[168] See p. 205 ante.

LETTER XX.

MONS. MOUTON.  CHURCH OF STE. TRINITE.  COMTE DE LA FRESNAYE.  GUIBRAY CHURCH.  SUPPOSED HEAD OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR.  M. LANGEVIN, HISTORIAN OF FALAISE.  PRINTING OFFICES.

I lose no time in the fulfilment of my promise.  The church of SAINTE TRINITE, of which Monsieur Mouton is the Cure, is the second place of worship in rank in the town.  During the Revolution, Mons. Mouton was compelled, with too many of his professional brethren, to fly from the general persecution of his order.  One solitary and most amiable creature only remained; of the name of LANGEVIN—­of whom, by and by, Monsieur Mouton did me the honour of shewing me the interior of his church.  His stipend (as he told me) did not exceed 1500 francs per annum; and it is really surprising to observe to what apparent acts of generosity towards his flock, this income is made subservient.  You shall hear.  The altar consists of two angels of the size of life, kneeling very gracefully, in white glazed plaister:  in the centre, somewhat raised above, is a figure of the Virgin, of the same materials; above which again, is a representation of the TRINITY—­in a blaze of gilt.  The massive circular columns surrounding the choir—­probably of the fourteenth century—­were just fresh painted, at the expense of the worthy Cure, in alternate colours of blue and yellow—­imitative of marble;—­that is to say, each column, alternately, was blue and yellow.  It was impossible to behold any thing more glaring and more tasteless.  I paid my little tribute of admiration at the simplicity and grace of the kneeling figure of the Virgin—­but was stubbornly silent about every thing else.  Monsieur Mouton replied that “he intended to grace the brows of the angels by putting a garland round each.”  I felt a sort of twinge upon receiving this intelligence; but there is no persuading the French to reject, or to qualify, their excessive fondness for flower ornaments.

Projecting from the wall, behind the circular part of the choir, I observed a figure of St. Sebastian—­precisely of that character which we remark in the printed missals of the fifteenth century,—­and from which the engravers of that period copied them:  namely, with the head large, the body meagre, and the limbs loose and muscular.  It was plentifully covered, as was the whole surface of the wall, with recent white wash.  On observing this, my guide added:  “oui, et je veux le faire couvrir d’une teinte encore plus blanche!” Here I felt a second twinge yet more powerful than the first.  I noticed, towards the south-side door, a very fine crucifix, cut in wood, about three feet high; and apparently of the time of Goujon.  It was by much the finest piece of sculpture, of its kind, which I had seen in Normandy; but it was rather in a decaying state.  I wished to know whether such an object of art—­apparently of no earthly importance, where it was situated—­might be obtained for some honourable and adequate compensation.  Monsieur Mouton replied that he desired to part with it—­but that it must be replaced by another “full six feet high!” There was no meeting this proposition, and I ceased to say another word upon the subject.