Authors: Martin Goldsmith
By the early eighteenth century, so deep a measure of trust had been established between the French and the People of the Middle Waters, as
the Osage referred to themselves, that a French explorer named Ãtienne de Veniard invited a delegation of chiefs to Paris. There they were presented at court, took in the splendors of Versailles, went hunting with King Louis XV in the royal forest preserve of Fontainebleau, and attended an opera conducted by André Campra. Upon their return to their homeland, the Osage chiefs regaled their people with the splendors they had seen. The grandson of one of the chiefs, a young man named Kishagashugah, was so dazzled by what he had heard that he vowed, “I also will visit France, if the Master of Life permits me to become a man.”
Many years later, in 1827, having indeed grown to sturdy manhood, Kishagashugah decided to fulfill his vow. He gathered eleven of his fellow People of the Middle Waters and many furs, which he knew were highly prized in Europe, to present as gifts to the current king of France. The twelve outfitted a raft to take them down the Mississippi River to New Orleans, where they would board an oceangoing vessel for the Atlantic crossing. All went well until they ran into a thunderstorm just north of St. Louis. Their raft capsized, their rich store of furs sank to the bottom of the river, and they only just managed to escape to shore with their lives.
Bedraggled and dispirited, their well laid plans thwarted, Kishagashugah and his followers fell into the clutches of a sharper and charlatan named David DeLaunay, a French-born resident of St. Louis who ran a sawmill and a boardinghouse but now saw an opportunity to make some real money as an impresario. He convinced the Osage that he was the right man, with all the right connections, to introduce them to the crowned heads of France. Six of the tribe smelled a rat and decided to return to the Middle Waters, but Kishagashugah and five of his companions joined DeLaunay aboard the steamship
Commerce
and made their way down the Mississippi to New Orleans. From there, they sailed upon the good ship
New England
and landed at Le Havre, France, on July 27, 1827.
Pandemonium greeted their arrival. DeLaunay had sent word ahead that he was bringing with him real-life savages from the New World, and by the time the
New England
dropped anchor in the harbor, a large
percentage of Le Havre's population was swarming over the docks, hoping to catch a glimpse of them. Protected from the curious cheering crowd by a phalanx of soldiers, the Osage rode by carriage to the city's finest hotel, where they were wined and dined for ten days. The Indians attended the theater and made a few other well-choreographed appearances, spectacles open to anyone willing to pay DeLaunay a handsome fee for the privilege of gawking at them. Though all the money went to DeLaunay, the Osage profited in other respects. One young warrior reported later that while in France, he had been “married many times.” On August 7, they embarked via steamboat for Rouen, where the crowds, once more primed by DeLaunay's publicity apparatus, had been waiting for four days.
On August 13, the caravan reached Paris. On August 21, at 11:00 a.m., Kishagashugah and his colleagues were afforded the honor of an audience with King Charles X at the beautiful royal palace of Saint Cloud, which overlooked the Seine a few miles west of Paris. His Majesty declared that he was very pleased to welcome his visitors, reminding them that the Osage had always been faithful allies of the French in the New World. The queen proudly introduced the royal children. There was music and food in abundance. Then Kishagashugah, his face painted the Osage tribal colors, red and blue, holding before him a ceremonial staff ornamented with feathers and ribbons, said to the king, “My great Father, in my youth I heard my grandfather speak of the French nation, and I formed then the purpose of visiting this nation when I should become grown. I have become a man, and I have accomplished my desire. I am today with my companions among the French people whom we love so much, and I have the great happiness to be in the presence of the King. We salute France!”
The encounter between these two separate worlds made news in both France and the United States, as newspapers documented the Indians' every move. The correspondent for the
Missouri Republican
wrote, “The six Osage Indians, who lately arrived in France, make a considerable figure in Paris. They have been introduced at Court, caressed at diplomatic dinners, admired at the grand opera, and in short distinguished as the social lions of the day.
Messieurs les Sauvages
eclipse
Milords Anglais
.”
His great ambition realized, Kishagashugah was now amply ready to return to the Land of the Middle Waters. But he had not fully understood the terms of his agreement with David DeLaunay, who now informed him that he had arranged many more engagements throughout France, opportunities for ticket-buying citizens to gaze at the exotic visitors from across the ocean, all the while further lining DeLaunay's pockets. So instead of going home, the Osage began wandering across France, displaying themselves to crowds that, as the novelty wore off, became smaller and smaller. After many months of this itinerant life, DeLaunay was arrested and thrown into prison on charges of fraud. Their protector and translator now taken from them, the Indians found themselves on their own, strangers in a very strange land.
They tried for a while to continue their pocket Wild West Show and managed to book themselves appearances in Italy and Switzerland, in addition to their remaining dates in France. When the tour ended, three years after their arrival in France, they found themselves destitute and alone more than five thousand miles from Osage Country, with no means to get home. Fortunately, word of their situation reached the sympathetic ears of Louis William Valentine Dubourg, the bishop of Montauban. Bishop Dubourg had done missionary work among the Osage years earlier and had lived near their ancestral homeland when he was the first bishop of St. Louis, Missouri, and the founder of what later became St. Louis University. Now hearing of the sad plight of these Osage, the bishop sent for Kishagashugah and his fellows.
So it was that in the spring of 1830, those six Native Americans, who had arrived in France with such fanfare and were now nearly starving, slowly crossed the fourteenth-century bridge over the River Tarn and presented themselves at the gates of the Montauban Cathedral. A curious crowd gathered as the bishop called for food and drink for the Indians and solicited funds to finance their return to America. In late April, the necessary money raised, the six Osage sailed for home. Two of them died during the crossing, but Kishagashugah survived to complete his long-dreamed-of pilgrimage.
That is not the end of the story, however. In the late 1980s, while still teaching natural sciences at the middle school, Jean-Claude came
across a reference to Montauban's Osage connection. Intrigued, he researched the descendents of Kishagashugah and discovered that the tribal government of the modern Osage Nation is headquartered in Pawhuska, Oklahoma, the county seat of Osage County. He wrote to the mayor of Pawhuska, suggesting that after all these years, the People of the Middle Waters and the citizens of Montauban should renew their acquaintance. Thus was born the sister-city relationship between Montauban and Pawhuskaâthe relationship that led me to Jean-Claude and his kind assistance and hospitality.
“So you see,” says Jean-Claude with a smile, “because Kishagashugah came to Montauban to honor his vow to follow in the footsteps of his grandfather, you have come to Montauban . . . to follow in the footsteps of your grandfather.” I look away, my eyes suddenly full of tears.
“I think the native peoples of your country are quite right,” continues Jean-Claude, his voice a bit huskier than before. “Everything is connected.”
O
NCE UPON A TIME
, many years ago, there was a colorful country of wide plains and towering peaks, inhabited by noble swordsmen and gentle damsels, husbandmen and troubadours, shepherds and poets, a land that went by the name of Occitania. Its borders encompassed most of what is now southern France, as well as parts of Italy and Spain and the principality of Monaco. It had its own flag, which featured a distinctive twelve-pointed star, and its own unique language, known as Occitan, which appeared for the first time in written form in the tenth century but had existed as a spoken language for at least two hundred years before that. During the early Middle Ages, in the time of Charlemagne and the Visigoths, Occitania was politically united, but eventually the country came under attack by the kings of France and gradually lost its independence. One of the turning points in Occitania's attempt to remain a self-governing entity came in 1621, when a poorly armed but determined gang of Occitan fighters barricaded themselves in the church of St. Jacques and held off a regiment of King Louis XIII's army for three months before surrendering. Over
the next three centuries, the language and some of the customs of Occitania began to fade from the world's awareness. But in the past hundred years or so, its distinctive voice has been heard again, as Occitan is now taught in public schools. In no other place has that revival been more vibrant than the site of that three-month siege of 1621: the city of Montauban.
Not everyone in Montauban shares a gauzy, fairy-tale view of Occitania. In most respects, the city's sensibilities are firmly rooted in the present day. It is the capital of the
departement
of Tarn-et-Garonne, with all the administrative concerns that accompany such a designation. The metropolitan area of Montauban is home to more than a hundred thousand people; two of the principle industries are agriculture and the manufacture of cloth and straw hats. The city is an important hub in the extensive railway system of France, with high-speed trains departing for Paris, Nice, and Bordeaux several times a day from its grand nineteenth-century station, the Gare de Montauban-Ville-Bourbon. On weekend afternoons, enthusiastic fans jam the Stade Sapiac to cheer on US Montauban, a rugby football club. Montauban is also home to a university; a theater; a daily newspaper,
Le Petit Journal
; and an orchestra,
Les Passions
, devoted primarily to baroque music.
But the city is well aware of its past, and many citizens are quick to remind visitors that their city's name is spelled Montalban in the Occitan language. The city's chief architectural wonder is the bridge spanning the river Tarn. Construction of the bridge began in 1303 on orders from King Philip the Fair and was completed more than thirty years later. Nearly eight hundred years old now, it handles heavy automobile and truck traffic as nimbly as it did carriages and oxcarts during centuries past. The seventeenth-century Place Nationale, the striking town marketplace, is surrounded by pink brick houses above double rows of arcades. During the Terror of the French Revolution, those unfortunates who were about to meet their deaths at the guillotine were first brought to the Place Nationale so a bloodthirsty mob could jeer and throw vegetables at them.
Olympe de Gouges, a playwright, journalist, and early feminist, born in Montauban in 1748, was guillotined in Paris, partly because of
her uncompromising stand on behalf of women's rights. Also born in Montauban, in 1749, was André Jeanbon Saint-André, the man who suggested blue, white, and red as the colors of the French flag. Thirty-one years later, the city witnessed the birth of its most celebrated resident, the great painter Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres. Montauban's fine art museum, located at the eastern end of the old bridge, is named for Ingres. In 1944, Leonardo da Vinci's
Mona Lisa
was transported from the Louvre in Paris and hidden in a vault beneath the Musée Ingres to prevent the Nazis from carrying it off.
Montauban also houses the Musée de la Résistance et de la Déportation. Its holdings include a painting by G. R. Cousi depicting the infamous event of July 24, 1944, when four members of the Resistance were hanged from two graceful plane trees in a public square in Montauban. The square is known today as the
Place des Martyrs
. Although no major battles were fought there, Montauban certainly contributed its share of martyrs and other victims to the sorrowful history of France during the Second World War.
After France's formal declaration of war on Germany on September 3, 1939, and the decrees relating to the internment of German citizens in France on September 14, there followed an eight-month period largely devoid of military activity, a time that came to be known as the “phony war.” That phrase, attributed to William Borah, a U.S. senator from Idaho, abruptly disappeared from common usage on May 10, 1940, when Germany launched its lightning assault upon Belgium, Luxembourg, and the Netherlands. It defeated those countries within weeks, and in less than a month, German tanks had swiftly circumvented the supposedly invulnerable Maginot Line and swept into France.
When the German army stormed into Paris in the early morning hours of June 14, the troops marching exultantly down the Champs Elysées and under the Arc de Triomphe encountered a nearly deserted city. Along with thousands of its citizens, the French government had fled Paris and headed south, first to Tours and then to Bordeaux. Paul Reynaud, the prime minister of what was known as the Third Republic, turned for assistance to Marshal Henri-Philippe Pétain. The general had made his reputation as the architect of the French strategic victory
at the battle of Verdun during the First World War. But Verdun later became a symbol of the folly of that “war to end all wars.” Over the course of eleven months in 1916, nearly seven hundred thousand French and German soldiers died in the effort to move the battle lines a few thousand yards in either direction. Twenty-four years later, as the Germans approached Paris, Renaud asked Pétain to serve as his vice prime minister. Then on the evening of June 16, two days after German troops had entered Paris, Renaud resigned and recommended that a new French government be created with Marshal Pétain as its prime minister. The general was eighty-four years old.