"Simon, seeing himself lord of so many lands, bestowed them among the gentle men, both French and others, _atque loci leges dedimus_," say the eight signatory archbishops and bishops. I should have liked to have had time to inquire at Toulouse after one of my great admirations, Cujas[507], writing, flat on the ground, with his books spread around him. I do not know whether the memory has been preserved of his twice-married daughter Suzanne. Constancy had no great attractions for Suzanne, she set it at naught; but she kept one of her husbands alive with the same infidelities which caused the other's death. Cujas was protected by the daughter of Francis I.[508], Pibrac by the daughter of Henry II.[509]: two Margarets of the blood of the Valois, the true blood of the Muses. Pibrac[510] is famous through his quatrains, which have been translated into Persian. I was perhaps lodged in the house of the president his father. That "good Lord of Pibrac," according to Montaigne, was "a man of so quaint and rare wit, of so sound judgment, and of so mild and affable behaviour." His mind was "so dissonant and different in proportion from our deplorable corruption, and so farre from agreeing with our tumultuous stormes[511]." And Pibrac wrote the apology of St. Bartholomew's Night! I hurried on without being able to stop: fate threw me back to 1838 to admire in detail the city of Raimond de Saint-Gilles[512], and to speak of the new acquaintances I made there: M. de Lavergne[513], a man of talent, wit, and sense; Mademoiselle Honorine Gasc[514], the Malibran of the future. The latter reminded me, in my new quality of a follower of Clémence Isaure[515], of those verses which Chapelle and Bachaumont[516] wrote in the isle of Ambijoux, near Toulouse: Hélas! que l'on serait heureux Dans ce beau lieu digne d'envie, Si, toujours aimé de Sylvie, On pouvait, toujours amoureux, Avec elle passer sa vie[517]! Let Mademoiselle Honorine be on her guard against her beautiful voice! Talents are "gold of Toulouse:" they bring misfortune. [Sidenote: Bordeaux.] Bordeaux was as yet scarce rid of its scaffolds and its dastardly Girondins. All the towns which I saw had the appearance of beautiful women lately risen from a violent malady, and hardly commencing to breathe again. In Bordeaux, Louis XIV. had caused the Palais des Tutelles to be razed, in order to build the Chateau Trompette[518]; Spon[519] and the lovers of antiquity groaned: Pourquoi démolit-on ces colonnes des dieux, Ouvrage des Césars, monument tutélaire[520]? There were but a few remains of the Arena to be seen. Were we to offer a token of regret to all that falls, life would be too short for our tears. I took ship for Blaye. I saw the castle, then unknown, to which in 1833 I addressed these words: "O captive of Blaye[521], I am sorrow-stricken to be able to do nothing to forward your present destinies!" I travelled towards Rochefort, and went on to Nantes through the Vendée.