The Salt Smugglers (18 page)

Rousseau only resided at Ermenonville for a relatively brief period. If he eventually accepted the asylum that was offered to him here, it was because he had long been familiar with the site: over the course of the walks he used to take when he lived in the
Hermitage
at Montmorency, he had recognized that the countryside over in this direction offered the botanist an unusual range of plants, given the variety of the terrain.

We stopped off at the Inn of the White Cross, where Rousseau had briefly lodged upon his arrival in the area. He subsequently moved to a house on the other side of the castle now occupied by a grocer. — M. René de Girardin later offered him an unoccupied lodge facing the lodge of the castle's guardian. — It was there that he died.

We left the inn and set off for the misty woods. As the autumn haze gradually lifted, we caught sight of the blue mirrors of the lakes, — the entire countryside reminiscent of the scenery painted on snuffboxes of the period ...: — the Isle of Poplars, rising beyond the ornamental ponds that pour, — at least when the water is working, — into the artificial grotto ... — A landscape straight out of the idylls of Gessner.

The rock formations one encounters as one strolls through the woods are covered with poetic inscriptions. Here:

Elsewhere:

Or again, beneath a bas-relief representing Druids cutting mistletoe:

These magniloquent lines would seem to be by Roucher ... — Delille, at any rate, would have come up with something less bombastic.

M. René de Girardin was also a poetaster. — But he was a true gentleman as well. I think he was the author of the following lines, which may be found on a nearby fountain depicting Neptune and Amphi trite, — whose slight
décolletage
recalls the angels and saints of Châalis:

I won't comment on the formal qualities of these lines; — what I admire above all is the honorableness of the man's intentions. — His influence can be deeply felt throughout the region. — You can notice it, for example, in the dance halls (where the benches reserved for the
old folks
are still visible) or in the archery ranges (with their ceremonial victory stands) ... or in the marble columns of the circular temples on the banks of rivers and ponds, dedicated to Venus Genetrix or to Hermes the Comforter. — Back then, all this mythology was laden with deep philosophical purport.

Rousseau's tomb has remained exactly what it was: an ancient, simple monument surrounded in picturesque fashion by bare poplars and reflected in the still waters of the pond. Except that the small boat that used to ferry visitors over to the gravesite is now underwater ... And instead of gracefully gliding around the isle, the swans for some reason prefer the muddy waters of a stream that flows out of the pond between the reddish branches of the willows and then flushes into a washing-pool near the road.

We made our way back to the castle. — Constructed under Henri IV and then redone under Louis XV, it was probably built on the ruins of a far earlier structure, — for one can still see the remains of a crenellated tower whose style clashes with the rest of the building, as
well as the traces of earlier drawbridges and posterns above the water-filled moat that surrounds its massive foundations.

The keeper would not let us visit the inside of the castle because it was still inhabited. — Artists have greater luck when trying to visit princely castles, for their current residents at least feel they owe something to the nation.

We were merely allowed to walk around the banks of the large lake, the left side of which is dominated by the so-called Tower of Gabrielle, which is all that remains of an ancient castle. A peasant who was accompanying us said: « Here is the tower where the fair Gabrielle was shut up ... Every evening Rousseau used to come and strum his guitar under her window, and the king, who was jealous, used to spy on him and had him killed in the end. »

This is how legends are born. Several centuries from now, this will be taken for fact. — Henri IV, Gabrielle and Rousseau are the major names that are remembered in this region. A mere two hundred years later, the memory of these two men has been conflated and Rousseau is gradually becoming a contemporary of Henri IV. Since Rousseau is beloved by the locals, they imagine that the king was jealous of him because his mistress preferred this man who felt so much sympathy for the sufferings of the oppressed. This imaginary scenario is perhaps truer than one might believe. — Rousseau, who refused the hundred louis offered to him by Madame de Pompadour, brought down the royal house founded by Henri. The entire edifice came tumbling down, — leaving in its wake the immortal image of Rousseau, his feet planted on the ruins.

As for his songs, some of which we recently saw at Compiègne, they celebrated other loves than Gabrielle. But are not the incarnations of ideal beauty as eternal as genius?

Upon leaving the park, we climbed the small hill leading to the nearby church. It is quite ancient, but far less exceptional than the other churches in the area. The cemetery was open; we inspected the tomb of De Vic, — a comrade-in-arms of Henri IV, — who received the domain of Ermenonville as a gift from the king. The inscription on this family tomb ends with an abbé. — Then there are the miscellaneous graves of daughters who married commoners, — a fate shared by many of the ancient houses. The ancient and virtually undecipherable tombstones of two abbés lie toward the edge of the terrace. Then, near a path, a simple stone bearing the inscription: Here lies
Almazor
. Is this the grave of a fool? — of a lackey? — of a dog? The stone does not say.

Looking out from the terrace of the cemetery, you get a fine view of the countryside, with glints of water here and there among the pines, the green oaks, and the great reddish trees. To the left, the sandstone expanse of the Desert has something Druidic to it. The tomb of Rousseau can be made out to the left, and slightly further on, the outline of a marble temple dedicated to a vanished goddess, — the goddess of Truth, no doubt.

It must have been a banner day when the delegation dispatched by the National Assembly came to Ermenonville to fetch the mortal remains of the philosopher in order to transfer them to the Pantheon. — Strolling around the village, you are immediately struck by the wholesome comeliness of its young girls, — beneath their large straw hats, they almost look Swiss ...
The educational theories proposed by the author of
Émile
seem to have been put into practice here; a regimen based on sports, gymnastics, dance, and arts and crafts has made these young people healthy and energetic while at the same time developing their manual and intellectual dexterity.

I may have erred in my analysis of the escutcheon of the founder of the chapel of Châalis.

Someone has since supplied me with additional information concerning the abbots de Châalis. « Robert de la Tourette in particular, who was abbot from 1501 to 1522, undertook major restorations ... » His tomb may be seen in front of the high altar.

« Then you have the Medici: Hippolyte d'Este, cardinal of Ferrara, 1554; — Aloys d'Este, 1586.

« Then: Louis, cardinal de Guise, 1601; — Charles-Louis de Lorraine, 1630. »

It should be noted that the d'Este family only has a single eaglet at 2 and 3, whereas I saw three of them at 1 and 4 in the quartered shield.

« Charles II, cardinal de Bourbon (later, Charles X the Elder), — lieutenant general of the Île-de-France from 1551 on, — had a son named Poullain. »

I can easily believe that this cardinal-king had a bastard son; but I cannot understand these three eaglets in 2 and 1. Those of Lorraine are on a bend. Please excuse these details, but the key to the history of France is a good knowledge of heraldry ... And there is absolutely nothing we poor authors can do about it!

Ver.

I am very fond of this route, — I remember it from my childhood, — which, passing in front of the castle, links the two parts of the village of Ermenonville with four low towers at either end.

Sylvain says to me: « Now that we have had a look at Rousseau's tomb, we should move on to Dammartin; from there, we'll find transportation to Soissons and Longueval. Let's ask those washerwomen in front of the castle for directions.

— Just follow the road to the left or the road to the right, they said ... Either way you'll get to
Ver
or
Eve
, — then you'll pass through
Othys
and after two more hours on foot, you'll reach Dammartin. »

The misinformation supplied by these lovely young ladies launched us on something of a wild-goose chase. — I should also mention that it was raining.

« Let's ask for
another directions
», said Sylvain (not unreasonably, if not in flawless French), « from the first people we run into. »

The
first
were three men making their way single file out of a small path onto the road.

They were : the steward of M. Ernest de Girardin, — followed by an architect, recognizable by the measuring stick he was carrying in lieu of a cane, and then a peasant in a blue smock. We were on the verge of asking further directions from them.

« Should we offer our greetings to the steward? I asked Sylvain. After all, he's wearing a black suit. »

Sylvain replied, « By no means. It should be up to the locals to offer their greetings first. »

The steward passed by, rather surprised that we had not tipped our hats to him ... as no doubt any number of hats had previously been tipped to him.

The architect followed behind the steward, blind to the world. Only the peasant doffed his cap. We replied in kind.

« As you can see, said Sylvain, we have refused to lower ourselves ... let's wait till we meet up with some woodcutter to ask for directions. »

The road was in very poor shape; the ruts were so filled with water that we had to walk on the grassy shoulder. And even so, our progress was often impeded by the huge thistles, — half-frozen but still spiky, — that came up to our chests.

After having progressed a league through the woods, we realized that since neither
Ver
nor
Eve
nor
Othys
was anywhere in sight, we were obviously on the wrong track.

Suddenly there was a clearing to our right, — one of those dark open spaces that seem extraordinarily bright when encountered in the middle of the woods...

There was a kind of primitive log cabin there with a thatched roof. A woodcutter was sitting in front of the door, smoking a pipe.

« How do we get to Ver?...

— That's a long ways off ... If you keep on this road, you'll end up at Montaby.

— But we want to go to Ver, — or Eve ...

— In that case, you'll have to turn back for about a half a league (you can translate that into meters if you wish, to stay within the law), and then when you get to the archery range, take a right. Once you get out of the woods and back on open ground,
everybody
will be able to point you toward Ver. »

Well, one good turn deserves another. And yet the woodcutter refused the offer of a cigar, — a mistake on his part, I think.

We found the archery range with its victory stand and its ceremonial seats for the seven judges. Then we followed a path that must be quite lovely when the trees are green. We sang a local song from these parts to liven up the loneliness of the surroundings and to speed us on our way, a song that must have often lifted the spirits of wandering journeymen: