That is how they amuse themselves in Normandy on a
wedding day.
We had just left Rouen and were galloping along the
road to Jumieges. The light carriage flew along
across the level country. Presently the horse
slackened his pace to walk up the hill of Cantelen.
One sees there one of the most magnificent views in
the world. Behind us lay Rouen, the city of churches,
with its Gothic belfries, sculptured like ivory trinkets;
before us Saint Sever, the manufacturing suburb, whose
thousands of smoking chimneys rise amid the expanse
of sky, opposite the thousand sacred steeples of the
old city.
On the one hand the spire of the cathedral, the highest
of human monuments, on the other the engine of the
power-house, its rival, and almost as high, and a
metre higher than the tallest pyramid in Egypt.
Before us wound the Seine, with its scattered islands
and bordered by white banks, covered with a forest
on the right and on the left immense meadows, bounded
by another forest yonder in the distance.
Here and there large ships lay at anchor along the
banks of the wide river. Three enormous steam
boats were starting out, one behind the other, for
Havre, and a chain of boats, a bark, two schooners
and a brig, were going upstream to Rouen, drawn by
a little tug that emitted a cloud of black smoke.
My companion, a native of the country, did not glance
at this wonderful landscape, but he smiled continually;
he seemed to be amused at his thoughts. Suddenly
he cried:
“Ah, you will soon see something comical—Father
Matthew’s chapel. That is a sweet morsel,
my boy.”
I looked at him in surprise. He continued:
“I will give you a whiff of Normandy that will
stay by you. Father Matthew is the handsomest
Norman in the province and his chapel is one of the
wonders of the world, nothing more nor less. But
I will first give you a few words of explanation.
“Father Matthew, who is also called Father ‘La
Boisson,’ is an old sergeant-major who has come
back to his native land. He combines in admirable
proportions, making a perfect whole, the humbug of
the old soldier and the sly roguery of the Norman.
On his return to Normandy, thanks to influence and
incredible cleverness, he was made doorkeeper of a
votive chapel, a chapel dedicated to the Virgin and
frequented chiefly by young women who have gone astray
. . . . He composed and had painted a special
prayer to his ‘Good Virgin.’ This
prayer is a masterpiece of unintentional irony, of
Norman wit, in which jest is blended with fear of
the saint and with the superstitious fear of the secret
influence of something. He has not much faith
in his protectress, but he believes in her a little
through prudence, and he is considerate of her through
policy.
“This is how this wonderful prayer begins:
“’Our good Madame Virgin Mary, natural
protectress of girl mothers in this land and all over
the world, protect your servant who erred in a moment
of forgetfulness . . .’
