Book 3 — THE ARABS AT AMBOISE.

On the right bank of the Loire, close to one of the stations of the rail-road from Orleans to Nantes, which transports the traveler in a few hours from the centre of civilised France to the heart of Brittany, and all its wild traditions and druidical mysteries, stands an ancient and time-honored town—important in the history both of France and England, during a series of centuries—a town beloved of Anne of Brittany and of Mary Stuart, the scene of stirring and romantic adventures without number, all of which have paled before the interest it has excited of late years as the place of captivity of a great chief, and, within a few weeks, as forming a rich part of that spoil which the immense possessions of the house of Orleans is likely to furnish to the present ruler of the French nation.

Tourists on the Loire know the charming town of Amboise very well; and none ever missed, in days of yore, visiting its fine castle, whose high walls are bathed by the noble river. This pleasure has, however, long been denied them, for the captive whose misfortunes have excited so much sympathy throughout Europe, and whose “hope deferred” is still destined to “make his heart sick,” the ill-fated Abd-’el-Kader, with his followers, are still detained there, and likely so to be, in spite of the “I would if I could” of his supposed struggling friend, the nephew of another great prisoner of days gone by.

Amboise, a few years since, was a smiling, lively little town, and the castle was a pleasure-residence of the last king; the gardens were delicious, the little chapel of St. Hubert a gem, restored in all its lustre, and the glory of artists and amateurs. All is now changed: a gloom has fallen on the scene, the flowers are faded, the gates are closed, the pretty pavilions are shut up; there are guards instead of gardeners, and a dreary prison frowns over the reflecting waters, which glide mournfully past its towers.

If you pause awhile on the bridge of Amboise, and look up to the windows of the castle, you may, perhaps, see one or other of the captives seated sadly and motionlessly, or it may be slowly pacing along a high gallery which runs from tower to tower, but it is rare at present that the dispirited inhabitants of those dismal chambers have energy to seek even such recreation as this, and the traveler may drive through Amboise twenty times, without having his curiosity to see Lord Londonderry’s protégé gratified.

The writer of these pages happened to be in the neighborhood when Abd-’el-Kader was transferred from Pau, the birth-place of Henri Quatre, in the Pyrenees, to this once gay château on the Loire, and was amongst those who witnessed the arrival of the party.

The evening was very chilly and misty, and but few persons had been tempted to linger late by the river side; the attention, however, of those who had not yet “betaken them home,” was attracted by a steamboat full of passengers, coming from Paimbeuf, which stopped beneath the walls of the castle, and gave a signal apparently understood by a guard of soldiers, which had been loitering on the shore. The arrival of the steamer was immediately communicated to the governor of the castle, and much unwonted movement ensued.

A rumor of something remarkable soon spread throughout the town, and a concourse of people came hurrying over the bridge, in order to be present at the expected landing of prisoners of importance. There was no attempt to repress this curiosity, for no rescue was evidently feared; a double line of soldiers was, however, formed, and in silence and gloom a sad procession was soon formed of no less than eighty-two individuals, men, women and children, all covered with large mantles of white wool, of a fashion unseen in this part of the world since the great Saracen warrior Abd’eraman was driven back from Touraine by Charles Martel; the strangers thus attired took their way from the sandy shore of the Loire to the precipitous ascent of the dark towers before them.

These captives were the Arab chief Abd-’el-Kader, his mother, one of his brothers-in-law, his uncle, a patriarch of ninety, whose long, white beard fell to his girdle, and four of his wives. Following them came a train of attendants, all prisoners, and all sharing their master’s sorrows and mischances.

The heavy gateway closed upon the new guests, and the inhabitants of Amboise, somewhat awe-struck and impressed with pity, returned mournfully to their respective domiciles, no doubt thanking Heaven that they were denizens of free and happy France, generous, valiant, honorable and victorious!—alas, how long to remain so!

From that time a new amusement was provided for the pleasure-loving natives of the pretty but dreary old town, which still wears the characteristics of the past in its acutely pointed roofs, crowned with quaint belfrys, its arches spanning the streets, its antique chapel of St. Florentin, its palais de justice transformed into a barrack, and its little Château du Clos-Lucet, where, tradition says, Leonardo da Vinci, the great painter, passed the last years of his long life, and where he died.

Many a summer evening was henceforth spent by the citizens on the bridge, their pastime being to gaze curiously up toward the walls and windows of the castle; for, wandering along the terraces, which hang in mid air, might then be frequently seen, like a gliding spectre, the majestic form of an Arab, wrapped in a white burnous, with solemn steps pacing to and fro, unobservant and indifferent to the curiosity which he excited.

Compassion for these unfortunate strangers suggested, even amongst those in whose charge their safety was placed, alleviations to their griefs. The Arab servants of the chief were allowed to seek provisions for their repasts in the town itself, accompanied merely by a soldier, who did not molest them. All who applied for permission to behold Abd-’el-Kader were admitted to the castle precincts, and were introduced to his presence. At first he probably felt amused at the novelty of this proceeding, but at length he became annoyed at the persevering curiosity which left him no leisure for reflections, however doleful. His spirits, too, in the course of long months of hopeless anxiety, gave way, and he at length refused to be exhibited as a caged lion, to make sport to the inquisitive.

Not alone in the early stage of his captivity, but ever since he became their neighbor, the ladies of Amboise, with continuous kindness, showed their benevolent feeling both to him and to the females of his suite and their children. Delicacies from their kitchens, and little useful presents were showered upon the poor captives, who received the attentions in the spirit in which they were given.

One instance of consideration gave particular gratification to the Emir. Madame de Villeneuve, the châtellaine of Catherine de Medicis’ lovely castle of Chenonceau, so well-known to tourists, and so often described, sent Abd-’el-Kader a magnificent plant, a native of his own valleys of the Atlas. It is related that the Emir on receiving it burst into tears. He sent back the expression of his gratitude in the following characteristically poetical words:

“Too poor to offer you in return any thing worthy of your acceptance, not possessing even a flower that I can call mine, I will pray to Allah that for the love of his servant he will one day bestow Paradise upon you.”

Some time after this, the health of the Emir having suffered from confinement, he was allowed to ride on horseback in the neighborhood of Amboise, and the first excursion which he made was to the Château of Chenonceau, where his presence, no doubt,

“Made a little holyday,”

And his visit has added another souvenir to the list of those illustrious and interesting personages who have made the romantic retreat of Diana of Poitiers and her rival famous for all time.

Abd-’el-Kader used often to be seen at his devotions at the rising and setting of the sun. He is accustomed to prostrate himself in an angle of that very iron balcony from whence, in the days of the Medici, the conspirators of Amboise were hung as a public example to traitors. Leaning against the stone wall, he remains absorbed in his orisons, and tells his beads with the fervor of a prisoner and an exile.

The numerous portraits of him to be seen in Paris, particularly popular since Lord Londonderry’s letters have made his fine, melancholy, majestic face familiar to the world. He is little more than forty-five, and has a countenance which, but that Eastern countenances deceive, one would feel inclined not only to admire, but to trust. It is hard to say whether the French would do right to confide in it, but certain it is that he is the object of deep admiration. His large, mournful, gazelle eyes, his calm, beautiful mouth, and his rich, jet-black beard, have gained many a heart, both male and female; but his misfortunes are too interesting, too romantic, too piquants to be lightly parted with, and the French will probably keep the lion still caged as an object on which to exercise their sensibilities, unless indeed, the dispossessed owners of Amboise should take his place.

Sometimes the Emir would appear on his balcony accompanied by the ladies of his suite. One of them is said to be still young and very handsome. This is the report of a young Frenchman, whose patient curiosity was rewarded on a happy occasion, when the veiled fair one withdrew the envious screen of her beauties one day, imagining that she was unobserved, that she might the better gaze upon the fine river, and feel the soft breeze of an evening in June upon her cheek. Occasionally some of the children of the captives may be seen playing round their parents, as they stand motionless, looking from their high position. These little captives are of all shades, from white to ebony hue, and are by no means so silent or so still as their elders, for they clamor and climb and twist about upon the parapets in a manner quite startling to those who are watching them from below.

Some time ago the Bishop of Algiers, passing through Amboise, stopped to pay a visit to the Emir; he exhorted him to resignation—alas! what else could he preach?—and received the same answer as the illustrious prisoner always gives to those who seek to console him.

“I gave myself up on the sole condition that I should be conducted to Alexandria, in order to go to Mecca, where I desired to finish my days. The promise was given me: I ask for nothing further and I rely on the justice of Allah.”

The bishop said prayers in the exquisite little chapel of the castle already mentioned, as so beautifully restored by the unfortunate Louis Philippe, and which is in itself the most perfect specimen of art ever beheld, with its marble pictures of St. Hubert’s miracle, its elaborate doorways and vivid glass painting, rivaling the antique. A pretty little sentimental service was got up, of which the Arab captives were made the heroes, numerous prayers being addressed to Heaven for their welfare, both of body and soul. Probably the prisoners really felt grateful for the attention, even though neither the priest nor the shrine had relation to their own belief.

One of the suite, the oftenest seen in Amboise, was the butcher, Ben Salem, who officiated for his tribe, and whose office was looked upon as a solemn one. He had a fine muscular figure, with an intelligent and handsome face, and was upward of six feet high. When he immolated an animal he might be said, as has been apocryphally reported of Shakspeare, to have

“Done it in high style, and made a speech.”

About a year and a half ago poor Ben-Salem was found a drowned corpse, in the Loire; he is supposed to have perished while bathing, but the writer recollects at the time, to have heard it whispered that despair had caused him to commit suicide.

The attachment of the Arabs to their chief is intense; an instance of this excited immense interest in Paris some time since. A young man who had belonged to Abd-’el-Kader, was detained at Toulon, from whence he escaped, but instead of endeavoring to regain his own country, his sole desire was to behold his chief once more, and to die at his feet. He arrived at Amboise, no one knew how, having traversed France to its centre, and there, his clothes in tatters, his feet bleeding, and fainting with hunger and fatigue, he was overtaken, secured, and forced back again to his prison at Toulon, without having gained the object of so much energy and resolution.

How could the most severe guardians of the safety of France drive back such a servant from his master?

In the month of August, 1850, a party of the Arabs received permission to return to Africa. After extraordinary struggles between their love of country and of their master, forty men, women, and children, consented to profit by this clemency. Their parting was, however, a scene of desolation, agonizing to witness.

The railroad was to take back these sons and daughters of the Desert partly on their way, and a carriage filled with pale emaciated women, holding their children in the folds of their ample garments, bore them from the castle walls. The men pursued their journey on foot, a cart containing their wretched goods followed, and the patriarch of the tribe accompanied them to the station, where he took leave of them with sighs, tears, and exhortations, mixed with embraces. At the last moment a young woman, who was probably related to the patriarch, lost her presence of mind entirely—her veil thrown back in despair, she cast herself upon his bosom, concealing her face in his venerable white beard, and uttering cries that melted the hearts of the bystanders to hear.

One feature of this parting was remarkable; a young peasant woman of Amboise had been the wet-nurse of a little Arab child, and was now to take leave of the helpless infant whom she had tended till, from a half dying plant, it had become strong and healthy, and full of life. For more than a quarter of an hour the mother of the babe and its nurse remained in an agony of grief, mutually embracing and consoling each other, while the innocent object of their care wept for company. At length the poor sobbing Frenchwoman tore herself away, and the train moved off bearing away forever her cherished nurseling and its grateful but sorrowing parents.

Many of the children in Abd-’el-Kader’s suit died soon after their arrival, and the influence of the moist climate on all the attendants was felt severely by persons accustomed to go half clothed and with naked feet. The sisters of charity of Amboise and the medical men had many mournful scenes to go through, as the little Arab burial-ground, near the “Gate of Lions” of the castle, attests but too clearly.

The health of the Emir himself has, it is said, of late given way, and he has had to deplore the loss of several of its nearest friends. The tenderness and feeling shown to these conquered enemies, proves, it must be confessed, that there is no want of kindliness in the hearts of at least the country people of France, whose impulses are generally for good, as we have every reason to acknowledge in the charitable promptitude and active benevolence shown to the unfortunate survivors of the Amazon, by the whole of the inhabitants of Brest from the highest to the lowest.