the honours of the table;” and his request was complied with as nimbly as his inamorata’s shrivelled and quivering hands would permit.

The wine went round merrily: the old lady declined not her glass; the herald took enough to serve him for the two or three following days; old Helliot hobnobbed à la mode Anglaise; and in half an hour we were as cheerful, and, I should think, as curious a breakfast party as Upper Normandy had ever produced.

When the repast was ended, “Now,” said our host, “you shall learn the history of this venerable bride that is to be on or about the 15th of April next. You know,” continued he, “that between the age of seventy and death the distance is seldom very great, and that a person of your nation who arrives at the one is generally fool enough to be always gazing at the other. Now we Frenchmen like, if possible, to evade the prospect; and with that object we contrive some new event, which, if it cannot conceal, may at least take off our attention from it; and, of all things in the world, I believe matrimony will be admitted to be most effectual either in fixing an epoch or directing a current of thought. We antiquated gentry here, therefore, have a little law, or rather custom of our own – namely, that after a man has been in a state of matrimony for fifty years, if his charmer survives, they undergo the ceremony of a second marriage, and so begin a new contract for another half-century, if their joint lives so long continue! and inasmuch as Madame Helliot (introducing the old lady anew, kissing her cheek, and chucking her under the chin) has been now forty-nine years and four months on her road to a second husband, the day that fifty years are completed we shall re-commence our honey-moon, and every friend we have will, I hope, come and see the happy re-union” – “Ah!” said madame, “I fear my bride’s-maid, Madame Veuve Gerard, can’t hold out so long! —Mais, Dieu merci!” cried she, “I think I shall myself, monsieur, (addressing me) be well enough to get through the ceremony!”

I wish I could end this little episode as my heart would dictate. But, alas! a cold caught by my friend the advocate boating on the Seine, before the happy month arrived prevented a ceremony which I would have gone almost any distance to witness. The old gentleman spent three or four days with me every week during several months that I continued at Rouen. —Sic transit gloria mundi!

But to my heraldic investigation. The old professor with whom M. Helliot had made me acquainted had been one of the ancienne noblesse, and carried in his look and deportment evident marks of the rank from which he had been compelled to descend. Although younger than the advocate, he was somewhat stricken in years. His hair, thin and highly powdered, afforded a queue longer than a quill, and nearly as bulky. A tight plaited stock and solitaire, a tucker and ruffles, and a cross with the order of St. Louis; – a well-cleaned black suit, (which had survived many a cuff and cape, and seen many a year of full-dress service,) silk stockings, paste knee and large silver shoe-buckles, completed his toilet.

He said, on my first visit, in a desponding voice, that he deeply regretted the republicans had burned most of his books and records during the Revolution; and having consequently little or nothing left of remote times to refer to, he really could not recollect my ancestors, though they might perhaps have been a very superbe famille. On exhibiting, however, my English and Irish pedigrees, (drawn out on vellum, beautifully ornamented, painted and gilt, with the chevalier’s casquet, three scarlet chevanels and a Saracen’s head,) and touching his withered hand with the metallic tractors, the old herald’s eyes assumed almost a youthful fire; even his voice seemed to change; and having put the four dollars into his breeches’-pocket, buttoned the flap, and then felt at the outside to make sure of their safety, he drew himself up with pride: —

“Between this city and Havre-de-Grace,” said he, after a longer pause, and having traced with his bony fingers the best gilded of the pedigrees, “lies a town called Barentin, and there once stood the superb château of an old warrior, Drogo de Barentin. At this town, monsieur, you will assuredly obtain some account of your noble family.” After some conversation about William the Conqueror, Duke Rollo, Richard Cœur de Lion, &c. I took my leave, determining to start with all convenient speed toward Havre-de-Grace.

On the road to that place I found the town designated by the herald, and having refreshed myself at an auberge, set out to discover the ruins of the castle, which lie not very far distant. Of these, however, I could make nothing; and, on returning to the auberge, I found mine host decked out in his best jacket and a huge opera-hat. Having made this worthy acquainted with the object of my researches, he told me, with a smiling countenance, that there was a very old beggar-man extant in the place, who was the depositary of all the circumstances of its ancient history, including that of the former lords of the castle. Seeing I had no chance of better information, I ordered my dinner to be prepared in the first instance, and the mendicant to be served up with the dessert.

The figure which presented itself really struck me. His age was said to exceed a hundred years: his beard and hair were white, and scanty, while the ruddiness of youth still mantled in his cheeks. I don’t know how it was, but my heart and purse opened in unison, and I gratified the old beggar-man with a sum which, I believe, he had not often seen before at one time. I then directed a glass of eau-de-vie to be given him, and this he relished even more than the money. He then launched into such an eulogium on the noble race of Drogo of the castle, that I thought he never would come to the point; and when he did, I received but little satisfaction from his communications, which he concluded by advising me to make a voyage to the island of Jersey. “I knew,” said he, “in my youth, a man much older than I am now, and who, like me, lived upon the good people. This man was the final descendant of the Barentins, being the last lord’s bastard, and he has often told me, that on that island his father had been murdered, who having made no will, his son was left to beg, while the king got all, and bestowed it on some young lady. They called him here Young Drogo down to the day of his death! They did indeed: – they did! – heigh ho!”

This whetted my appetite for further intelligence, and I resolved, having fairly engaged in it, to follow up the inquiry. Accordingly, in the spring of 1816, leaving my family in Paris, I set out for St. Maloes, thence to Granville, and, after a most interesting journey through Brittany, crossed over in a fishing-boat, and soon found myself in the square of St. Hilliers, at Jersey. I had been there before on a visit to General Don, with General Moore and Colonel le Blanc, and knew the place: but this time I went incog.

On my first visit to Jersey I had been much struck with the fine situation and commanding aspect of the magnificent castle of Mont Orgueil, and had much pleasure in anticipating a fresh survey of it. But guess the gratified nature of my emotions, when I learnt from an old warder of the castle that Drogo de Barentin, a Norman chieftain, had been its last governor! – that his name was on some of its records, and that he had lost his life in its defence on the outer ramparts! He left no offspring that could be traced, and thus the Norman’s family had become extinct. The old man said that he had left children by a Saxon woman in England; but that the Normans would surely have destroyed them had they come to Barentin.

This I considered as making good progress; and I returned cheerfully to Barentin, to thank my mendicant and his patron the aubergiste, intending to prosecute the inquiry further at Rouen. I will not hazard fatiguing the reader by detailing the result of any more of my investigations; but it is curious enough that at Ivetot, about four leagues from Barentin, – to an ancient château near which place I had been directed by mine host, and where there was to be an auction of old trumpery, the ancient furniture of the château, I met, among a parcel of scattered articles collected for that sale, the portrait of an old Norman warrior, which exactly resembled those of my great-grandfather, Colonel Barrington of Cullenaghmore. But for the difference of scanty black hair in one case, and a large white wig in the other, the heads and countenances would have been quite undistinguishable! I marked this picture with my initials, and left a request with the innkeeper at Ivetot to purchase it for me at any price; but having unluckily forgotten to leave him money likewise, to pay for it, the man, as it afterward appeared, thought no more of the matter. So great was my disappointment, that I advertised for this portrait – but in vain.

I will now bid the reader farewell, – at least for the present.