"You see, mesdames, I was jailor here, years ago, when all La Merveille was a prison. Ah! those were great days for the Mont! There were soldiers and officers who came up to look at the soldiers, and the soldiers--it was their business to look after the prisoners. The Emperor himself came here once--I saw him. What a sight!--Dieu! all the monks and priests and nuns, and the archbishop himself were out. What banners and crosses and flags! The cannon was like a great thunder--and the grève was red with soldiers. Ah, those were days! Dieu--why couldn't the republic have continued those glories--_ces gloires? Aujourd'hui nous ne sommes que des morts_--instead of prisoners to handle--to watch and work, like so many good machines there is only the dike yonder to keep in repair! What changes--mon Dieu! what changes!" And the shape wrung his hands. It was, in truth, a touching spectacle of grief for a good old past.
An old priest, with equally saddened vision, once came to take his seat, quite easily and naturally, beside us, on our favorite perch. He was one of the little band of priests who had remained faithful to the Mont after the government had dispersed his brothers--after the monastery had been broken up. He and his four or five companions had taken refuge in a small house, close by the cemetery; it was they who conducted the services in the little parish church; who had gathered the treasures still grouped together in that little interior--the throne of St. Michel, with its blue draperies and the golden fleur-de-lis, the floating banners and the shields of the Knights of St. Michel, the relics, and wondrous bits of carving rescued from the splendors of the cathedral.
"_Ah, mesdames--que voulez-vous?_" was the old priest's broken chant; he was bewailing the woes that had come to his order, to religion, to France. "What will you have? The history of nations repeats itself, as we all know. We, of our day, are fallen on evil times; it is the reign of image-breakers--nothing is sacred, except money."
"France has worn herself out. She is like an old man, the hero of many battles, who cares only for his easy chair and his slippers. She does not care about the children who are throwing stones at the windows. She likes to snooze, in the sun, and count her money-bags. France is too old to care about religion, or the future--she is thinking how best to be comfortable--here in this world, when she has rheumatism and a cramp in the stomach!" And the old priest wrapped his own _soutane_ about his lean knees, suiting his gesture to his inward convictions.